The Sentinel (Jack Reacher)

by Lee Child

  Reacher went back outside and walked across to the bunker. He stayed at ground level, looped around the stairwell, and stopped in a spot above the vertical threshold of the door where he would be invisible to anyone who came out. He took the SOCOM from his waistband. Screwed the suppressor back into place. And waited.

  The clock in his head told him the three minutes were up. Nothing happened. Another minute passed. And another. Then Reacher heard the screech of metal on metal, followed by the slap of heavy footsteps on concrete. The back of a head appeared. It was bald. With little ears stuck on the sides like an afterthought.

  The guy from Moscow. Who had tried to force Reacher into the trunk of the Town Car.

  Reacher waited until the guy got to the top of the steps, then raised his gun.

  ‘Hey,’ Reacher called out.

  The guy stopped and turned around. Reacher moved closer, skirting the stairwell, keeping the gun levelled on his chest.

  ‘The woman you call Natasha,’ Reacher said. ‘You brought her here?’

  The guy didn’t reply.

  ‘Describe the layout of the bunker.’

  The guy stared back at Reacher, but didn’t speak.

  ‘Who is down there? How many?’

  The guy was silent.

  ‘You’re out of time.’ Reacher nodded towards the Town Car. ‘Open the trunk.’

  The guy’s mouth twisted into a smile, revealing more of his crooked, stained teeth.

  ‘Think your vest will save you?’ Reacher raised his aim to the bridge of the guy’s nose. ‘Think again. Open the trunk.’

  ‘You’re not going to shoot me,’ the guy said. His words were clear, but heavy with a Russian accent. ‘The FBI has rules.’

  ‘True,’ Reacher said. He lowered the gun. About a foot. ‘But I don’t work for the FBI.’ Then he pulled the trigger.

  The bullet hit the Moscow guy dead in the centre of his chest. It tore through the fabric of his shirt and slammed into a layer of Kevlar. The guy staggered back. Just one step. At that range most people would have been knocked down. Maybe with broken ribs. Maybe with damaged organs. The mesh of polymer strands is too strong and too tight for the slug to tear through. But all its dissipated energy has to go somewhere.

  Reacher returned the gun to eye level. ‘Last chance.’

  The guy held up his hands. Nodded. Then slowly took his keys from his pants pocket. He fumbled, one-handed, trying to get his thumb lined up with the correct button on the remote. The key ring slipped through his fingers. It landed on the ground in front of him. He leaned down to retrieve it. Grabbed a handful of dirt. Whipped his arm up and hurled the dust and grit at Reacher’s face. Reacher stepped back, avoiding the cloud. The guy flung another handful then sprang forward. He was surprisingly fast for someone his size. And agile. His knee came up. His foot flicked out. It came around in a tight crescent. Caught the extended barrel of the suppressor. Tore the gun out of Reacher’s hand. And sent it spinning away in a slow, looping, lazy arc. Reacher heard it rattle and clatter down the concrete steps.

  The guy glanced down at the hole in his shirt. At the pancaked remains of the bullet. He smiled. Then launched a giant scything roundhouse punch towards Reacher’s head. Reacher sidestepped and ducked and crashed his elbow into the guy’s side as he spun under his flailing arm. It was a pointless blow. No way was it going to bother the guy through his Kevlar vest. Pure muscle memory on Reacher’s part. The guy whipped around and tried the same move again. Reacher stepped and spun and kept his elbow tucked in by his side this time. The guy locked his knees and bounced back and aimed a jab at Reacher’s head. Reacher ducked and felt the breeze in his hair as the guy’s giant fist zipped over his head.

  The vest denied Reacher a number of targets so he focused on the guy’s face. His nose was crushed and bent. It had obviously been broken in the past. Maybe more than once. Which revealed a vulnerability. Reacher darted forward. He feigned the wind-up for a roundhouse punch with his left arm. And jabbed his right fist square into the guy’s face. It was a beautiful blow. Powerful. Accurate. It rocked the guy’s head way back, bending his neck and straining his ligaments. It would have put a regular person on his back. Maybe kept him there. The Moscow guy just shook his head and straightened up. There was no sign of blood. No ragged breath sounds. So Reacher hit him twice more. With the same fist. In the same place. With every ounce of power he could muster. Then he pulled back to assess the damage he’d caused.

