The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(99)
Fisher’s mental fog was starting to lift. Her head still ached but she was able to make better sense of her surroundings. She only had on underwear, she realized. She was starting to shiver. Her arms were above her head because her wrists were manacled and attached to a chain which ran through a metal ring in the centre of the ceiling. The room she was in was about ten feet by fifteen. There was one door, which was ajar. The walls were made of cinderblock, which had been painted. Originally white but now yellowing, except for lots of patches that were covered with brownish splatters and stains. The floor was concrete. There were the stubs of thick bolts sticking up from apparently random spots. Fisher guessed that some kind of heavy machinery had once been anchored there.
Aside from her there were five people in the room. The old guy with the white hair, holding the pair of shears he’d used to cut off her clothes. The three remaining members of her crew. And a woman she didn’t recognize. She was exceptionally thin, wearing a black dress with a white apron like some kind of uniform, and her blonde hair was knotted on top of her head.
Fisher’s shredded clothes were on the floor at her feet. There was a bucket, which she guessed the guy had used to bring the water he’d thrown on her. And now she saw the metal table had two levels. Her eyes were drawn to a device on the lower shelf. It was made of polished wood with an angled front and a dial, like an old-fashioned radio. A cable snaked from its back to an outlet on the wall. And it had two other wires. They were coiled up. One ended with a wad of some kind of fuzzy metal. The other had an insulated handle with two sharp brass spikes sticking out of its far end.
‘I see you’re admiring my device,’ the old guy said. ‘It’s vintage. From Moscow. It belonged to my mother. She was an expert operator, by all accounts. Maybe we’ll use it today. These guys have probably never seen anything like it in action. High voltage, low current. That’s the secret. So it can cause more pain. For longer. The steel wool goes up inside … well, you can probably guess. And the probe goes wherever I like.’
Reacher went back through the door leading to the foyer. He raised the hatch in the floor and used his mirror to look inside. The shaft went down another twenty feet. Reacher didn’t like that. He was too far below ground already. The skin on the back of his neck started to prickle. There was a reason his ancestors told tales of trolls lurking beneath bridges, and dragons living in caves. Those places were dark. Cramped. Unnatural. People shouldn’t go in them.
There were five rooms on the lower level. Two on the left. Two on the right. And one at the end of the corridor. There were signs on the doors. Air Purification and HVAC on the left. Switchboard and Generator on the right. And Water Purification on its own. Reacher didn’t need to search these rooms one by one. The doors to four of them were closed. Only one was open. The generator room. Just a crack. But enough for Reacher to hear a voice. Someone he recognized.
Klostermann was sliding his shears up between Fisher’s breasts. He caught the thin strip of her bra between the blades. Centred them on the little decorative bow. And started to squeeze the handles.
‘This is mainly for my amusement, as I already know all about you, Natasha. Or should I call you Margaret?’ he said. ‘But I do have one question. The drifter. How do I find him?’
‘Just turn around,’ Reacher said from the doorway.
Five people turned. Two backed away towards the far wall. Klostermann and his housekeeper. Three drew their weapons. The Russian agents. They were to Reacher’s right, about halfway into the room. In a straight line. Shoulders almost touching. The men on the outside. The woman sandwiched between them. Reacher stepped towards them. They raised their guns. Reacher raised his hands. Slowly, until they were at face height, palms out, fingers spread.
‘Here’s how I see things,’ Reacher said. ‘You’re all professionals. Here to do a job. Nothing personal. So if you put your guns down, lie on the floor, and put your hands behind your heads, I won’t kill you. I’ll hand you over to the authorities. They’ll ask you a bunch of dumb questions. Give you crappy food for a few months. And then trade you for the next Americans who get caught in your country. You’ll likely be home by the end of the year. What do you say?’
None of the Russians responded.
‘This is a limited time offer,’ Reacher said. ‘It expires in three seconds. Ready? Three. Two …’
Reacher shot both hands forward, his fingers closing into fists as they moved, and punched both the men in their throats. They dropped their guns and fell down backwards, clutching their necks and desperately trying to suck air in through their crushed larynxes. Then he drove his right knee up into the woman’s abdomen. She folded forward, gasping, and he smashed his right elbow down into her neck where her spine joined her skull. She collapsed like a switch had been thrown and landed at Reacher’s feet.
Not bad, Reacher thought. Quick. Effective. Though not quite symmetrical. No points for style.
The housekeeper zipped forward. Reacher hardly saw her leg move, but he felt the side of her foot when it hit his cheek. He lunged for her but she danced back towards the corner, twisting and weaving, too fast for him to grab. He moved towards her, crowding her, aiming to trap her in the corner and nullify her speed. She dodged to the side, pulling something from her hair as she moved. A pin. More like a blade. Six inches long. Slender. Razor sharp. She slashed at Reacher as she passed. Caught him on the chest. Sliced his shirt. And his skin. Not too deep, but enough to draw blood. She slashed the opposite way. Missed. And ran for the door. Reacher followed. Looked down the corridor. Saw she was already halfway to the end. He took the SOCOM from his waistband, aimed and fired three shots. Going for her centre mass. But hitting the end wall, high and left. The suppressor must have gotten bent when the gun tumbled down the steps. His instinctive side screamed: Chase her! His rational side said: She’s too fast. Forget her. She’s gone.