The Sentinel

by Lee Child

  Reacher watched the Toyota leave the garage, then turned his attention to the Suburban. It was fifty-fifty in his mind whether it was there as backup, in which case it would leave, or if it would wait and tail Rutherford anyway in case there was a problem with the tracker. Ten minutes passed. There was no sign of movement. Reacher had conceived the exercise as a way to observe his enemies in action. To gauge their competence and decision-making. Now their caution offered him another opportunity. The chance to shake things up a little.

  A sign which read Back in Five Minutes was peeping out of the heap of clutter next to the monitor. Reacher fished it out, set it on the countertop, then picked up his bag and headed for the main door. He walked down the street, past Marty’s car, took the alley Rutherford had cut through, and turned to approach the Suburban head on. He was thirty yards away when the guys inside it spotted him. The driver was the first to notice. He nudged the passenger in the ribs. Reacher saw them both stiffen. He kept on walking. Slow and easy. Arms loose and well away from his sides. He didn’t want any misunderstandings. He drew level with the passenger window then stopped and pulled what he hoped was a friendly, non-threatening smile. The passenger looked at him for a long second then lowered the window.

  ‘What do you want?’ the guy said.

  ‘First, I want to apologize for yesterday,’ Reacher said. ‘I stumbled into something I didn’t understand. I had no idea what was going on and just acted on instinct. I hope your buddies are OK. Anyway, since then I had a long talk with a very interesting guy. He set me straight on a few things. Like what I need to do if I want to leave this town in one piece. So here’s the deal. I know where Rutherford is and I’m willing to hand him to you on a plate. But you’ll have to move fast. There’s not much time. He set up his doorman to pass on a story about him driving to the airport, but the truth is he’s got a guy lined up to smuggle him out of the country. A private plane. False papers. Disguises. The whole nine yards. Meet me in the coffee shop in five minutes and I’ll explain everything. Just don’t be late. This is a one-time thing. Dawdle and he’ll slip through your fingers for good. Only it won’t be my fault this time.’

  Reacher strolled to the next cross street and as soon as he was out of sight of the Suburban he broke into a run. He looped around towards the main entrance to Rutherford’s building and then ducked back into the alley. He eased the pair of dumpsters apart and settled into the gap he had created to wait. He figured the Suburban guys wouldn’t tell anyone what they’d heard right away. It was too crazy. They’d want to debate it between themselves first. For at least a minute. They probably wouldn’t believe what Reacher had said, but could they afford to ignore it? Probably not. They’d decide they had to follow up. But they’d have to report in first. To whoever was pulling their strings. Then it would be crunch time. If Reacher had oversold the story they might abandon the garage. Drive around and park near the coffee shop. He hoped he hadn’t been that convincing. In which case a more sensible response would be for the guys to split up. For one of them to stay on station in the Suburban on the grounds that Reacher’s tale was most likely a ploy. And for the second guy to head for the coffee shop on foot just in case Reacher was telling the truth. Time would be tight after all the deliberations. Getting there before the deadline would be tough. So the second guy would take the quickest possible route. Which would be the shortest. Which would be through the alley.

  The clock in Reacher’s head showed four minutes since he had walked away from the Suburban. No one entered the alley. Four and a half minutes. No one entered. Four and three quarters. Then Reacher heard footsteps. Someone running. Light. Efficient. Purposeful. Coming his way. Reacher waited a beat then stepped out from between the dumpsters. The passenger from the Suburban was in the alley, ten feet away. He stopped himself after another step and dropped into the same kind of weird stance he’d used the day before. Then he had a change of heart. Maybe it was the size difference. Maybe it was the expression on Reacher’s face. Maybe it was the recollection of what had happened to his two comrades. But whatever the reason, he straightened up, reached behind his back, and produced a gun. A Beretta M9.

  ‘You’re not going to give Rutherford up, are you?’ he said.

  ‘I might,’ Reacher said. ‘On one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Tell me why you’re after him.’

  The guy paused. ‘He has something we want.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Reacher said. ‘Be more specific.’

  ‘I don’t think so. And I don’t need to. Because very soon you’ll be begging to tell us where Rutherford is.’

  ‘Us?’ Reacher said. ‘Who’s us?’

