The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(55)

Sands glared at him.

‘Someone smart told me that once,’ he said.

‘You’re obviously not smart if you’re even considering walking into a trap.’

‘I never said I was smart. Stubborn, maybe. Obstinate even, on occasion.’

‘Why offer to sell if you had no intention?’ Rutherford said. ‘Are you going to rip Klostermann off? We can’t do that. I have to live here. My reputation’s tattered enough already.’

‘We’re not ripping anyone off,’ Reacher said. ‘It was a test. To get a sense of how important these records are to him. Or sensitive. Or embarrassing. I named a big number and he didn’t turn a hair. That tells us something. And here’s another reason. Say Klostermann isn’t what he seems to be. Say he’s somehow behind Garza’s murder and the attempt to kidnap you. Do you want him thinking you’re not willing to play ball? This way his incentive is to keep us alive.’

‘If you care so much about being free and healthy why would you knowingly walk into an ambush?’ Sands said. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ Reacher said. ‘And I’m not going to walk into anything. The best way to defeat an ambush is to be there first. Which I will be. But logistics aren’t the most important thing. You’re focusing in the wrong place. Look at the note.’

Sands picked up the scrap of paper. She re-read it slowly, and checked the other side. ‘What? I don’t see anything.’

‘The first two words. What do they mean?’

‘Romeo, Juliet. R J. Reacher, Jack. Your name.’

‘Exactly. Someone made it personal. I’m not some faceless guy who got in the way any more. They’re coming after me specifically. They need to understand that’s the wrong thing to do.’

Reacher parked Marty’s car half a mile south of the factory and covered the rest of the ground on foot. He moved slowly. He stopped frequently, but never at the same interval. He never continued until he was certain no one was following. And no one was watching. The clock in his head said 10:45. Seventy-five minutes before he was due at the rendezvous. More time would have been better but experience told him seventy-five minutes would be enough. Nine times out of ten.

The moment the abandoned building came into view Reacher knew that no kind of ghost story could have kept him away when he was growing up. Or his brother Joe. There were too many iron girders to climb. Too many nooks and alcoves to hide in. Too many frontal assaults and insane last stands and against-the-odds escapes to stage. And too much prime real estate to fight over with the other kids.

Plus ?a change … as his mother used to say. The more things change …

The moment Reacher stepped through the gap where the tall wooden door used to be he knew seventy-five minutes weren’t enough. Not this time. He’d hit the one in ten. The ambushers were already there. He couldn’t see them. Yet. Or hear them. Or smell them. But he knew. Eyes were on him. He could feel them. He could feel a chill on his neck. Some kind of primal response to being watched. A warning mechanism hardwired into his lizard brain, as finely tuned as his ancestors’ had been millions of years ago. Then, forests. Now, a factory. Either way, evading predators. Not getting eaten. Not getting shot. Living to fight another day.

Plus ?a change …

Reacher kept moving. Same speed. Same direction. He didn’t want whoever was watching to know he was aware of their presence. Not until he knew exactly where they were. And how many there were. He strained his ears. Heard nothing. Scanned the rubble and the weeds covering the ground. Checked the long line of smashed windows. The gaping holes in the roof. Looking for movement. Shadow. Shape. Shine.

He saw nothing.

Reacher took another step. Something made a sound behind him. Metal shifting against stone. But not someone looking to shoot him. They could have done that already. A decoy? Reacher scanned the ground in front. Behind. Both sides. He increased the radius. Looking for signs of disturbance. A place for someone to hide. To spring out of when his attention was drawn away. To get in close, quickly, and neutralize his advantage in strength and size.

He saw nothing.

‘It’s just you and me, Major.’ It was a woman’s voice. Behind him. Calm and confident. ‘And there’s no need to worry. No need to do anything either of us will regret in the morning. I just want to talk.’

Reacher turned around. The woman he’d last seen driving the Toyota was standing next to a sheet of corrugated iron against the wall. She must have eased her way out from behind it. She was dressed all in black, with a small tactical backpack slung over one shoulder and her hair tied back in a ponytail. There was a gun in her hand. A Glock 19. Reacher approved of her choice. It was compact. Easy to conceal. And reliable. The chances of a misfire were slim to none. Her hand seemed steady. He was a sizeable target. They were fifteen feet apart. If he rushed her she would have fifteen chances to hit him, assuming the magazine was full. Sixteen if she had one already in the chamber. More than one chance per foot. Not odds Reacher liked.

‘I’ve never been much of a conversationalist,’ he said.

‘Then just listen. I know a lot about you. Enough to believe I can trust you. I need to even those scales. And I need to do it quickly. So I’m going to tell you one story from my past. My father was a Stanford man. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps but I had other ideas. I wanted to study in England so I applied to college there. One of the old ones. It doesn’t matter which. But because I was foreign I had to jump through a couple extra hoops. One was writing a special essay. There was no word limit. No time limit. And no choice of subject. The title they gave me was What is a risk? You know what I wrote?’