The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(89)

Reacher timed his walk so that he arrived at the diner at 0802. He spotted one of the Russians on the street, acting like he was looking in a store window on the far side of the alley. Reacher pretended not to notice him and went inside. Four of the booths were occupied. Agent Fisher was in Reacher’s favourite. The one midway along the right-hand wall, beneath the turquoise Chevrolet. Then there was the other female Russian agent, evidently recovered from her exposure to the chlorine, alone, reading a magazine. A man in a suit, tucking into a mound of scrambled eggs and bacon. And a group of three women. They looked very similar, with maybe twenty-five years between each one. Three generations of the same family, Reacher thought. Maybe in town for a reunion. Or a wedding.

Reacher waited for Fisher to beckon to him then took the seat opposite her in the booth.

‘Reacher?’ she said.

Reacher nodded. ‘Dragon Tattoo 99?’

‘My screen name,’ Fisher said. ‘Is that it?’ She pointed at Reacher’s bag.

‘As promised,’ Reacher said. ‘All I need from you is the money.’

‘No problem. The money’s in my car. Out back. Come with me.’ Fisher started to pull a ten-dollar bill from her purse. She paused when it was a quarter of the way out, making sure to keep her body between it and the Russian woman in the next booth. Three words were printed in the margin, in pencil. AMBUSH. PLAY ALONG. She pulled the bill the rest of the way out and went to leave it on the table, but ended up dropping it in her water glass instead. ‘Damn it! I’m so clumsy today. Give me one second.’ She grabbed a wad of napkins from the dispenser by the wall, fished out the bill, and dabbed at it until it was almost dry. And completely free of handwriting.

Fisher led the way to the door that opened on to the alley. She pulled the handle then stood aside to let Reacher go through. A vehicle was waiting, three yards away. A black Lincoln Town Car. The old, square model. A retired limousine, Reacher thought. Or a stolen one. A guy climbed out of the passenger seat. The specialist from Moscow, no doubt. Arrived early. A huge slab of a man crammed into a black suit and tie. Like an unfinished waxwork. He must have been six five. Easily three hundred pounds. His head was square, with sharp angles that were emphasized by his complete lack of hair. His ears were small, and they jutted out from his skull like they’d been stuck on as an afterthought. He had no eyebrows. Bright blue eyes. A nose that had been broken a couple of times. A mouth that gaped open in a cruel smile, revealing several uneven brown teeth. Huge arms that hung straight down from his massive shoulders. And thighs that were wider than some people’s waists.

The primitive part of Reacher’s brain took in all the subliminal cues. It assimilated them in an instant. And flashed a warning in return. Amber. Not red. The guy would present a challenge, it said. Significant, but not insurmountable. Normally Reacher would be reassured by that kind of assessment. But he wasn’t that day. Due to a twenty-first century reality that his ancient cortex was not wired to appreciate. This wasn’t a fight to the death. It was a ploy. And it would only work if Reacher didn’t blow his cover. Which meant he couldn’t kill anyone. Or even seriously hurt them. Which turned the situation into a very big problem indeed. Particularly if he was to avoid getting killed himself.

The Russian Reacher had knocked out appeared in the mouth of the alley, to his left. The guy he’d thrown through the Toyota’s window appeared to his right. Fisher was behind him. He felt another presence join her. The other Russian woman. And straight ahead the Moscow guy took a step closer. Reacher was surrounded. The Moscow guy took a key fob out of his pocket and clicked a button on its remote. The Lincoln’s trunk lid slowly rose until it was vertical. The inside of the trunk was shiny. Someone had taped black trash bags over every surface. The guy put the key fob away and took a pistol out of his jacket pocket. A SOCOM Mark 23. Developed from the Heckler & Koch USP for the US Special Operations Command. Presumably sourced locally, rather than brought from Russia. A status symbol, in its way. Then the guy took out a suppressor and screwed it on to the end of the barrel. Unnecessary showboating, Reacher thought. He should have had his weapon ready ahead of time. Then Reacher realized the show wasn’t for his benefit. It was for the agents’. The new guy was making his mark. He was saying The problem you couldn’t solve? It’s easy to fix. It’s done like this.

It would have been a good demonstration if it wasn’t for the one mistake the guy made. He hadn’t forced Reacher to put down the bag. With the server in it. Their big prize. That gave Reacher options. He could fling the bag high in the air and simply walk away while they scrambled to catch it and protect its contents. He could hold it in front of his chest as a shield. Or threaten to smash it if they didn’t back off and let him go. He could have done any of those things on a normal day. But not that day. Because his need to get the server safely into their hands was at least as great as their own.

The guys in the alley moved closer. The women pressed in tighter behind. The Moscow guy gestured with his gun for Reacher to step forward. Reacher was running out of options. His brain was running through scenarios like slides in a magic lantern. He could see ways to escape. He could see ways to give them the server. But not a way to do both. And he was almost out of time.

A second set of fingers closed around the bag’s shiny handles. Much smaller than Reacher’s. Fisher stepped past him and ripped the bag out of his grip. She handed it to the Moscow guy. Took his gun. And pointed it at Reacher’s chest.