by Lee Child
Reacher took it from him and tossed it to Sands.
‘You obviously weren’t dialling 911 since we’re talking about stolen goods,’ Reacher said. ‘Which means you were calling whoever you pay for protection. To do what? Send over three or four guys? Now, normally I’d be in favour of that. I’ve spent a lot of today sitting on my ass, waiting and talking. A little light exercise would be welcome. But unfortunately I’m short of time. Which means that either you tell me what I want to know, or I take my frustration out on you.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Budnick raised his chin. ‘Come on then. Try it. See how it works out for you.’
A wrestler, Reacher thought. Or a lineman. Which meant he’d probably try some kind of grappling manoeuvre. Or he’d charge, hoping to knock Reacher down. He’d have to do something like that. There was very little chance of his landing a punch. Or a kick. Reacher was confident about that. Budnick was three inches shorter, to start with. And Reacher had abnormally long arms. The simplest thing would be to wait for Budnick to make his move then punch him in the face the moment he was in range. But not too hard. Reacher didn’t want to knock him out. Not until he’d given up a name.
Budnick shuffled to the side, moving clockwise, closer to the outhouse. Trying to get a straight shot towards the parking lot. Meaning he was going to charge. Not grapple. He was a big guy. Hauling a body that size around would take a lot of energy. Reacher changed his plan. He had space to his left and right. He could dodge out of Budnick’s way. Run the guy around. Wear him out. Let him defeat himself.
Budnick moved another six inches. Braced himself for launch. Then Sands stepped up. She drove the side of her foot hard into his knee and he went down sideways like a felled tree, squealing, then rolled on to his back and clutched his injured leg.
‘What?’ Sands turned to Reacher. ‘Why should I let you boys have all the fun?’
Budnick scrabbled into a sitting position, his hurt leg still bent.
‘That kick?’ Sands stepped in front of him. ‘Half power. The next kick? Full power. And forget your legs. I’m going right for your balls. And I never miss.’
Budnick whimpered and tried to scramble away backwards.
‘Unless you give us the name,’ Sands said. ‘Who you sold the electronics to. Right now.’
‘I can’t,’ Budnick said. ‘I didn’t sell it.’
‘Go ahead,’ Reacher said. ‘Kick him.’
‘No,’ Budnick said. ‘Please. You don’t understand. I don’t sell the stuff. It’s not my operation. I just rent out the space where it gets stored.’
‘Who do you rent it to?’ Reacher said.
‘The guy I pay for protection.’
‘OK. What’s his name? Where do we find him?’
‘No. Please. I can’t. Look, the guy doesn’t even pay me. He regards it as a favour. A courtesy.’
Reacher and Sands looked at each other.
‘It’s true.’ Budnick held up his hands. ‘I swear. Look, this is the hospitality business. I knew protection would be a thing. I even put it in the budget. Under a fake heading, obviously. I had cash set aside, ready to go. The guy showed up the night I reopened. Like clockwork. Told me how much I had to pay. It was a lot, but what could I do? I agreed. Then he told me about this other thing, with the electronics. A sideline of his. It had been going on for years, apparently. The guy I bought the place from must have forgotten to mention it. The asshole. Anyway, the protection guy said he was happy with the arrangement. He suggested I might like to keep it going. For the sake of my health. What was I going to say? I’m not stupid.’
‘Maybe you are stupid,’ Reacher said. ‘Maybe you’re not. But here’s the thing. Who told you what, and when? What you get paid for, and what you give away? I don’t care. I only want to hear two things from you. The name of this guy. And where we can find him.’
‘I can’t tell you. He’ll kill me.’
‘And if you don’t tell me, my friend is going to kick a field goal with your testicles. I can’t imagine that would feel good. So you’re going to have to do all kinds of thinking. About your priorities. About current certainties versus future possibilities. And you’re going to have to do it fast, because I’m running out of patience.’
Budnick was silent for a minute, then he struggled to his feet. ‘You mentioned priorities. Well, what are yours? Getting your stuff back? Or getting the guy who’s got it? Because the way I see it, for your stuff to end up here, it must have gotten thrown in the trash at some point. Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe someone did it to mess with you. But however it got there, it wasn’t my guy’s fault. So what if I could help you get your stuff back, but without involving him?’
