Never Go Back: (Jack Reacher 18)

by Child, Lee

  ‘Didn’t work.’

  ‘What are our chances of getting out of here?’

  ‘We’ve been lucky so far.’ He fished in his shirt pocket and took out Sullivan’s ID. He checked the picture against Turner’s face. Same gender. Roughly the same hair colour. But that was about all. He gave her the ID. She said, ‘Who is she?’

  ‘My lawyer. One of my lawyers. I met her this morning.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘In a cell. Probably hammering on the door. We need to get going.’

  ‘And you’re taking my lawyer’s ID?’

  Reacher patted his pocket. ‘I’ve got it right here.’

  ‘But you don’t look anything like him.’

  ‘That’s why you’re going to drive.’

  ‘Is it dark yet?’

  ‘Heading that way.’

  ‘So let’s go,’ she said.

  They stepped out to the corridor and walked to the quarantine door. It was still held open an inch by Sullivan’s car key. Reacher pulled the door, and Turner scooped up the key, and they stepped into the small square lobby, and the door sucked shut behind them. The exit door was locked, with a small neat mechanism, no doubt expensive and highly secure. Reacher took out the clerk’s keys, and started trying them, one after the other. There were eight in total. The first was no good. Neither was the second. Nor the third. Nor the fourth.

  But the fifth key did the trick. The lock snicked open. Reacher turned the handle and pulled the door. Cold air came in, from the outside. The afternoon light was fading.

  Turner said, ‘What car are we looking for?’

  ‘Dark-green sedan.’

  ‘That helps,’ she said. ‘On a military base.’

  Warm, husky, breathy, intimate.

  They stepped out together. Reacher closed the door behind them, and locked it. He figured that might buy an extra minute. Ahead of them to the left was a small parking lot, about thirty yards away, across an expanse of blank blacktop. Seventeen cars in it. Mostly POVs. Only two plain sedans, neither one of them green. Beyond the lot a road curved away west. On the right the same road turned a corner and ran out of sight.

  ‘Best guess?’ Turner said.

  ‘If in doubt, turn left,’ Reacher said. ‘That was always my operating principle.’

  They turned left, and found another lot hidden beyond the corner of the building. It was small, nothing more than a bumped-out strip with diagonal bays. Six cars in it, all of them nose-in. All of them identical dark-green sedans.

  Turner said, ‘That’s better.’

  She lined herself up equidistant from the six rear bumpers and pressed the button on the key fob.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried again. Nothing. She said, ‘Maybe the battery is out.’

  ‘In the car?’ Reacher said.

  ‘In the key,’ she said.

  ‘Then how did Sullivan get here?’

  ‘She stuck the key in the door. Like we used to, back in the day. We’ll have to try them one by one.’

  ‘We can’t do that. We’ll look like car thieves.’

  ‘We are car thieves.’

  ‘Maybe none of these is the right car,’ Reacher said. ‘I didn’t see the plate. It was dark this morning.’

  ‘We can’t wander about this base much longer.’

  ‘Maybe we should have turned right.’

  They tracked back, as brisk and unobtrusive as they could be in boots without laces, past the rear door to the guardhouse again, and onward around the corner. It felt good to walk. Freedom, and fresh air. Reacher had always figured the best part of getting out of jail was the first thirty yards. And he liked having Turner next to him. She was nervous as a cat, but she was holding it together. She looked confident. They were just two people walking, like con artists everywhere: act like you’re supposed to be there.

  There was another bumped-out bay around the east corner, six diagonal slots, symmetrical with the one they had already seen to the west. There were three cars in it. Only one of them was a sedan. And it was dark green. Turner hit the key fob button.

  Nothing happened.

  She stepped up close and tried the key in the door.

  It didn’t fit.

  She said, ‘Where does a lawyer who’s visiting the guardhouse come in? The front entrance, right? Is there a parking lot out front?’

  ‘Bound to be,’ Reacher said. ‘But I wish there wasn’t. We’ll be very exposed out front.’

  ‘We can’t just hang around here. We’re sitting ducks.’

  They walked on, to the front corner of the building, and stopped short, in the shadows. Reacher sensed open space ahead, and maybe lights, and maybe traffic.

  ‘On three,’ Turner said. ‘One, two, three.’

  They turned the corner. Act like you’re supposed to be there. They walked fast, like busy people going somewhere. There was a fire lane along the front face of the building, and then a kerbed divider, with a long one-row lot beyond it, full of parked cars except for one empty slot. And to the left of the empty slot was a dark-green sedan.

  ‘That’s it,’ Reacher said. ‘I kind of recognize it.’

  Turner headed straight for it and hit the key fob button, and the car lit up inside and its turn signals flashed once, and its door locks clunked open. Ahead on the left, about a hundred yards away, a car was crawling towards them, at a cautious on-post kind of speed, with its headlights on against the gloom. Reacher and Turner split up, Reacher going right, Turner going left, down the flanks of the green car, Reacher to the passenger’s door, Turner to the driver’s door. They opened up and climbed in together, no fumbling, no hesitation. The approaching car was getting nearer. They closed their doors, slam, slam, like overworked staffers with minutes between vital appointments, and Turner put the key in the slot and started the engine.

