The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(41)
Reacher strolled to the next cross street and as soon as he was out of sight of the Suburban he broke into a run. He looped around towards the main entrance to Rutherford’s building and then ducked back into the alley. He eased the pair of dumpsters apart and settled into the gap he had created to wait. He figured the Suburban guys wouldn’t tell anyone what they’d heard right away. It was too crazy. They’d want to debate it between themselves first. For at least a minute. They probably wouldn’t believe what Reacher had said, but could they afford to ignore it? Probably not. They’d decide they had to follow up. But they’d have to report in first. To whoever was pulling their strings. Then it would be crunch time. If Reacher had oversold the story they might abandon the garage. Drive around and park near the coffee shop. He hoped he hadn’t been that convincing. In which case a more sensible response would be for the guys to split up. For one of them to stay on station in the Suburban on the grounds that Reacher’s tale was most likely a ploy. And for the second guy to head for the coffee shop on foot just in case Reacher was telling the truth. Time would be tight after all the deliberations. Getting there before the deadline would be tough. So the second guy would take the quickest possible route. Which would be the shortest. Which would be through the alley.
The clock in Reacher’s head showed four minutes since he had walked away from the Suburban. No one entered the alley. Four and a half minutes. No one entered. Four and three quarters. Then Reacher heard footsteps. Someone running. Light. Efficient. Purposeful. Coming his way. Reacher waited a beat then stepped out from between the dumpsters. The passenger from the Suburban was in the alley, ten feet away. He stopped himself after another step and dropped into the same kind of weird stance he’d used the day before. Then he had a change of heart. Maybe it was the size difference. Maybe it was the expression on Reacher’s face. Maybe it was the recollection of what had happened to his two comrades. But whatever the reason, he straightened up, reached behind his back, and produced a gun. A Beretta M9.
‘You’re not going to give Rutherford up, are you?’ he said.
‘I might,’ Reacher said. ‘On one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘Tell me why you’re after him.’
The guy paused. ‘He has something we want.’
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Reacher said. ‘Be more specific.’
‘I don’t think so. And I don’t need to. Because very soon you’ll be begging to tell us where Rutherford is.’
‘Us?’ Reacher said. ‘Who’s us?’
‘All will be revealed when the time is right.’ The guy made a rotating motion with the gun. ‘Now turn around. Hands on the wall. Feet wide apart. I’m sure you’re familiar with the routine.’
The guy was standing seven feet away. Reacher was out of his range. But Reacher was almost a foot taller than him.
‘You win,’ Reacher said. He began to turn. Moving clockwise. Pivoting on his right foot. Bringing his left foot closer to the guy with the gun. Halving the distance between them. He kept rotating until his left shoulder was facing the guy. Then he planted his foot, shot out his hand, and grabbed the underside of the barrel. He twisted the gun viciously away from his body, breaking the guy’s finger with the trigger guard and messing up the ligaments in his wrist. The guy howled and pulled back. The Beretta clattered to the ground. He glanced down at his hand. Blood was starting to flow from a break in the skin above his knuckle. He sucked the wound. Then he returned his focus to Reacher. He took half a step back and feinted a kick to the body with his front foot, but instead of following through he used the momentum to rise on his toes and swing a punch around towards Reacher’s temple. Reacher leaned back and deflected the blow with his forearm. The force of the block spun the guy around, leaving his left side exposed. Reacher jabbed him in the kidney. He shaped up for a kick but dialled it back at the last moment and more or less pushed the guy’s hip with his foot. The guy staggered back and sideways and his legs tangled and he tripped himself, landing in a heap at the base of the far wall.
Reacher stepped closer and waited for the guy to make eye contact. ‘What does Rutherford have that you want?’
The guy pulled himself on to all fours then slowly hauled himself to his feet and stood there for a moment, hunched and sagging, like a man thoroughly defeated. Then he exploded forward and threw two quick sharp jabs to try to push Reacher back. He threw two more then spun around, whipping up his right foot and aiming for the side of Reacher’s head. It would have been a problem if the kick had landed. It may not have had the weight behind it to knock Reacher out, but it could have slowed him down. Disoriented him. Given the guy a way back into the fight. Only Reacher didn’t back off. He did what he always did. Moved closer to the danger. He saw the guy’s body begin to twist so stepped in and met his foot when it was only at waist height. He trapped the guy’s shin between his arm and his body and slid his hand back to grab the ankle. Then he lifted the guy’s foot, leaving him hopping back and forth, fighting for balance with an expression of pure outrage on his face.
‘You should save moves like that for gym class,’ Reacher said. ‘Where there are rules. Out here there are only decisions and consequences. Well, one decision. And you have to make it. Whether to tell me what I want to know. If you decide not to, you’ll never walk again. Not without a limp.’