  There was no sign of damage. The Moscow guy was bouncing on the soles of his feet, grinning like he was having the time of his life. Then he sprang forward and launched punches with both fists at once. Reacher blocked one blow. He started to counter. Muscle memory again. A reaction to seeing the other guy’s face and body completely unguarded. Then he recognized the danger. Adjusted. Went to parry the second blow. But was late. By a fraction of a second. The guy’s fist flashed past Reacher’s raised forearm and piled into his chest, just inside his left shoulder. The force spun him around and knocked him sideways. He went down on one knee and only just recovered before the guy followed up with a kick aimed at his gut. Reacher arched around it and crashed his right fist into the guy’s temple. The guy staggered to his left. Regained his balance. Took four more steps. Then reversed direction and came at Reacher. Fast. Aiming to charge into him. To knock him down. A schoolyard manoeuvre. Brutally effective against the unwary. But not against someone with Reacher’s experience.

  The guy was leading with his right shoulder. Reacher stepped to his left. To place himself behind the guy as he passed. Away from the danger of a right jab. Or a left hook. Or a forearm smash. Only the guy didn’t pass. He jammed his right foot into the ground. Locked his knee. Pushed back. Spun around counterclockwise. And slammed his left elbow flat across Reacher’s chest.

  The force lifted Reacher off his feet and this time he went down on his back. His head hit the ground. The air left his lungs. The Moscow guy loomed over him. Lifted his right foot. Held it high, ready to stamp down on Reacher’s head. Or throat. Or gut. Or groin. Whichever he picked, that would be the end. Or the beginning of the end. Only the guy hesitated. Maybe he was spoilt for options. Maybe he wanted to make his victim sweat. But whatever the reason, it gave Reacher time to flip over on to his front. Push down with his hands. Pull his knees forward. Plant his feet flat on the ground. And spring up, locking his legs and driving the top of his head into the base of the guy’s jaw just where it narrowed under his chin.

  The guy went up and back and down and wound up sprawling and winded in the dirt. With Reacher looming over him. And Reacher did not hesitate. He was a street fighter at heart. A brawler. He knew the first rule. When you get your guy down, you finish him. Right there. Right then. So he kicked the guy in the head as hard as he could. Then he kicked him again. And again. And then he knelt on his chest and punched him in the throat with all his weight and strength.

  Reacher stood back to survey the damage. He took a moment to get his breath back. Then he dragged the guy’s body over to the Town Car. He searched his pockets for spare ammunition for the SOCOM. He didn’t find any, so he used the remote to pop the trunk. Heaved the guy up. And folded him inside. Then he opened the driver’s door. Leaned in and wrenched the rear-view mirror off the windshield. Texted Sands: Switch on. And started back towards the steps. He was on the third one down when his phone rang.

  It was Wallwork.

  ‘News,’ he said. ‘From Oak Ridge. You were right about Klostermann having a kid who works there. But not a son. A daughter. Diane. And she doesn’t go by Matusak. She’s married. She uses her husband’s name. Smith. The most common last name in America. Useful thing for a spy, right? Anyway, we’re watching her now. First clear chance, we’ll grab her. She could be a useful bargaining chip.’

  Reacher ended the call and continued down the steps. He retrieved the SOCOM, paused at the bottom, pushed the heavy door. And went through.

  The space was tiny. And low. Like a cubicle in a clothing
store fitting room. Maybe adequate for normal-size people. But very tight for Reacher. The floor and walls were made of concrete. The ceiling was lined with massive steel joists. Ahead was another door. Also grey. With a giant wheel in the centre in place of a lock. Reacher pulled and the door opened. He went through into another space, slightly larger but still uncomfortable. Steel joists continued to support the ceiling. The walls were plain concrete. And there was a hatch set into the floor. Reacher had expected something like this. Some kind of vertical shaft. If someone was waiting at the bottom with a weapon, it would be game over. But there was no way around it. If he was going to find Fisher, he would have to go down.

