FIFTY-THREE

THE WHITE SUV TURNED OUT TO BE A CHEVY TAHOE, WHICH seemed to Reacher’s untutored eye the exact same thing as a GMC Yukon. The cabin was the same. All the controls were the same. All the dials were the same. It drove just the same, big and sloppy and inexact, all the way back to the two-lane, where Reacher turned right and headed south. There was mist, but the sun was well up in the east. The day was close to two hours old.

He slowed and coasted and then parked on the shoulder, two hundred yards short of the motel. From the north he could see nothing of it except the rocket sign and the big round lounge. He got out of the truck and walked on the blacktop, slow and quiet. His angle changed with every step. First he saw the burned-out Ford. It was in the main lot, down on its rims, black and skeletal, with two shapes behind the glassless windows, both of them burned as smooth and small as seals. Then he saw the doctor’s Subaru, outside room six, jagged and damaged, but still a living thing in comparison to the Ford.

Then he saw the dark blue Chevrolet.

It was parked beyond the Subaru, outside room seven, or eight, or both, at a careless angle, at the end of four short gouges in the gravel. Frustrated men, tired and angry, jamming to a stop, ready for rest.

Reacher came in off the road and walked to the lounge door, as quietly as he could on the loose stones, past the Ford. It was still warm. The heat of the fire had scorched fantastic whorls into the metal. The lounge door was unlocked. Reacher stepped inside and saw Vincent behind the reception desk. He was in the act of hanging up the telephone. He stopped and stared at Reacher’s duct-tape bandage. He asked, ‘What the hell happened to you?’

‘Just a scratch,’ Reacher said. ‘Who was on the phone?’

‘It was the morning call. The same as always. Like clockwork.’

‘The phone tree?’ Reacher asked.

Vincent nodded.

‘And?’

‘Nothing to report. Three Cornhusker vehicles were tooling around all night, kind of aimlessly. Now they’ve gone somewhere else. All four Duncans are in Jacob’s house.’

‘You have guests here,’ Reacher said.

‘The Italians,’ Vincent said. ‘I put them in seven and eight.’

‘Did they ask about me?’

Vincent nodded. ‘They asked if you were here. They asked if I had seen you. They’re definitely looking for you.’

‘When did they get here?’

‘About five this morning.’

Reacher nodded in turn. A wild goose chase all night long, no success, eventual fatigue, no desire to drive an hour south to the Marriott and an hour back again, hence the local option. They had probably planned to nap for a couple of hours, and then saddle up once more, but they were oversleeping. Human nature.

‘They woke me up,’ Vincent said. ‘They were very bad-tempered. I don’t think I’m going to get paid.’

‘Which one of them shot the guys in the Ford?’

‘I can’t tell them apart. One did the shooting, and the other one set fire to the car.’

‘And you saw that with your own eyes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you go to court and say so?’

‘No, because the Duncans are involved.’

‘Would you if the Duncans weren’t involved?’

‘I don’t have that much imagination.’

‘You told me.’

‘Privately.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘One of them shot the guys and the other one burned their car.’

‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘That’s good enough.’

‘For what?’

‘Call them,’ Reacher said. ‘One minute from now. In their rooms. Talk in a whisper. Tell them I’m in your lot, right outside your window, looking at the wreck.’

‘I can’t be involved in this.’

‘This is the last day,’ Reacher said. ‘Tomorrow will be different.’

‘Forgive me if I prefer to wait and see.’

‘Tomorrow there are going to be three kinds of people here,’ Reacher said. ‘Some dead, some sheepish, and some with a little self-respect. You need to get yourself in that third group.’

Vincent said nothing.

‘You know Eleanor Duncan?’ Reacher asked.

‘She’s OK,’ Vincent said. ‘She was never part of this.’

‘She’ll be taking over. She’ll be hauling your stuff tomorrow.’

Vincent said nothing.

‘Call the Italians one minute from now,’ Reacher said. He stepped back out to the lot and walked on the silver baulks of timber, past room one, past room two, past three and four and five and six, and then he looped around behind room seven and room eight, and came out again near room nine. He stood in a narrow gap shaped like an hourglass, the circular bulk of room eight right there in front of him, close enough to touch, room seven one building along, the Chevy and the Subaru and the burned-out Ford trailing away from him, south to north, in a line. He took out the dead Iranian’s Glock and checked the chamber.