Reacher took a moment to think. A protection racket suggested organized crime. Organized crime suggested prostitution. Drugs. Gambling. Loan sharking. All things he had no time for. All things, in an ideal world, he would tear down. But he wasn’t living in an ideal world. And he wasn’t dealing in the hypothetical. He had more tangible concerns. The identity of the spy who was trying to steal a copy of The Sentinel, for one thing. And Rutherford’s safety, for another.
Priorities, indeed.
‘All right,’ Reacher said. ‘Suppose I forget about your guy. Suppose I only care about getting my stuff back. How could that happen?’
‘I know where he keeps it,’ Budnick said. ‘The good stuff. I’m assuming your stuff is good?’
Reacher nodded.
‘One of his guys let it slip once. Where he was taking it. The guy didn’t realize what he was saying. He was just running his mouth. And it was months ago. He wouldn’t remember, anyway. So you could go there. Make it look like a random robbery. And no one could ever tie it back to me. Everyone could walk away happy. Except for the protection guy. But, hey, screw him.’
Reacher looked at Sands. She nodded.
‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Where is the place?’
‘It’s called Norm’s Self Storage. He has unit E4. You can Google the address. I can tell you the code for the gate. I know it because I started renting a unit for myself during the renovations. It’s the unit number – mine is A6 – and the last seven digits of my cell.’ He rattled off a string of numbers.
‘Good,’ Reacher said. ‘But you know, before we go racing across town, maybe we should make absolutely certain our stuff isn’t here? The door is padlocked and it was hard to get a good look through the crack. Can you open it for us?’
‘You didn’t check inside?’
‘How could we?’
Budnick shrugged then took a Titans fob out of his pocket. It had a single key attached. He handed it to Reacher. ‘Makes sense, I guess. Here. You open it.’
Reacher stepped into the space between the building and the minivan. He switched keys while his back was turned. Worked the new padlock. And pulled open the door.
‘Why didn’t we think of this before?’ Reacher pretended to hit himself in the forehead with his palm. ‘It was inside all along. Budnick, come here. I need your help moving it.’
Budnick limped forward. ‘Which thing is yours?’
‘It’s all the way at the back,’ Reacher said. ‘See that tall cabinet with the broken door? That’s it.’
‘No way.’ Budnick shook his head. ‘I remember dragging that thing in. It weighs a damn ton. Look, take it if you want. But you’re on your own.’
‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Your choice.’ He braced one foot against the side of the minivan and slammed into Budnick’s back, hard, right between the shoulder blades.
Budnick staggered through the doorway. His arms flapped like the wings of a giant flightless bird. He stumbled forward. Steered around one pile of equipment. Two. Then he stepped in the heap of computer mice. His feet got tangled in the wires and he pitched forward, landing next to the widescreen TVs.
Reacher tossed the Titans key ring in after him. ‘Don’t worry. Someone will come by and let you out. Unless you were lying about the storage unit. Or it’s a trap. In which case it won�
��t be the protection guy who’s screwed. It’ll be you.’
Sands gestured to Reacher to hold his position then darted around to the other side of the minivan. She returned a moment later with two bottles of water from the pack he had bought earlier. Set them down just over the threshold. Waited for him to close the door and work the lock. Then she took hold of his arm. ‘You are going to come back and let Budnick out, right?’
‘If we need to have another conversation,’ Reacher said.
‘And if you don’t need to? If we get the servers? You can’t just leave him locked in there.’
‘I won’t leave him. Not for long. I’ll call Officer Rule. Tell her where to find him. Let her put another feather in her cap.’
‘Isn’t that a bit hard on Budnick? It’s not his operation. He’s not profiting from it. Just like Thomassino isn’t, which is why we let him go. Shouldn’t we stick the police on the protection guy instead? He’s the one who made Budnick do it.’
‘The protection guy will go down too, I’m sure. But all he did was make Budnick let him use the outhouse. It was Budnick who chose to threaten Thomassino’s family. He took that step by himself. And that’s a line he should not have crossed.’
