The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(85)

Reacher waited and watched. The guy at the end to his left was creeping wide. Moving away on a diagonal. Aiming to sneak around him while he was occupied with the others. Which gave Reacher an idea. He pretended to look to his right, to encourage the flanking guy. Waited until the line was seven feet away. Six. Then he took a half step to his right. But he didn’t follow through. He planted his foot and used it to propel himself left, aiming for the gap between the end two guys. He found it. Raised both elbows as he moved. Swung them forward. Caught one guy below the chin. The other full in the face. Both went down like planks. Reacher spun back clockwise, leading with his right elbow. The blow missed the next guy in line, but its momentum fuelled the roundhouse punch Reacher was aiming with his left. His fist connected with the side of the guy’s head. Three down.

Half his opponents were out of the game. And the remainder were no longer facing him broadside, where their numbers could be brought to bear. They were lined up single file, as if asking to be knocked down one at a time. A single solid punch to the first guy’s face might even account for all of them. More than likely two of them. Reacher was tempted to try it. But there was a problem. The next guy in line was Zach, so a different approach was called for. Reacher feinted a jab towards Zach’s face, and when his guard was raised kicked him in the knee. Zach flopped down and Reacher kicked him again, in the solar plexus, driving the air out of his body and leaving him curled up on the ground, gasping.

The last two guys pulled back and fanned out. Reacher could practically see the cogs spinning in their heads. What had just happened? What should they do now? Run? Fight? How? He used the momentary respite to stamp on Zach’s hands, in case he had a hidden gun or blade, then stepped forward.

‘I’ve got to tell you this, even though I’ll hate myself for it,’ he said. ‘The fight is over, guys. You lost. You should walk away. Spare yourselves the pain.’

The guys glanced at each other. Neither spoke. Then they spread wider, forming a triangle with Reacher at the tip. Reacher was calculating the angles. Assessing the geometry. Concluding that the next shape would be a straight line. With him in the centre. So that the guys could rush him simultaneously. Present two targets. Two threats. Making it hard to defend. If he allowed it to happen it was likely he would at least get hit. And Reacher was opposed to getting hit. Not out of vanity. Not out of an aversion to pain. But because it reduced efficiency. His normal response was to let a pair of attackers close in. Gain pace. Then he would lunge to his left. One would be driven back in surprise. The other would be pulled forward, a hunter pursuing its prey. Then Reacher would reverse. And reverse again, catching each attacker by surprise. But this time there was a problem. The guys were moving too slowly. They were creeping cautiously forward. Reacher’s plan required pace. Momentum. So he changed it. He sprang to the side and grabbed the larger guy by his right arm. He continued to turn, dragging the guy with him, then pivoted into a full 360-degree spin. Reacher planted his feet and used his weight like a hammer thrower so that when he was three quarters of the way around the other guy’s feet were off the ground. And when he was all the way around the guy’s feet were waist high. They slammed into his buddy like a double roundhouse kick, sending him sprawling. Reacher set his guy down. Waited a moment to make sure he was steady on his feet. Then punched him full in the face. It was a massive, savage blow, landing like a sledgehammer, smashing all kinds of bones and cartilage and teeth. The other guy was trying to crawl away so Reacher went after him and kicked him in the head. Normally he would have used his left foot in a situation like that, where the guy was already down. His weaker foot. But this guy was a Nazi. So he used his right. And he didn’t hold back.

Reacher crossed to where Zach was rolling and whimpering. He grabbed him by the hair, dragged him to the nearest truck, and propped him up against its wheel.

‘Man, you broke my leg.’ Zach’s voice was an octave higher than before. ‘You broke my hands.’

‘That’s possible,’ Reacher said. ‘A few of the smaller bones, anyway. But there are plenty left. So the question is, do you want me to break those too? Or are you ready to share a little information?’

‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know.’

‘The event Klostermann is organizing. What is it?’

‘Some kind of rally. Honestly, it’s stupid. I’m glad I got disinvited. He doesn’t even have a real venue. Just some half-assed idea to point a bunch of lights up in the air, like they would make pretend walls. It’s dumb.’

‘I don’t know. A little Austrian guy used to do that. I heard it was quite effective.’

‘Huh?’

‘Don’t worry about it. Where will this rally be?’

‘Some field. A friend of his owns a bunch. I don’t know which one.’

‘When?’

‘Not till next year. April twentieth. Ages away. But he was definite about the date. I don’t know why.’

‘You really are a moron, aren’t you, Zach?’

‘Huh?’

‘How do you get tickets for the rally?’

‘It’s invitation only. Two people from each state, plus a bunch of locals.’

‘How does Klostermann decide who to invite?’

‘I don’t know. But I heard each year it’s going to get bigger. Two from each state the first time. Then four. Then eight. Like that.’