All set.

He waited.

He heard the room phones ring, first one, then the other, both of them faint behind walls and closed doors. He pictured men rolling over on beds, struggling awake, sitting up, blinking, checking the time, looking around the unfamiliar spaces, finding the phones on the nightstands, answering them, listening to Vincent’s urgent whispered messages.

He waited.

He knew what was going to happen. Whoever opened up first would wait in the doorway, half in and half out, gun drawn, leaning, craning his neck, watching for his partner to emerge. Then there would be gestures, sign language, and a cautious joint approach.

He waited.

Room eight opened up first. Reacher saw a hand on the jamb, then a pistol pointing almost vertical, then a forearm, then an elbow, then the back of a head. The pistol was a Colt Double Eagle. The forearm and the elbow were covered with a wrinkled shirtsleeve. The head was covered in uncombed black hair.

Reacher backed off a step and waited. He heard room seven’s door open. He sensed more than heard the rustle of starched cotton, the silent debate, the pointing and the tapped chests assigning roles, the raised arms indicating directions, the spread fingers indicating timings. The obvious move would be for the guy from room eight to leapfrog ahead and then duck around behind room six and circle the lounge on the blind side and hit the lot from the north, while the guy from room seven waited a beat and then crept up directly from the south. A no-brainer.

They went for it. Reacher heard the farther guy step out and wait, and the nearer guy step out and walk. Eight paces, Reacher thought, before the latter passed the former. He counted in his head, and on six he stepped out, and on seven he raised the Glock, and on eight he screamed FREEZE FREEZE FREEZE and both men froze, already surrendering, guns held low near their thighs, tired, just woken up, confused and disoriented. Reacher stayed with the full-on experience and screamed DROP YOUR WEAPONS PUT YOUR WEAPONS ON THE GROUND and both men complied instantly, the heavy stainless pieces hitting the gravel in unison. Reacher screamed STEP AWAY STEP AWAY STEP AWAY and both men stepped away, out into the lot, isolated, far from their rooms, far from their car.

Reacher breathed in and looked at them from behind. They were both in pants and shirts and shoes. No jackets, no coats. Reacher said, ‘Turn around.’

They turned around.

The one on the left said, ‘You.’

Reacher said, ‘Finally we meet. How’s your day going so far?’

No answer.

Reacher said, ‘Now turn out your pants pockets. All the way. Pull the linings right out.’

They obeyed. Quarters and dimes and bright new pennies rained down, and tissues fluttered, and cell phones hit the gravel. Plus a car key, with a bulbous black head and a plastic fob shaped liked a big number one. Reacher said, ‘Now back away. Keep going until I tell you to stop.’

They walked backward, and Reacher walked forward with them, keeping pace, eight steps, ten, and then Reacher arrived at where their Colts had fallen and said, ‘OK, stop.’ He ducked down and picked up one of the guns. He ejected the magazine and it fell to the ground and he saw it was full. He picked up the other gun. Its magazine was one short.

‘Who?’ he asked.

The guy on the left said, ‘The other one.’

‘The other what?’

‘The Iranians. You got one, we got the other. We’re on the same side here.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Reacher said. He moved on towards the small pile of pocket junk and picked up the car key. He pressed the button set in the head and he heard the Chevy’s doors unlock. He said, ‘Get in the back seat.’

The guy on the left asked, ‘Do you know who we are?’

‘Yes,’ Reacher said. ‘You’re two jerks who just got beat.’

‘We work for a guy named Rossi, in Las Vegas. He’s connected. He’s the kind of guy you can’t mess with.’

‘Forgive me if I don’t immediately faint with terror.’

‘He’s got money, too. Lots of money. Maybe we could work something out.’

‘Like what?’

‘There’s a deal going down here. We could cut you in. Make you rich.’

‘I’m already rich.’

‘You don’t look it. I’m serious. Lots of money.’

‘I’ve got everything I need. That’s the definition of affluence.’

The guy paused a beat, and then he started up again, like a salesman. He said, ‘Tell me what I can do to make this right for you.’

‘You can get in the back seat of your car.’

‘Why?’

‘Because my arms are sore and I don’t want to drag you.’