  Reacher held the SOCOM in his right hand and lifted the hatch with his left. He swung it all the way open, then took out the mirror he’d removed from the Town Car. He held it over the opening and angled it so he could look down. The shaft was cylindrical. It was lined with curved concrete sections. Precisely lined up. No gaps. No cracks. The drop was twenty feet deep. There were D-shaped metal staples set into the wall to act as rungs. Four dim lights in wire cages. And no sign of anyone lurking at the base. Reacher put the mirror back in his pocket and tucked the SOCOM into his waistband. He figured the space lower down would be limited. Likely with solid walls. A bad environment for ricochets.

  The area at the bottom of the shaft was twice the width as at the top. There was another hatch set into the floor to the right, presumably leading to a lower level. And a grey metal door in the wall ahead of him. He opened it a crack and used his mirror to look through. It led to a corridor. There were more grey surfaces. Lots of precise right angles. But no people. Reacher opened the door the rest of the way and stepped through.

  Fisher was struggling to focus. Her head felt like it was filled with sand. She was suddenly cold. Wet. Conscious of being upright, but not exactly standing. Her arms were above her head. She tried to bring them down. Couldn’t. Realized she was hanging from them. Her shoulders started to protest. There was pain in her wrists. Something was biting into them. Something metal. And her feet were bare. Only her toes were on the floor. The surface felt rough beneath them.

  She shook her head and a guy swam into her view. He was old. He had white hair. Masses of it, all curly and wild. He put something down. A bucket. He reached to his side. To a metal table. There were things lined up on it. Tools. With blades. And jaws. He picked one up. Like scissors, only larger. Maybe sharper. He held it up in his right hand, in front of her face, and pulled the hem of her shirt towards him with his left.

  ‘Now then, my dear,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you out of these damp clothes.’

  Reacher could see another door straight ahead at the far end of the corridor. Three doors on the left. And two on the right. He opened the first door on the left. It led to a bedroom. It was small. Utilitarian. There was a metal cupboard against one wall. And a metal-framed cot. No other furniture. No home comforts of any kind. The first door on the right opened on to a bathroom. It was communal, with urinals and stalls and sinks. Stainless steel and plain white porcelain. White tile on the floor. The second door on the left led to another bedroom. It was identical to the first. A metal cupboard. A metal cot. No other furniture. The second door on the right was for a dormitory. There were three double bunk beds. They had metal frames and thin striped mattresses, and a row of cheap wooden footlockers was lined up next to them. The last door on the left opened on to the kitchen. There were refrigerators and freezers. Cabinets and countertops. Tables and chairs. Two sinks. And a painting on the wall of a window with billowing drapes and a view of trees and flowers and grass. The final door led to a square room. It was as big as all the others combined. There was a dining area to the right, with a pale wooden table and eight chairs. A sitting area to the left with two couches and two armchairs. Bookcases lined the walls. Some full. Some empty. Some holding stacks of board games. Some with stacks of magazines. But there were no people. And no sign of Fisher. Which is what Reacher had been afraid of. It meant he would have to go down to the lower level.

  Fisher’s mental fog was starting to lift. Her head still ached but she was able to make better sense of her surroundings. She only had on underwear, she realized. She was starting to shiver. Her arms were above her head because her wrists were manacled and attached to a chain which ran through a metal ring in the centre of the ceiling. The room she was in was about ten feet by fifteen. There was one door, which was ajar. The walls were made of cinderblock, which had been painted. Originally white but now yellowing, except for lots of patches that were covered with brownish splatters and stains. The floor was concrete. There were the stubs of thick bolts sticking up from apparently random spots. Fisher guessed that some kind of heavy machinery had once been anchored there.

  Aside from her there were five people in the room. The old guy with the white hair, holding the pair of shears he’d used to cut off her clothes. The three remaining members of her crew. And a woman she didn’t recognize. She was exceptionally thin, wearing a black dress with a white apron like some kind of uniform, and her blonde hair was knotted on top of her head.

  Fisher’s shredded clothes were on the floor at her feet. There was a bucket, which she guessed the guy had used to bring the water he’d thrown on her. And now she saw the metal table had two levels. Her eyes were drawn to a device on the lower shelf. It was made of polished wood with an angled front and a dial, like an old-fashioned radio. A cable snaked from its back to an outlet on the wall. And it had two other wires. They were coiled up. One ended with a wad of some kind of fuzzy metal. The other had an insulated handle with two sharp brass spikes sticking out of its far end.

