7

The old unit. It had been a typical U.S. Army invention. About three years after the need for it had become blindingly obvious to everyone else, the Pentagon had started to think about it. After another year of committees and meetings, the suits and the brass had signed off on the idea. It had been dumped on someone’s desk and a mad panic had started to get it going. Orders had been drawn up. Obviously no sane CO had wanted to touch it with a stick, so a new unit had been carved out of the 110th MP. Success was desirable but failure had to be deniable, so they went looking for a competent pariah to command it.

Reacher had been the obvious choice.

They thought his reward was promotion back to major again, but the real satisfaction for him was the chance to do something properly for once. His way. They had given him a free hand in personnel selection. He had enjoyed that. He had figured that a special investigations unit needed the best the army had to offer, and he had figured he knew who and where they were. He had wanted a small unit, for speed and flexibility, and no clerical support, to prevent leaks. He had figured they could do their own paperwork, or not, as they deemed necessary. In the end he had settled on eight names in addition to his own: Tony Swan, Jorge Sanchez, Calvin Franz, Frances Neagley, Stanley Lowrey, Manuel Orozco, David O’Donnell, and Karla Dixon. Dixon and Neagley were the only women and Neagley was the only NCO. The others were all officers. O’Donnell and Lowrey were captains and the rest were all majors, which was totally screwed up in terms of a coherent chain of command, but Reacher didn’t care. He knew that nine people working closely would operate laterally rather than vertically, which in the event was exactly what happened. The unit had organized itself like a small-market baseball team enjoying an unlikely pennant run: talented journeymen working together, no stars, no egos, mutually supportive, and above all ruthlessly and relentlessly effective.

Reacher said, “That was all a long time ago.”

“We have to do something,” Neagley said. “All of us. Collectively. You do not mess with the special investigators. Remember that?”

“That was just a slogan.”

“No, it was true. We depended on it.”

“For morale, that was all. It was just bravado. It was whistling in the dark.”

“It was more than that. We had one another’s backs.”

“Then.”

“And now and always. It’s a karma thing. Someone killed Franz, and we can’t just let it go. How would you feel if it was you, and the rest of us didn’t react?”

“If it was me, I wouldn’t feel anything. I’d be dead.”

“You know what I mean.”

Reacher closed his eyes again and the picture came back: Calvin Franz tumbling and cartwheeling through the darkness. Maybe screaming. Or maybe not. His old friend. “I can handle it. Or you and I together. But we can’t go back to how it was. That never works.”

“We have to go back.”

Reacher opened his eyes. “Why?”

“Because the others are entitled to participate. They earned that right over two hard years. We can’t just take it away from them unilaterally. They would resent that. It would be wrong.”

“And?”

“We need them, Reacher. Because Franz was good. Very good. As good as me, as good as you. And yet someone broke his legs and threw him out of a helicopter. I think we’re going to need all the help we can get with this. So we need to find the others.”

Reacher looked at her. Heard her office guy’s voice in his head: There’s a list of names. You’re the first to get back to her. He said, “The others should have been a lot easier to find than me.”

Neagley nodded.

“I can’t raise any of them,” she said.