  ‘All will be revealed when the time is right.’ The guy made a rotating motion with the gun. ‘Now turn around. Hands on the wall. Feet wide apart. I’m sure you’re familiar with the routine.’

  The guy was standing seven feet away. Reacher was out of his range. But Reacher was almost a foot taller than him.

  ‘You win,’ Reacher said. He began to turn. Moving clockwise. Pivoting on his right foot. Bringing his left foot closer to the guy with the gun. Halving the distance between them. He kept rotating until his left shoulder was facing the guy. Then he planted his foot, shot out his hand, and grabbed the underside of the barrel. He twisted the gun viciously away from his body, breaking the guy’s finger with the trigger guard and messing up the ligaments in his wrist. The guy howled and pulled back. The Beretta clattered to the ground. He glanced down at his hand. Blood was starting to flow from a break in the skin above his knuckle. He sucked the wound. Then he returned his focus to Reacher. He took half a step back and feinted a kick to the body with his front foot, but instead of following through he used the momentum to rise on his toes and swing a punch around towards Reacher’s temple. Reacher leaned back and deflected the blow with his forearm. The force of the block spun the guy around, leaving his left side exposed. Reacher jabbed him in the kidney. He shaped up for a kick but dialled it back at the last moment and more or less pushed the guy’s hip with his foot. The guy staggered back and sideways and his legs tangled and he tripped himself, landing in a heap at the base of the far wall.

  Reacher stepped closer and waited for the guy to make eye contact. ‘What does Rutherford have that you want?’

  The guy pulled himself on to all fours then slowly hauled himself to his feet and stood there for a moment, hunched and sagging, like a man thoroughly defeated. Then he exploded forward and threw two quick sharp jabs to try to push Reacher back. He threw two more then spun around, whipping up his right foot and aiming for the side of Reacher’s head. It would have been a problem if the kick had landed. It may not have had the weight behind it to knock Reacher out, but it could have slowed him down. Disoriented him. Given the guy a way back into the fight. Only Reacher didn’t back off. He did what he always did. Moved closer to the danger. He saw the guy’s body begin to twist so stepped in and met his foot when it was only at waist height. He trapped the guy’s shin between his arm and his body and slid his hand back to grab the ankle. Then he lifted the guy’s foot, leaving him hopping back and forth, fighting for balance with an expression of pure outrage on his face.

  ‘You should save moves like that for gym class,’ Reacher said. ‘Where there are rules. Out here there are only decisions and consequences. Well, one decision. And you have to make it. Whether to tell me what I want to know. If you decide not to, you’ll never walk again. Not without a limp.’

  The guy didn’t respond.

  ‘Take a moment to think,’ Reacher said. ‘Have you ever seen an X-ray of a knee? It’s not the bones you need to worry about. They heal up easily. It’s all the other parts you need to keep in mind. Ligaments. Tendons. Cartilage. But mainly ligaments. If they get damaged, not too severely, and you’re a famous sports player with limitless money and immediate access to a hospital, there’s a chance of a decent repair. Only you’re not a top sports guy. I’m guessing you don’t have limitless
money. And I can assure you that if my foot crashes down on your knee with all my weight behind it, the damage is going to be way beyond severe. That’s for damn sure.’

  The guy heaved back, trying to free his foot. He flailed with his left hand, trying to land a blow or gouge Reacher’s eyes, but he was stymied by his own locked leg. ‘OK,’ he said, panting, when he finally gave up. ‘Fine. Do what you have to do. I’m not saying a word.’

  Reacher didn’t move.

  ‘Come on. What are you waiting for? Just do it.’

  ‘This is your last chance,’ Reacher said. ‘What does Rutherford have that you want?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you do to me. I’ll never tell you anything.’

  ‘If that’s the way you want it,’ Reacher said. He lifted his right foot, held it still, and looked the guy in the eyes. Then stamped down hard towards the knee of the guy’s standing leg. The guy threw his head back and closed his eyes and whimpered, but he didn’t say a word. Reacher’s shoe was solid and heavy. He stopped his foot with the sole an inch from the guy’s knee. He paused, then lowered his foot to the ground. He released the guy’s leg and simultaneously punched him just below the ear. The guy went down sideways, his right leg still extended like he’d just kicked a ball, and didn’t move again.