  ‘I see you’re admiring my device,’ the old guy said. ‘It’s vintage. From Moscow. It belonged to my mother. She was an expert operator, by all accounts. Maybe we’ll use it today. These guys have probably never seen anything like it in action. High voltage, low current. That’s the secret. So it can cause more pain. For longer. The steel wool goes up inside … well, you can probably guess. And the probe goes wherever I like.’

  Reacher went back through the door leading to the foyer. He raised the hatch in the floor and used his mirror to look inside. The shaft went down another twenty feet. Reacher didn’t like that. He was too far below ground already. The skin on the back of his neck started to prickle. There was a reason his ancestors told tales of trolls lurking beneath bridges, and dragons living in caves. Those places were dark. Cramped. Unnatural. People shouldn’t go in them.

  There were five rooms on the lower level. Two on the left. Two on the right. And one at the end of the corridor. There were signs on the doors. Air Purification and HVAC on the left. Switchboard and Generator on the right. And Water Purification on its own. Reacher didn’t need to search these rooms one by one. The doors to four of them were closed. Only one was open. The generator room. Just a crack. But enough for Reacher to hear a voice. Someone he recognized.

  Klostermann was sliding his shears up between Fisher’s breasts. He caught the thin strip of her bra between the blades. Centred them on the little decorative bow. And started to squeeze the handles.

  ‘This is mainly for my amusement, as I already know all about you, Natasha. Or should I call you Margaret?’ he said. ‘But I do have one question. The drifter. How do I find him?’

  ‘Just turn around,’ Reacher said from the doorway.

  Five people turned. Two backed away towards the far wall. Klostermann and his housekeeper. Three drew their weapons. The Russian agents. They were to Reacher’s right, about halfway into the room. In a straight line. Shoulders almost touching. The men on the outside. The woman sandwiched between them. Reacher stepped towards them. They raised their guns. Reacher raised his hands. Slowly, until they were at face height, palms out, fingers spread.

  ‘Here’s how I see things,’ Reacher said. ‘You’re all professionals. Here to do a job. Nothing personal. So if you put your guns down, lie on the floor, and put your hands behind your heads, I won’t kill you
. I’ll hand you over to the authorities. They’ll ask you a bunch of dumb questions. Give you crappy food for a few months. And then trade you for the next Americans who get caught in your country. You’ll likely be home by the end of the year. What do you say?’

  None of the Russians responded.

  ‘This is a limited time offer,’ Reacher said. ‘It expires in three seconds. Ready? Three. Two …’

  Reacher shot both hands forward, his fingers closing into fists as they moved, and punched both the men in their throats. They dropped their guns and fell down backwards, clutching their necks and desperately trying to suck air in through their crushed larynxes. Then he drove his right knee up into the woman’s abdomen. She folded forward, gasping, and he smashed his right elbow down into her neck where her spine joined her skull. She collapsed like a switch had been thrown and landed at Reacher’s feet.

  Not bad, Reacher thought. Quick. Effective. Though not quite symmetrical. No points for style.

  The housekeeper zipped forward. Reacher hardly saw her leg move, but he felt the side of her foot when it hit his cheek. He lunged for her but she danced back towards the corner, twisting and weaving, too fast for him to grab. He moved towards her, crowding her, aiming to trap her in the corner and nullify her speed. She dodged to the side, pulling something from her hair as she moved. A pin. More like a blade. Six inches long. Slender. Razor sharp. She slashed at Reacher as she passed. Caught him on the chest. Sliced his shirt. And his skin. Not too deep, but enough to draw blood. She slashed the opposite way. Missed. And ran for the door. Reacher followed. Looked down the corridor. Saw she was already halfway to the end. He took the SOCOM from his waistband, aimed and fired three shots. Going for her centre mass. But hitting the end wall, high and left. The suppressor must have gotten bent when the gun tumbled down the steps. His instinctive side screamed: Chase her! His rational side said: She’s too fast. Forget her. She’s gone.