The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(47)

‘No one’s replaced you?’

‘Not yet.’ Rutherford hung his head. ‘The job’s hardly a big draw. Nothing works. The title is Head of Department but there’s barely a department to head. There are only two other staff. One’s part time. And both are furloughed until the network is fixed.’

‘So what are the odds that anyone saw the note saying to trash the equipment? And then did anything about it?’

‘Probably pretty low.’

‘So it might still be there?’

‘It might be.’

‘Come on then. What are we waiting for? Let’s go see.’

‘There’s no point. We can’t get in. They made me leave my key.’

‘Rusty. Seriously. Think about this. What did I spend the last decade doing? There’s no such thing as a locked door as far as an FBI agent is concerned. And there’ll be no one else there. The security system’s down. The cabinet may as well be sitting on the sidewalk waiting for us to pick it up.’

‘How will we move it?’

‘Between us it’ll be no problem. There must be dollies in the receiving room. How else did it get brought in when it was first delivered?’

‘I mean how will we get it back here? It won’t fit in my car.’

‘That’s why I rented a minivan. But we won’t bring it here. Not with people watching the building and doormen reporting your every move. We’ll get a storage unit for tonight. Hide it there. And tomorrow we’ll rent some office space. Or even a motel room. We’ll need power. And space to work. And privacy.’

The plan was straightforward. Sands would leave first and pause in the lobby. She’d apologize to the doorman for her previous abruptness and mention that her friend was feeling much better. So much better that he was about to go out for a drive. Reacher and Rutherford would give him time to send his text. Then they would head to the garage. They’d take Rutherford’s Beetle. Reacher would drive. He’d cut through the alley with the dumpsters, moving slowly enough for Rutherford to hop out, hide, and wait for Sands to collect him. Then Reacher would continue to drive around in the Beetle, towing the Toyota behind him as if on an invisible rope, and give Rutherford and Sands a clear shot to and from the town’s IT building.

No plan survives first contact with the enemy.

Or in this case, Reacher’s desire for contact.

He started out aimlessly crisscrossing the town’s streets the way a person might if he didn’t realize there was a tracking device attached to his fender and was trying to spot anyone tailing him. He was uncomfortable, even with the seat racked all the way back. The pedals sticking up out of the floor were stiff and awkward. There wasn’t enough room for his feet. The manual box was cranky and the frequent corners called for what seemed like constant gear changes. But most of all Reacher didn’t like having to take it on trust that he was actually being followed at all. He liked being able to sense his pursuers. To see them in his head like moving dots on a map. He felt cast adrift. Less like the tow rope was invisible. More like it never existed.

Reacher checked the VW’s fuel gauge. It was almost dry. He was always surprised at the way civilians so often failed to refill their vehicles after driving them. What’s the point in equipment that isn’t maintained and ready for use? He shook his head and changed course for the truck stop he had visited earlier with Rutherford. He chose the pump nearest to the main building and approached from its right side so that no one watching from the road would get a clear view of the passenger seat. Then he locked the car and went inside.

Reacher started with the clothing section. He didn’t usually change twice in a day but conditions were fluid. Operating in the dark was now on the cards so concealment was a priority. He picked out a pair of black pants and a black hoodie, paid, and went to the restroom to change. Then he returned to the clothing area and grabbed a pack of three T-shirts off the shelf. He took a map, a flashlight, and an emergency gas can from the auto section. A twelve-pack of bottled water from the refreshment area. Filled a twenty-ounce cup with the kind of extra-caffeinated coffee truckers drink when they have to drive all night. And at the register he added two cigarette lighters and prepaid for plenty of gas.

Back outside, Reacher stowed his new items. Everything other than the coffee and the gas can went on the floor on the passenger’s side of the car, along with the larger knife and the duct tape he’d bought earlier. He put the smaller knife and the lighters in his pocket and tucked the guns he’d captured into his waistband. He filled the Beetle’s tank and topped off the can. Stowed the can in the trunk. Checked the map to see if there was a way to join the route Marty had taken that morning without driving through the town again. Found one which looped around to the west. Then he folded himself back into the little car and pulled out on to the road.

On the map the road was represented by a thick black line. It suggested something wide. Substantial. Broadly equivalent to the one Reacher had taken on his way to the truck stop. It proved to be a poor example of the cartographer’s art. On the ground the road was little more than a track. Reacher imagined agricultural workers getting it started with horses and carts, then solidifying it with tractors and trailers, until finally the county adopted it. Widened it a little. Straightened it. Added a meagre layer of blacktop. Maybe sent an occasional maintenance crew to tend to the rough, pitted ribbon of scorched asphalt that twisted around sudden bends and snaked through fields and the occasional stand of trees. Reacher took it easy. He wanted to keep gear changes to a minimum. And he didn’t want to end the night in a ditch.