  Reacher checked that the guy was breathing then retrieved his weapon. It was well maintained and, unlike Marty’s, loaded. Reacher searched the guy’s clothes. He had a wallet with some cash which Reacher took as spoils of war, but no credit cards or ID or anything indicating a name or an address. Or any kind of temporary accommodation. He had no spare ammunition. And nothing else in his pockets except for a phone. Reacher pressed the button below its screen and a message appeared saying that his print wasn’t recognized so to try again or enter a keycode. He held the button against the unconscious guy’s thumb and the screen lit up. Reacher touched a picture of a phone and a list of calls appeared. There was nothing since yesterday. There were no voicemails. No text messages. And the picture of an address book only revealed five entries. All were numbers. No names. Reacher put the phone in his pocket, slipped the gun into his waistband, and fetched his bag from the gap between the dumpsters. He took out the duct tape. Fastened the guy’s ankles together. Taped his hands behind his back. Stuck a strip over his mouth. Then hoisted the guy over his shoulder and heaved him into one of the dumpsters.

  THIRTEEN

  The Suburban was still parked in the same spot when Reacher stepped out of the alley. He waved with both arms to attract the driver’s attention then gestured for the guy to join him. The driver shook his head and indicated that Reacher should come to him. Reacher threw up his hands as if exasperated and hurried along the sidewalk until he was level with the passenger door. The window whirred down and Reacher could see that the driver was holding a gun. Another Beretta. Presumably also well maintained. Presumably also loaded. He had it in his left hand, low down in his lap, pointing sideways. Not an ideal firing position. But that was compensated for by the size of the target he had to aim at. Reacher’s chest.

  ‘Come quick,’ Reacher said, ignoring the gun. ‘To the alley. Your friend needs help. Bring the car.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ the driver said.

  ‘I waited for you at the coffee shop and when you didn’t show I came back to look for you. I figured I’d cut through the alley to save time and I found your friend. He was on the ground. In bad shape. He was bleeding. He had this big cut on his forehead. He was unconscious. Breathing, but only just. He must have gotten mugged. He had no wallet. No phone.’

  ‘Did you call 911?’

  ‘I couldn’t. I don’t have a phone. That’s why I came to get you. And I figured that with this whole computer situation going on it would be quicker for you to drive him to the hospital anyway.’

  The driver paused, then put down the gun. ‘All right. Show me.’

  ‘Come on. Follow me. Pull into the alley. Then you’ll see him.’ Reacher set off at a fast jog, and after a second he heard an engine fire up behind him. Tyres squealed and a moment later the Suburban shot past him. It continued to accelerate then darted into the mouth of the alley without signalling. Reacher caught up and squeezed along the passenger side. The driver climbed out, his gun in his hand, and joined Reacher at the front of the vehicle.

  ‘Where is he?’ the driver said. ‘I don’t see him.’

  ‘I forgot,’ Reacher said. ‘I put him in the dumpster. The far one. To keep him safe. I didn’t know if you’d still be waiting, or how long it would take to find you.’

  The driver raised his gun to Reacher’s chest. ‘You forgot?’

  ‘What?’ Reacher said. ‘You never forgot anything?’

  ‘All right.’ The driver raised the gun to Reacher’s head. ‘Back up against the wall. Keep your hands where I can see them.’ He waited for Reacher to comply then moved forward to the dumpster. ‘Don’t move.’ He lifted the lid with his free hand and took a glance inside. Reacher waited a moment for him to register the state his buddy was in, then strode forward and pulled the gun from his waistband. He switched it around so he was holding it by the barrel and swung it in a fast sideways arc. The butt smashed into the driver’s elbow.

  The driver dropped his own gun and the lid of the dumpster and slumped down on one knee. Reacher switched the gun to his left hand, wrapped his right hand around the side of the guy’s head and slammed it against the dumpster. Then he grabbed the front of his shirt, half lifted him, and dropped him down in a sitting position with his back against the metal. His body was as slack as a rag doll. Reacher waited a moment to make sure he was conscious, then rammed his gun into the guy’s mouth.

  ‘I’m going to ask you a question,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ll give you five seconds to think about it then I’ll remove the gun. If you give me the correct answer I’ll let you fish your buddy out of the trash and drive away. Give me anything other than the correct answer and I’ll put the gun back in your mouth and blow the back of your skull clean off. Are we clear?’