‘No, why do you want us in the car?’

‘Because we’re going for a drive.’

‘Where?’

‘I’ll tell you after you get in.’

The two men glanced at a spot in the air halfway between them, not daring to let their eyes meet, not daring to believe their luck. An opportunity. Them in the back, a solo driver in the front. Reacher tracked them with the Glock, all the way to the car. One got in on the near side, and the other looped around the trunk. Reacher saw him glance onward, at the road, at the open fields beyond, and then Reacher saw him give up on the impulse to run. Flat land. Nowhere to hide. A modern nine-millimetre sidearm, accurate out to fifty feet or more. The guy opened his door and ducked his head and folded himself inside. The Impala was not a small car, but it was no limousine in the rear. Both guys had their feet trapped under the front seats, and even though they were neither large nor tall, they were both cramped and close together.

Reacher opened the driver’s door. He put his knee on the seat and leaned inside. The guy who had spoken before asked, ‘So where are we going?’

‘Not far,’ Reacher said.

‘Can’t you tell us?’

‘I’m going to park next to the Ford you burned.’

‘What, just up there?’

‘I said not far.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then I’m going to set this car on fire.’

The two men glanced at each other, not understanding. The one who had spoken before said, ‘You’re going to drive with us in the back? Like, loose?’

‘You can put your seat belts on if you like. But it’s hardly worth it. It’s not very far. And I’m a careful driver. I won’t have an accident.’

The guy said, ‘But,’ and then nothing more.

‘I know,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ll have my back turned. You could jump me.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘But you won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘You just won’t. I know it.’

‘Why wouldn’t we?’

‘Because you’ll be dead,’ Reacher said, and he shot the first guy in the forehead, and then the second, a brisk double tap, no pause, bang bang, no separation at all. The rear window shattered and blood and bone and brain hit the remains of the glass, delayed, slower than the bullets, and the two guys settled peacefully, slower still, like afterthoughts, like old people falling asleep, but with open eyes and fat beads of purple welling out of the neat holes in their brows, welling and lengthening and becoming slow lazy trickles that ran down to the bridges of their noses.

Reacher backed out of the car and straightened up and looked north. Nine-millimetre Parabellums. Fine ammunition. The two slugs were probably hitting the ground right about then, a mile farther on, burning their way into the frigid dirt.

Reacher checked room seven and found a wallet in a coat. There was a Nevada driver’s licence in it, made out in the name of Roberto Cassano, at a local Las Vegas address. There were four credit cards and a little more than ninety dollars in cash. Reacher took sixty and got in the Impala and drove forty yards and parked tight up against the shell of the Ford. He gave the sixty bucks to Vincent in the lounge, two rooms, one night, and then he borrowed rags and matches, and as soon as the fuse was set in the Chevy’s filler neck he hustled back to the Tahoe he had left on the shoulder. The first major flames were showing as he drove by, and he saw the fuel tank go up in his mirror, about four hundred yards later. The angle he was at and the way the fireball rose and then smoked and died made the motel sign look real, like it was a genuine working rocket, like it was blasting off for the infinite emptiness of space.

Eldridge Tyler heard the gunshots. Two faint pops, rapid, a double tap, very distant, really nothing more than vague percussive holes in the winter air. Not a rifle. Not a shotgun. Tyler knew firearms, and he knew the way their sounds travelled across the land. A handgun, he thought, three or four miles away. Maybe the hunt was over. Maybe the big man was down. He moved again, easing one leg, easing the other, stretching one arm, stretching the other, rolling his shoulders, rotating his neck. He dug into his canvas tote bag and came out with a bottle of water and a brown-bread sandwich. He put both items within easy reach. Then he peered out through the space left by the missing louvre, and took a careful look around. Because maybe the big man wasn’t down. Tyler took nothing for granted. He was a cautious man. His job was to watch and wait, and watch and wait he would, until he was told different.

He leaned up on his hands and craned around and looked behind him. The sun had moved a little south of east and low slanting light was falling on the shelter’s entrance. The tripwire’s plastic insulation had dewed over with dawn mist and was glistening faintly. Ten minutes, Tyler thought, before it dried and went invisible again.

He turned back and lay flat and snuggled behind the scope again, and he put his finger on the trigger.