TWENTY-ONE
The GPS directed them back to the same side of town as the waste company depot. It took another twenty-four minutes. And brought them to another compound at the end of another long straight road with another line of fenced-in lots on either side. Only Norm’s Self Storage wasn’t like the other units. It didn’t have a regular fence. The whole exterior was designed to look like an old-time fort. It had wooden palisades. Watch towers. A line of cannons. A pole flying Old Glory. Another with the Volunteer State flag. And a third with some weird garish banner covered with images of muskets and sabres and shields. Maybe something of Norm’s own design, Reacher thought. Maybe Norm was a history buff. Or maybe he thought the whole military vibe would give his place a sense of safety and security. Some kind of subliminal reassurance for his clients. Could be a valuable thing in his line of work.
Sands stopped in front of the gate. There was a rustic wooden post next to the driveway, but no sign of an intercom or a keypad or a card reader. The only thing attached to it was a reproduction Pony Express mailbox. Sands glanced at the others then rolled down her window and prodded it. The front swung open. Inside was a digital screen. It was blank. Sands touched it and a grid of letters and numbers appeared. She took a deep breath and entered the code Budnick had given them.
Nothing happened.
‘Am I cursed?’ she said. ‘Or do all entry systems just hate me?’
She tried the code again.
Nothing happened.
‘Maybe they changed the system?’ Rutherford said.
‘Or Budnick bullshitted us,’ Reacher said.
‘Maybe he just misspoke,’ Sands said. ‘Let’s check, before we go jumping to conclusions.’ She reached for her purse, rummaged around inside for a moment, and pulled out Budnick’s phone. ‘He said the digits were the last seven of his cell number. Let’s get that from the horse’s mouth.’
Sands touched the screen four times and the phone came to life.
‘Wait a minute,’ Rutherford said. ‘How did you do that? Do you have some kind of FBI master code? I thought that was a myth.’
‘Of course the Bureau has a code. They can get into any phone, any time. Remotely, too. Via satellites. You didn’t know?’
‘Really?’
‘Of course not. I was looking over Budnick’s shoulder when he tried to call his protection guy. I saw what he keyed in. Now let’s take a look. Here’s his number. Damn. It matches what he told us.’
‘I bet they changed the system,’ Rutherford said.
‘I bet Budnick was bullshitting,’ Reacher said.
‘Hold on,’ Sands said. ‘The phone number is only part of it. Maybe he got the unit number wrong. He was under a lot of stress.’
‘How can we check that?’ Rutherford said. ‘We’ll have to go back and ask him.’
‘There’s one other thing we could try,’ Reacher said. He pointed to a 24-hour helpline number posted above the screen. ‘Pass me Budnick’s phone.’
Sands entered the digits, hit call, then speaker, then handed the phone to Reacher.
A man answered after seven rings. He said his name was Steve. He sounded sleepy.
‘Steve, this is Bill Budnick,’ Reacher said. ‘Listen, this is a little embarrassing, but I’m at the gate of the storage place and I can’t get it to open. I haven’t been by for a while and I’m thinking maybe I’m misremembering my unit number. Could you confirm it for me?’
‘Sorry, Mr Budnick. Can’t do that. It’s against the rules.’
‘Oh, come on. Help me out here. I’m not much of a numbers guy. And I’m too busy down at Fat Freddie’s to come by very often, which is why it’s slipped my mind. I’m the owner there.’
‘I know. Your picture was in the paper.’
‘When I bought the place. Right. Anyway, I tell you what. How about this? You confirm my unit number, just this once, and I’ll make a note. I’ll write it down, right now, so this will never happen again. And then, any time you want, you can come down to the diner and have anything on the menu, on the house. What do you say?’
‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t.’
‘OK. Dinner for two. Bring your significant other. Or come twice on your own. You won’t regret it.’
‘I shouldn’t.’
‘We have the best milkshakes in town, Steve. The best everything, if you ask me. I might be biased, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.’
‘I don’t know. Can you at least tell me which block you’re in?’