  The driver’s eyes widened and he did his best to nod his head.

  ‘What does Rutherford have that you want?’ Reacher raised his thumb and each finger on his right hand in turn at one second intervals, then pulled out the gun.

  ‘Go ahead.’ The driver raised his chin. ‘Shoot me. Don’t waste any more time. There’s nothing you can say or do that’ll make me tell you what it is.’

  ‘You’d rather give up your life than one little piece of information?’ Reacher said. ‘That seems like a poor choice.’

  ‘It’s not just my life. I have a wife. A brother. I know what would happen to them. Come on.’ He opened his mouth, leaned forward, and gripped the muzzle with his teeth. ‘Do it.’

  Reacher pulled the gun away and clubbed the driver on the side of the head with his right hand, knocking him out cold. He retrieved the dropped gun, checked it, tucked both weapons into his waistband, then started to go through the guy’s pockets. The contents proved no more satisfying than the passenger’s. He had no credit cards. Nothing with a name or an address. No spare ammunition. His phone had been used more recently, but it contained no names or personal information. Reacher took the cash as before, duct-taped his ankles, wrists and mouth, and dropped him in the other dumpster. Then he turned to the Suburban. He checked the glovebox. The sun visors. The door pockets. Under the seats. Under the floor mats. In the trunk. Around the spare and the jack and the little wallet of tools. Under the hood. In the wheel arches. And found nothing. Not even a loose dime or a discarded candy wrapper. Whoever these guys were, they were fastidious. That was for damn sure.

  Reacher closed the hood and the tailgate and all the doors apart from the driver’s. He was tempted to climb in. Take the vehicle. Partly because it could be useful. And partly to deprive the enemy of a valuable asset. But he had seen one of the same crew stick a tracking device on Rutherford’s Beetle. That meant there was a risk they’d use the same technology on their own
vehicles. So he made sure the key was in the ignition and left the Suburban to take its chances.

  Someone had left a stack of cards advertising a pizza delivery service on the reception counter but otherwise the lobby of Rutherford’s building seemed undisturbed when Reacher returned. He was starting to feel hungry again so he tucked a card into his back pocket then approached the closet door. He braced himself in case the doorman had used the time to think. To see through the ruse. Then he worked the lock. And found the guy sitting on the floor with his knees up near his shoulders. He blinked his tiny eyes against the sudden light then recognized Reacher and tried to speak, but his voice was unintelligible through the shiny tape.

  ‘Good news,’ Reacher said. He grabbed the doorman’s hands and heaved him to his feet, then took out his smaller knife and started to cut him free. ‘False alarm. There’s no threat against Mr Rutherford. Not today. He’s perfectly safe. For now. Although he’s not feeling very well. He just called. He’s postponed his trip again. He’s going to stay in his apartment for a few days until he’s feeling better. He doesn’t want any visitors, or any other interruptions at all. I’m just going to go up and check if he needs anything, then I’ll be heading back to Nashville. It was a pleasure meeting you. Keep up the good work.’

  Reacher figured that if Rutherford’s neighbour could spend half the year away on cruises he must be an older guy. Retired. With plenty of time on his hands. And many years of accumulating junk behind him. Reacher pictured an apartment crammed with chintzy furniture. Flowery curtains. Pictures of children. Probably grandchildren. But when Rutherford opened the door and stepped back Reacher saw a large, almost empty space. All the dividing walls had been removed. The exterior walls had been painted bright white. The floor was covered with pale grey concrete which was sealed and polished to match the kitchen countertops. Aluminium blinds, angled to allow the afternoon sun to flood in, covered the windows. The coffee table had a lozenge-shaped glass top with a curved wood support rather than regular legs. The rest of the furniture was all chrome and black leather. Reacher had seen pictures of things like it in a magazine about mid-century designers. There were polished walnut units with doors set into them separating the far third of the room. Something that looked like a giant metal egg made out of riveted panels set on a black wood tripod. And a set of blond wood shelves. Each one was an apparently random length, but Reacher figured they were probably carefully calculated to create some kind of effect. They seemed to be floating near the wall rather than being attached with brackets or supports, and they held a sparse selection of random objects. The kind that were no doubt pronounced objays by the people who sold them.