The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(98)

The guy went up and back and down and wound up sprawling and winded in the dirt. With Reacher looming over him. And Reacher did not hesitate. He was a street fighter at heart. A brawler. He knew the first rule. When you get your guy down, you finish him. Right there. Right then. So he kicked the guy in the head as hard as he could. Then he kicked him again. And again. And then he knelt on his chest and punched him in the throat with all his weight and strength.

Reacher stood back to survey the damage. He took a moment to get his breath back. Then he dragged the guy’s body over to the Town Car. He searched his pockets for spare ammunition for the SOCOM. He didn’t find any, so he used the remote to pop the trunk. Heaved the guy up. And folded him inside. Then he opened the driver’s door. Leaned in and wrenched the rear-view mirror off the windshield. Texted Sands: Switch on. And started back towards the steps. He was on the third one down when his phone rang.

It was Wallwork.

‘News,’ he said. ‘From Oak Ridge. You were right about Klostermann having a kid who works there. But not a son. A daughter. Diane. And she doesn’t go by Matusak. She’s married. She uses her husband’s name. Smith. The most common last name in America. Useful thing for a spy, right? Anyway, we’re watching her now. First clear chance, we’ll grab her. She could be a useful bargaining chip.’

Reacher ended the call and continued down the steps. He retrieved the SOCOM, paused at the bottom, pushed the heavy door. And went through.

The space was tiny. And low. Like a cubicle in a clothing store fitting room. Maybe adequate for normal-size people. But very tight for Reacher. The floor and walls were made of concrete. The ceiling was lined with massive steel joists. Ahead was another door. Also grey. With a giant wheel in the centre in place of a lock. Reacher pulled and the door opened. He went through into another space, slightly larger but still uncomfortable. Steel joists continued to support the ceiling. The walls were plain concrete. And there was a hatch set into the floor. Reacher had expected something like this. Some kind of vertical shaft. If someone was waiting at the bottom with a weapon, it would be game over. But there was no way around it. If he was going to find Fisher, he would have to go down.

Reacher held the SOCOM in his right hand and lifted the hatch with his left. He swung it all the way open, then took out the mirror he’d removed from the Town Car. He held it over the opening and angled it so he could look down. The shaft was cylindrical. It was lined with curved concrete sections. Precisely lined up. No gaps. No cracks. The drop was twenty feet deep. There were D-shaped metal staples set into the wall to act as rungs. Four dim lights in wire cages. And no sign of anyone lurking at the base. Reacher put the mirror back in his pocket and tucked the SOCOM into his waistband. He figured the space lower down would be limited. Likely with solid walls. A bad environment for ricochets.

The area at the bottom of the shaft was twice the width as at the top. There was another hatch set into the floor to the right, presumably leading to a lower level. And a grey metal door in the wall ahead of him. He opened it a crack and used his mirror to look through. It led to a corridor. There were more grey surfaces. Lots of precise right angles. But no people. Reacher opened the door the rest of the way and stepped through.

Fisher was struggling to focus. Her head felt like it was filled with sand. She was suddenly cold. Wet. Conscious of being upright, but not exactly standing. Her arms were above her head. She tried to bring them down. Couldn’t. Realized she was hanging from them. Her shoulders started to protest. There was pain in her wrists. Something was biting into them. Something metal. And her feet were bare. Only her toes were on the floor. The surface felt rough beneath them.

She shook her head and a guy swam into her view. He was old. He had white hair. Masses of it, all curly and wild. He put something down. A bucket. He reached to his side. To a metal table. There were things lined up on it. Tools. With blades. And jaws. He picked one up. Like scissors, only larger. Maybe sharper. He held it up in his right hand, in front of her face, and pulled the hem of her shirt towards him with his left.

‘Now then, my dear,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you out of these damp clothes.’

Reacher could see another door straight ahead at the far end of the corridor. Three doors on the left. And two on the right. He opened the first door on the left. It led to a bedroom. It was small. Utilitarian. There was a metal cupboard against one wall. And a metal-framed cot. No other furniture. No home comforts of any kind. The first door on the right opened on to a bathroom. It was communal, with urinals and stalls and sinks. Stainless steel and plain white porcelain. White tile on the floor. The second door on the left led to another bedroom. It was identical to the first. A metal cupboard. A metal cot. No other furniture. The second door on the right was for a dormitory. There were three double bunk beds. They had metal frames and thin striped mattresses, and a row of cheap wooden footlockers was lined up next to them. The last door on the left opened on to the kitchen. There were refrigerators and freezers. Cabinets and countertops. Tables and chairs. Two sinks. And a painting on the wall of a window with billowing drapes and a view of trees and flowers and grass. The final door led to a square room. It was as big as all the others combined. There was a dining area to the right, with a pale wooden table and eight chairs. A sitting area to the left with two couches and two armchairs. Bookcases lined the walls. Some full. Some empty. Some holding stacks of board games. Some with stacks of magazines. But there were no people. And no sign of Fisher. Which is what Reacher had been afraid of. It meant he would have to go down to the lower level.