Budnick had said A6. Hope for the best. ‘Sure. Block A.’
‘OK. Wait one.’
Reacher heard the sound of papers rustling, then Steve came back on the line. ‘Anything I want on the menu, right? And I can come twice?’
‘You got it.’
‘You’re in A4, Mr Budnick. Just don’t let anyone know I told you.’
Sands turned back to her window. She hit the A and the 4 on the screen, then the last seven digits of Budnick’s phone number.
Nothing happened. For a long moment. Then the gate swung open.
Once inside the fake stockade they saw there was no further pretence of antiquity. Just six solid, utilitarian structures. The smallest was the office, tucked immediately inside the gate. Its neon sign was switched off, and there were no lights showing inside. The other five buildings were set further back, lined up side by side. They were finished with corrugated metal, painted battleship grey. Each was forty feet wide. A hundred feet long. The shorter sides faced the gate. Each one had a heavy-duty air-conditioning unit sitting next to it. And each had a red letter stencilled on the end wall high up in the angle of the roof. A was level with the office. E was all the way to the left. For a moment the order bothered Reacher. He would have preferred A to E. Not E to A. Then he figured they must have started out with one unit, at the right-hand side of the lot to correspond with the access to the road, then worked their way left as they expanded.
Reacher asked Sands to head for Budnick’s unit first. He figured that the guy on the phone, Steve, might be monitoring the site from some remote position. It would be suspicious if they immediately turned the wrong way. And he wanted to get a sense of the security measures they were up against. He had been worried about guards being present. Roving patrols. Dogs. People brought in by the protection guy to keep an eye on his interests.
It quickly became obvious that the site was unmanned. There were only two kinds of precaution in play. Locks. And cameras. The locks varied from unit to unit so Reacher figured it must be down to the individual clients to provide their own. The cameras were a different story. There were identical ones mounted at the corners of each block. Fifteen feet from the ground, where they couldn’t be accidentally knocked. Or easily sabotaged. They were aimed along the front of the build
ings, meaning that the door to every unit in the outer rows was covered by two separate cameras. And all the others by at least two. Possibly four, depending on their field of focus.
There were ten units on each side of each building. The odd numbers were on the right. The even numbers on the left. The protection guy’s unit was E4. So it was on the left. In an outer row. Only covered by two cameras. Sands pulled away from Budnick’s unit and drove to the near side of the E block. She turned and reversed, parallel to the wall, staying as close to the building as she could. She continued until the back of the minivan was just under the outer camera. Reacher cut an eight-inch length of duct tape from the roll. He scrambled on to the roof of the van. Took a step towards the rear. The paint was slippery. The van pitched and yawed on its suspension. Reacher braced himself with one hand against the wall. Crept further back. Stretched up. And covered the lens with the tape.
Sands looped around the perimeter of the site and they repeated the procedure with the camera at the far end of the E block. That meant they could have been recorded approaching Budnick’s unit. And leaving it. And passing the odd-numbered A units. Not ideal. Not disastrous. But more importantly it meant that no one would be able to see them on the even side of the E block. And if no one could see them, no one could report them. To the police. Or to anyone else.
Sands made straight for the protection guy’s unit. She reversed up to it and stayed in the van with the engine running. Reacher got out, carrying the bolt cutter. Rutherford joined him. They checked the number stencilled on both sides of the door frame, then Reacher closed the cutter’s jaws around the stem of the lock. It was surprisingly slim. Reacher broke it open with barely any effort. He removed it. Took hold of the handle low down at the centre of the door. Pulled it up. And saw – furniture. A dining table. Eight matching dining chairs. A couch. Two armchairs. A sideboard. A drinks cabinet. A bureau. And a floor lamp. Nothing electronic. Nothing that had been made in the last fifty years. Maybe seventy-five. Reacher guessed that someone’s relative had died. A parent or a grandparent. Leaving a house to be cleared. Everything else sold or given away or taken into service. The remnants too unfashionable to be used. But too valuable or too sentimental to be disposed of. So they were banished here. A practical solution for someone. But absolutely no help to them.
