The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(84)

Outside, five trucks were lined up on the forecourt. They were all American brands. All were black with chrome wheels and knobbly tyres. And all had versions of orange flames painted down the sides. Reacher pulled up at the end of the row. He got out and looked at the guys in the vehicle bay. Their ages ranged from late twenties to early forties, he guessed. Two were wearing black leather pants and vests. Two, jeans and T-shirts. One – the guy under the car – was wearing black coveralls. All were pale. All were blond. All were broad and stocky. Reacher could imagine them working out together. Maybe with some kind of improvised equipment. Maybe at one time in a prison yard. Maybe more than one time.

Another thing they had in common was that none of them was Zach.

‘Problem with your car, friend?’ The coveralls guy took a step forward. ‘Can’t help you here. Sorry. Private club. Not a commercial operation.’

‘I’m here for Zach,’ Reacher said.

The guy glanced at his buddies. ‘Don’t know any Zach. Sorry.’

A door opened at the back of the clubhouse area. Maybe from a storeroom. Maybe from a bathroom. Zach stepped out. He was still wearing his bandana and shades.

‘You don’t?’ Reacher said. ‘Here he is now. Want me to introduce you?’

‘Funny guy,’ Zach said. He made his way to the threshold. ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk.’

‘About what?’

‘Henry Klostermann.’

‘Don’t know any Henry Klostermann, do we, boys?’

The others shook their heads and grunted.

‘Sure you do,’ Reacher said. ‘He has some business up for grabs. There was a misunderstanding. You wound up on the back foot, I get that. But Mr Klostermann doesn’t like quitters. You should give it another shot. And here’s the good news. I can help you. If you help me first.’

‘Bullshit,’ Zach said.

‘No. It’s the truth. But I guess if you don’t want to work with Mr Klostermann …’

‘If you know Mr Klostermann you must be in the Brotherhood. So why haven’t I seen you at any meetings?’

Reacher shrugged. ‘I spend a lot of time on the road.’

‘So you are in the Brotherhood? Prove it.’

‘I don’t need to prove anything. I’m Mr Klostermann’s business associate. We just closed a deal today, as a matter of fact. At his house. I’ve been there more than once. That’s where I saw you. I overheard what happened. Just confirm a couple of details for me, and I can get you back on the books in no time.’

‘You can take your business deals and stick them in your ass. The Brotherhood. Are you a member? Yes or no? Because we all are. Show him, boys.’

As one, the guys with T-shirts lifted them. The guys with vests opened them. And the guy with the coveralls undid the tunic buttons. They all had the same tattoo. On the left side of their chests. A bald eagle. Holding arrows in both talons, not just one. And across the centre of the bird’s body, in place of the Stars and Stripes, there was a round shield containing a black swastika on a red background.

The blurry image that had been in Reacher’s head since talking to Wallwork snapped into focus. The white flowers in Klostermann’s living room. They were edelweiss. Adolf Hitler’s favourite. Which told him what Klostermann was hiding. His father had arrived from Germany in 1946. With at least one valuable painting to use as collateral to start a new life. He was a war criminal. A Nazi. And Henry was carrying on the family business.

‘Well, that simplifies things,’ Reacher said. ‘I had thought there were two ways this could go. Now I see there’s only one.’

‘Lift your shirt,’ Zach said. ‘Show us yours.’

Reacher didn’t move.

Zach closed his vest and turned to his buddies. ‘He must be Antifa. Mr Klostermann said they’d be on our trail. That’s why he needed our help.’

‘Help with what?’ Reacher said. ‘Tying his shoelaces? I guess if you all worked together you might be able to do it. If you had a couple of days. And a dark room to lie down in afterwards.’

The six guys stepped forward as one, drawn by the insult.

‘Fellers, slow down,’ Reacher said. ‘You’re failing to use the resources available to you. Look around. There are wrenches. Hammers. Tyre irons. All kinds of sharp heavy things.’

The guys looked at each other. They were confused. Why was their enemy helping them? Then frustration took over. Now that Reacher had suggested using the tools as weapons that was the last thing they could do. They would lose too much face.

Reacher looked at them. They were lined up, bubbling with aggression. Gripped by ideological fury. The pack versus the infidel. He was the infidel. And he’d found out what he needed to know. The core of it, anyway. He had a car. He could drive away. That would be the smart thing to do. But – Nazis. He thought of his mother. A child during World War II. In occupied France. Often hungry. Often cold. Sometimes in danger. This was no time to walk away.

The six guys were standing in a line about a foot apart, ten feet away from Reacher, advancing slowly. It was a straightforward problem. The goal was to reduce their numbers as quickly as possible. Reacher’s usual tactic was to goad his opponents when he was outnumbered. Make them come at him fast. He would wait until they were five feet away then burst forward and smash through the centre of the line, elbowing the guy to his right as he went. The enemy force would instantly be depleted. And turned around. Literally. Reacher would be behind them. Out of sight. So they’d process the surprise, and turn. Only Reacher would already have turned. He would have launched himself back the other way. Elbow still up. Still swinging. Flattening the guy who had been on his left, but was now on his right. If Reacher timed it right, the guy would rush into the blow like a drunk heading the wrong direction on the highway. Timing came with experience. Reacher had plenty of experience. But on this occasion, he also had a problem. Zach was in the spot to the right of centre. And he didn’t want Zach to go down first. He wanted to save him for last.