Blue Moon (Jack Reacher #24)(60)

Out on the street the car’s engine idled quietly. The faint thrash of belts, the whir of a fan, the rustle of pistons slapping up and down, uselessly. Then a faint muted thump from under the hood, and a sensation of new permanence.

The transmission had been shoved forward into park.

The engine turned off.

Silence again.

A door opened.

A leather sole clapped down on the sidewalk. A seat spring clicked as weight was lifted off. A second shoe joined the first. Someone stood up straight, with a tiny huff of effort.

The door closed.

Reacher slid out of bed. He found his pants. He found his shirt. He found his socks. He laced his shoes. He slipped his jacket on. Reassuring weight in the pockets.

One floor below there was a loud knock at the street door. A booming, wooden sound. Ten to four in the morning. Reacher listened. Heard nothing. In fact less than nothing. Certainly less than before. Like a hole in the air. It was the negative sound of two guys previously shooting the shit, now dumbstruck and craning around and thinking what the hell? Barton and Hogan, still up. Musicians’ hours.

Reacher waited. Deal with it, he thought. Don’t make me come downstairs. He heard one of them get to his feet. A sideways shuffle. Looking out the window, probably, through a crack in the drapes, sideways, obliquely.

He heard a low voice say, “Albanian.”

It was Hogan’s voice.

Barton’s voice whispered back, “How many?”

“Just one.”

“What does he want?”

“I was out sick the day they taught predicting the future.”

“What should we do?”

The knock came again, boom, boom, boom, heavy and wooden.

Reacher waited. Behind him Abby stirred and said, “What’s happening?”

“There’s an Albanian footsoldier at the door. Almost certainly looking for us.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight minutes to four.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Barton and Hogan are downstairs. They haven’t gone to bed yet. Hopefully they can deal with it.”

“I should put some clothes on.”

“Sad, but true.”

She dressed like he had, fast, pants, shirt, shoes. Then they waited. The knock came for a third time. Bang, boom, bang. The kind of knock you didn’t ignore. They heard Hogan offer to get it. They heard Barton accept. They heard Hogan’s footsteps across the hallway floor, solid, determined, implacable. The U.S. Marine. The drummer. Reacher wasn’t sure which counted for more.

They heard the door open.

They heard Hogan say, “What?”

Then a new voice. Quieter, because it was outside the structure, not inside, and because of its pitch, which was instantly two things in one, both conversational and mocking. Friendly, but not really.

The voice said, “Everything OK in there?”

Hogan said, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I saw the light inside,” the voice said. “I was worried you had been woken up in the night by a misfortune or a calamity.”

It was talking low, but even so it was a big voice, full of physical power, from a big chest and a thick neck, and also full of command and arrogance and entitlement. The guy was accustomed to getting his own way. He had the kind of voice that never said please and never heard no.

Deal with it, Reacher thought. Don’t make me come downstairs.

Hogan said, “We’re good in here. Nothing to worry about. No misfortunes. No calamities.”

“You sure? You know we like to help out when we can.”

“No help required,” Hogan said. “The light was on because not everyone sleeps at the same time. Not a hard concept to grasp.”

“Hey, I know all about that,” the Albanian guy said. “Here I am, working all night long, keeping the neighborhood safe. Actually, you could help me with that, if you like.”

Hogan didn’t answer.

The guy said, “Don’t you want to help me with that?”

Still no reply.

“What goes around comes around,” the guy said. “It’s that kind of thing. You help us now, we’ll help you, down the road. Could be important. Could be just what you need. Could solve a big problem. On the other hand, if you get in our way now, we could make things tough for you later. In the future, I mean. All kinds of different ways. For instance, what do you do for a living?”

“What help?” Hogan said.

“We’re looking for a man and a woman. He’s older, she’s younger. She’s petite and dark-haired, he’s big and ugly.”

Deal with it, Reacher thought. Don’t make me come downstairs.

“Why are you looking for them?” Hogan asked.

The guy at the door said, “We think they’re in terrible danger. We need to warn them. For their own sake. We’re trying to help. It’s what we do.”

“We haven’t seen them.”

“You sure?”

“Hundred percent.”

“One more thing you could do,” the guy said.

“What?”

“Call us if you see them. Would you do that for us?”

No answer from Hogan.

“It’s not much to ask,” the guy said. “Either you feel like helping us out with a ten-second phone call, or you don’t, I guess. Either way is fine. It’s a free country. We’ll make a note and move right along.”