The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(90)

‘Into the trunk, numb nuts,’ she said. ‘Or die right here in the alley.’

Reacher didn’t move. His mind was racing. Had she played him all along? Or was she saving his life? Then the primitive part of his brain kicked back in. Assessed the cues. And flashed its verdict. Green. No threat. Reacher stepped forward. And stopped. There was another twenty-first century factor that his ancient cortex could not take into account. The trunk itself. The Lincoln was not a small car. Its trunk was a reasonable size. But Reacher wasn’t. And he hated enclosed spaces. He always had. Some primeval aversion to being trapped. There was nothing he could do about it.

So he moved to his right. Along the side of the car. To the passenger door. Opened it. And slid inside.





TWENTY-SEVEN





Reacher had spent plenty of time in places he didn’t want to be. Mostly during his army service. Places that were too hot. Or too cold. Where everything that moved wanted to bite him. Or where everyone he met wanted to kill him. But in those days he didn’t have a choice about where he went. He was following orders. And at least he was getting paid.

Reacher didn’t want to be in the Lincoln. He wasn’t getting paid. And he did have a choice. The Moscow guy had secured Reacher’s wrists with plasticuffs before firing up the engine but that was no kind of an obstacle. It would be the easiest thing in the world for Reacher to wait until the car slowed at the mouth of the alley. Open the door. Step out. And walk away. It would be more satisfying to elbow the Moscow guy in the side of the head and then get out. But given the role he was supposed to be playing – a not-very-bright part-time bodyguard – a more prudent option would be to leap out and add a little drama to his performance. Act panicked. Zigzag down the sidewalk and dive into the nearest store, or dash headlong into the traffic. Reacher knew he could make it look convincing. He wasn’t worried about that. He settled back in his seat. The car started to move. A few more seconds. A few more yards, and the game would be won.

Reacher wasn’t worried. Not until Fisher leaned forward and jammed the tip of the SOCOM’s suppressor into the base of his skull.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said.

Fisher’s hand seemed to twitch slightly. Not enough to pull the gun away from Reacher’s skin. Nothing that the other woman would notice from the other side of the back seat. Nothing that would catch the Moscow guy’s attention. But enough for Reacher to feel the variation in pressure. Three short jabs.

A slight twitch.

Or an S in Morse code.

‘You’re wondering if you could escape,’ she said.

Her hand twitched again. One long push. A T.

‘Well, you can’t,’ she said.

A jab, and a push. An A.

‘That would be a mistake,’ she said.

A push, a jab, and two more pushes. A Y.

‘You could get hurt,’ she said.

Four jabs. An H.

‘And there’s no need, anyway,’ she said.

One jab. An E.

‘We just need to check that the server’s the real deal,’ she said.

A jab, a push, and two more jabs. An L.

‘That won’t take long. Then we’ll give you your money,’ she said.

A jab, two pushes, and another jab. A P.

‘And then, and this is the truth, you can go,’ she said.

Reacher put the letters together. STAY HELP. ‘Me?’ Reacher said. ‘I’m not going anywhere. Not without my money.’

The Moscow guy drove west for eight miles, not too fast, not too slow, and twelve minutes later he pulled up outside the room furthest from the office at a motel that Reacher thought must be a similar vintage to his own. It had a similar mythical bird on its sign, lit up with neon. Similar wood cladding. The same selection of vending machines. A familiar rhythm of window and door, window and door. Only this place was built in a straight line, not around a courtyard. It had half the number of rooms. And when the Moscow guy led him into number eighteen, Reacher saw there was already someone inside. A woman, in her late thirties. She was wearing a pale, knee-length skirt. A peach-coloured polo shirt, with a logo. Her hair was cut in a neat bob. Her face was plain but earnest. She was sitting at a large wooden table with a laptop computer. A thick blue wire led to a three-foot-high equipment cabinet with reinforced edges and heavy-duty castors, parked next to her chair. She was the Russians’ version of Rusty Rutherford, Reacher figured. There to assess the server. And she was already in place. Reacher appreciated the efficiency.

Beyond the woman at the table with her computer Reacher could see that the space was much larger than his motel room. It was more like a suite. There were doors leading to a pair of bedrooms. A small kitchen. And a sitting area with a couch and a TV. The Moscow guy pushed Reacher a couple of yards further forward. The other woman on the crew followed them in and continued into one of the bedrooms. Fisher came in last. She put the stripy bag containing the server on the table and pulled out another chair. Then she took Reacher by the arm and guided him to it.

‘Sit,’ she said. ‘And be careful. Don’t break it.’

Reacher lowered himself down and Fisher took a length of paracord from the thigh pocket at the side of her pants. It was blue with red flecks. And narrow. Its diameter wasn’t much greater than a decent bootlace. But Reacher knew the size was deceptive. It would be strong enough to take a regular person’s weight, in an emergency. He would have no chance of snapping it. Fisher used it to tie Reacher’s right ankle to the leg of the chair. She bound it tight. There was no slack. No room to wriggle free. No way it could come undone. Fisher pulled out another piece of cord and tied Reacher’s left ankle. Then she grabbed hold of the little finger on his right hand. Pulled it to the side, as far as it would go. Took a folding knife out of her pocket. And extended its blade.