The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(97)
The guy from Moscow. Who had tried to force Reacher into the trunk of the Town Car.
Reacher waited until the guy got to the top of the steps, then raised his gun.
‘Hey,’ Reacher called out.
The guy stopped and turned around. Reacher moved closer, skirting the stairwell, keeping the gun levelled on his chest.
‘The woman you call Natasha,’ Reacher said. ‘You brought her here?’
The guy didn’t reply.
‘Describe the layout of the bunker.’
The guy stared back at Reacher, but didn’t speak.
‘Who is down there? How many?’
The guy was silent.
‘You’re out of time.’ Reacher nodded towards the Town Car. ‘Open the trunk.’
The guy’s mouth twisted into a smile, revealing more of his crooked, stained teeth.
‘Think your vest will save you?’ Reacher raised his aim to the bridge of the guy’s nose. ‘Think again. Open the trunk.’
‘You’re not going to shoot me,’ the guy said. His words were clear, but heavy with a Russian accent. ‘The FBI has rules.’
‘True,’ Reacher said. He lowered the gun. About a foot. ‘But I don’t work for the FBI.’ Then he pulled the trigger.
The bullet hit the Moscow guy dead in the centre of his chest. It tore through the fabric of his shirt and slammed into a layer of Kevlar. The guy staggered back. Just one step. At that range most people would have been knocked down. Maybe with broken ribs. Maybe with damaged organs. The mesh of polymer strands is too strong and too tight for the slug to tear through. But all its dissipated energy has to go somewhere.
Reacher returned the gun to eye level. ‘Last chance.’
The guy held up his hands. Nodded. Then slowly took his keys from his pants pocket. He fumbled, one-handed, trying to get his thumb lined up with the correct button on the remote. The key ring slipped through his fingers. It landed on the ground in front of him. He leaned down to retrieve it. Grabbed a handful of dirt. Whipped his arm up and hurled the dust and grit at Reacher’s face. Reacher stepped back, avoiding the cloud. The guy flung another handful then sprang forward. He was surprisingly fast for someone his size. And agile. His knee came up. His foot flicked out. It came around in a tight crescent. Caught the extended barrel of the suppressor. Tore the gun out of Reacher’s hand. And sent it spinning away in a slow, looping, lazy arc. Reacher heard it rattle and clatter down the concrete steps.
The guy glanced down at the hole in his shirt. At the pancaked remains of the bullet. He smiled. Then launched a giant scything roundhouse punch towards Reacher’s head. Reacher sidestepped and ducked and crashed his elbow into the guy’s side as he spun under his flailing arm. It was a pointless blow. No way was it going to bother the guy through his Kevlar vest. Pure muscle memory on Reacher’s part. The guy whipped around and tried the same move again. Reacher stepped and spun and kept his elbow tucked in by his side this time. The guy locked his knees and bounced back and aimed a jab at Reacher’s head. Reacher ducked and felt the breeze in his hair as the guy’s giant fist zipped over his head.
The vest denied Reacher a number of targets so he focused on the guy’s face. His nose was crushed and bent. It had obviously been broken in the past. Maybe more than once. Which revealed a vulnerability. Reacher darted forward. He feigned the wind-up for a roundhouse punch with his left arm. And jabbed his right fist square into the guy’s face. It was a beautiful blow. Powerful. Accurate. It rocked the guy’s head way back, bending his neck and straining his ligaments. It would have put a regular person on his back. Maybe kept him there. The Moscow guy just shook his head and straightened up. There was no sign of blood. No ragged breath sounds. So Reacher hit him twice more. With the same fist. In the same place. With every ounce of power he could muster. Then he pulled back to assess the damage he’d caused.
There was no sign of damage. The Moscow guy was bouncing on the soles of his feet, grinning like he was having the time of his life. Then he sprang forward and launched punches with both fists at once. Reacher blocked one blow. He started to counter. Muscle memory again. A reaction to seeing the other guy’s face and body completely unguarded. Then he recognized the danger. Adjusted. Went to parry the second blow. But was late. By a fraction of a second. The guy’s fist flashed past Reacher’s raised forearm and piled into his chest, just inside his left shoulder. The force spun him around and knocked him sideways. He went down on one knee and only just recovered before the guy followed up with a kick aimed at his gut. Reacher arched around it and crashed his right fist into the guy’s temple. The guy staggered to his left. Regained his balance. Took four more steps. Then reversed direction and came at Reacher. Fast. Aiming to charge into him. To knock him down. A schoolyard manoeuvre. Brutally effective against the unwary. But not against someone with Reacher’s experience.
The guy was leading with his right shoulder. Reacher stepped to his left. To place himself behind the guy as he passed. Away from the danger of a right jab. Or a left hook. Or a forearm smash. Only the guy didn’t pass. He jammed his right foot into the ground. Locked his knee. Pushed back. Spun around counterclockwise. And slammed his left elbow flat across Reacher’s chest.
The force lifted Reacher off his feet and this time he went down on his back. His head hit the ground. The air left his lungs. The Moscow guy loomed over him. Lifted his right foot. Held it high, ready to stamp down on Reacher’s head. Or throat. Or gut. Or groin. Whichever he picked, that would be the end. Or the beginning of the end. Only the guy hesitated. Maybe he was spoilt for options. Maybe he wanted to make his victim sweat. But whatever the reason, it gave Reacher time to flip over on to his front. Push down with his hands. Pull his knees forward. Plant his feet flat on the ground. And spring up, locking his legs and driving the top of his head into the base of the guy’s jaw just where it narrowed under his chin.