Personal (Jack Reacher, #19)(96)

I knew immediately what he was doing, and how, and why. Some kind of animal cunning. Some kind of rodent intelligence. It’s a DNA thing. Like rats. He had no gun in his hand. How could he take the guns out of our hands? Boxed in by sleeping people. Their children were already in bed. He was dancing to make us miss. Which we couldn’t afford to do. Not there. Not that we would have missed. Not ninety-nine times in a hundred. Or better. This is like one of those philosophy questions that people debate in the newspapers. What odds would a responsible person need? But even a good clean hit could be a through-and-through. The soft tissue of the neck, maybe. Which wouldn’t slow a bullet. Next stop, a bedroom painted blue or pink. Or the bullet might nick bone and skip away at an unpredictable angle, low and wide. It might hit a night owl, before the game had ended. Tied score, maybe, and into overtime. He would never know what happened.

Could I make the shot? Hell yes. Little Joey was big enough. Should I take the shot? With sleeping children behind him, to the left and the right, behind thin panes of glass?

We pulled back into the shadows, and we leaned on the wall of the hut. We could afford to let him dance a minute more, I thought. It might tire him out. Which might help. I hoped.

Nice and Bennett slipped around the edge of the green, to the far side, on what looked like a well-worn gravel track. Maybe referees ran up and down. Or umpires. I had no idea of the rules of the game. Bennett went further than Nice, until they were about twenty feet apart, triangulated, so they both had the hut dead in line behind Joey, so if they had to shoot, with no alternative, then at least their misses might get stopped by the sixty-year-old wood. Or worst case, delayed.

I had no front pockets, so I put my guns in my back pants pockets. Then I stepped on to the grass. I tracked to my left, to keep Joey’s bulk between me and his distant house, with its numerous firing positions behind its numerous oversize windows. Four hundred yards. Less than a second. Flash one thousa game over.

I walked on, slowly. Towards Joey. He saw me coming, looming up out of the yellow gloom, and I saw a flash of teeth as he smiled, and he backed away, towards the far corner of the lawn, matching me step for step, leading me, keeping me lined up with his distant house. He wasn’t dumb. After three backward paces he had moved out of Nice’s safe zone, and after four he had moved out of Bennett’s. I sensed their shoulders slump, and in the silence I heard Bennett’s phone ding with a message. My information about the glass, I hoped. Which could be interesting. If I survived to read it.

Joey checked over his shoulder and adjusted his alignment and came to a stop. He started dancing again, hopping from side to side, bending one way, bending the other. His huge feet were stamping divots in the perfect grass. I guessed the bowling club was going to be seriously pissed. I hoped they had insurance. Or a big bag of seed.

I said, ‘Listen up, Joey. Here’s the thing. I need to get in your house. Without you being there. Option one is agree right now.’

He said, ‘What’s option two?’

‘I advise you to choose option one.’

‘An Englishman’s home is his castle.’

‘I understand that, Joey. I really do. But you need to think of me like a Viking. Or a rebel marauder. Or some kind of an invader. I’m going to storm your castle. Better for you if you don’t get hurt in the process.’

‘What if it’s you that gets hurt?’

‘You could help me there, Joey. You could tell me where Kott’s hanging out, and his guards, and you could point out other dangers. You got any loose rugs? Any low furniture? I don’t want to slip and fall.’

‘You’re a dead man.’

‘How’s that, Joey? You got a gun?’

He didn’t answer.

I said, ‘I didn’t think so. You got guys with you, apart from the four in the hut unconscious on the floor with broken bones?’

He didn’t answer.

I said, ‘I didn’t think so.’

He was still dancing, just a little. He was moving left, and moving right, and I was moving with him, keeping him between me and the house. I was a couple of steps from him, which meant he was a single step from me. Close enough to worry about, given how fast I had seen him move, in the little supermarket’s parking lot.

He put his hand in his pocket. Right side of his suit coat. A big hand. A big pocket. He came out with a cell phone. He held it up in front of his mouth and said, ‘Call Gary.’ Then he held it up by his ear, like a regular person. His fingers were too big to dial. His phone obeyed voice commands. Which worked, apparently, because the call was picked up.

Joey said, ‘Gary, it’s Joey. Call me back in ten minutes, OK? If I don’t answer, abandon ship. Every man for himself. Understood?’

And it was, evidently, because Joey clicked off the call and put the phone back in his pocket. And then he just stood there.

My mother had rules about fights. She was raising two sons on Marine bases, so she couldn’t ban them altogether. But she hedged them around with restrictions. The first rule was strictly practical. Don’t fight when you’re wearing new clothes. Which I was, ironically. The second rule could be viewed as ethical or moral, but to my mother it was simply correct, which was a whole other word in French. The second rule was never start a fight. But the third rule was never lose one, either.

Which I argued about, as a little kid. Sometimes you had to throw the first punch, or you weren’t going to win, ever. I felt the two rules were incompatible. Based on experience. It turned into a big family thing. We had all kinds of discussions. It was the 1960s, and she was French. Eventually it was agreed the rules were indeed incompatible. So maybe they were a Rorschach test instead. Were you a rule two guy or a rule three guy? My brother, Joe, was a rule two guy. I was a rule three guy. For the first time my parents looked at us a little differently. We didn’t know which was right or wrong. Their signals were mixed. They were decent people, but they were Marines.