  The oncoming car turned in to the lot, and rolled towards them, from the left, its headlight beams lighting them up.

  ‘Go,’ Reacher said. ‘Go now.’

  Turner didn’t. She got it in reverse gear and touched the gas, but the car went nowhere. It just reared up against the parking brake. Turner said, ‘Shit,’ and fumbled the lever down, but by then it was too late. The oncoming car was right behind them. It stopped there, blocking them in, and then its driver turned the wheel hard and crawled forward again, aiming to park in the empty slot right next to them.

  Its driver was Captain Tracy Edmonds. Reacher’s lawyer. Working with HRC. Candice Dayton. His second appointment of the afternoon.

  Reacher slumped right down in his seat, and cradled his face in his hand, like a man with a headache.

  Turner said, ‘What?’

  ‘That’s my other lawyer. Captain Edmonds. I scheduled back-to-back meetings.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wanted to be certain I was out of my cell when your lawyer showed up.’

  ‘Don’t let her see you.’

  ‘That’s the least of our problems. The shit will hit the fan about a minute after she goes inside, don’t you think?’

  ‘You should have figured one lawyer would be enough.’

  ‘Would you have?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Alongside them Edmonds jacked back and forth a couple of times until she was all neat and straight in her allotted space. She flicked her lights off and Turner flicked hers on and backed straight out and cut the wheel hard. Edmonds opened her door and climbed out of her car. Reacher swapped hands on his face. Turner rattled the lever into a forward gear and straightened up and took off, slowly. Edmonds waited patiently for her to complete the manoeuvre. Turner waved a thank-you gesture and hit the gas.

  ‘South gate,’ Reacher said. ‘Don’t you think? I figure all these guys will have come in from the north.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Turner said. She rolled on south, brisk but not suicidal, all the way through the complex, past buildings large and small, turning here and there, slowing here and there, waiting at stop signs, peer
ing left and right, moving on again, until finally the last of the base fell away behind them, and then they were into the exit road, heading for the first guard-shack barrier.

  The first of three.

  TWENTY

  THE FIRST BARRIER was easy. Act like you’re supposed to be there. Turner collected Reacher’s borrowed ID from him, and held it with hers, fanned in her hand like a pair of threes, and she slowed to a walk, and buzzed her window down, and popped the trunk as she eased to a stop, the whole performance a natural, flowing sequence, as if she did it every single day of her life.

  And the sentry in the shack responded to the performance perfectly, like Reacher guessed she hoped he would. He spent less than a second glancing at the fanned IDs, and less than a second glancing into the open trunk, and less than a second slamming it shut for them.

  Turner nudged the gas, and rolled forward.

  And breathed out.

  Reacher said, ‘Edmonds has to be inside by now.’

  ‘Got any bright ideas?’

  ‘Any sign of a problem, just hit the gas. Straight through the barrier. Busting up a piece of metal with stripes on it can’t get us in much more trouble.’

  ‘We might run over a sentry.’

  ‘He’ll jump out the way. Sentries are human, like anyone else.’

  ‘We’ll dent an army car.’

  ‘I already dented an army car. Last night. With two guys’ heads.’

  ‘You seem to have a thing about denting army property with heads,’ she said. Warm, husky, breathy, intimate. ‘Like the desk in my office.’

  He nodded. He had told her the story on the phone. From South Dakota. An old investigation, and a little resulting frustration. A short story, made long. Just to keep her talking. Just to hear more of her voice.

  She asked, ‘Who were the two guys from last night?’

  ‘Complicated,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘I hope you’ll be able to,’ she said.

  They rolled towards the second checkpoint. Where blasting through turned out not to be an available option. It was just after five in the afternoon. Rush hour, military style. There was a modest queue of vehicles waiting to get out, and a modest queue waiting to get in. Already two cars were in line in the exit lane, and three in the entrance lane. There were two guys on duty in the shack. One was darting left and right, letting one vehicle in, then letting one vehicle out, back and forth in strict rotation.

  The other guy was inside the shack.

  On the phone. Listening intently.

  Turner eased to a stop, third car in line, in a narrowing lane, with the guard shack ahead on her left, and an unbroken row of concrete dragons’ teeth on her right, each one of them a squat, truncated pyramid about three feet tall, each one of them no doubt built on a rebar armature and socketed deep below grade.

  The second guy was still on the phone.

  In the other lane the barrier went up and a car drove in. The first guy ducked across and checked ID, and checked a trunk, and hit a button, and the exit barrier went up, and a car drove out. Reacher said, ‘Maybe rush hour is our friend. It’s all kind of cursory.’

  Turner said, ‘Depends what that phone call is.’

  Reacher pictured Tracy Edmonds in his mind, walking in the main door of the guardhouse, and stepping into the front office, and finding the duty captain absent. Some clerk would nod and shuffle. How patient would Edmonds be? How patient would the clerk be? Rank would play its part. Edmonds was a captain too. Same as the duty guy. An officer of equal rank. She would cut the guy some slack. She wouldn’t get instantly all up on her high horse, like a major or a colonel would. And certainly the clerk would be slow to intervene.

  Inside the guard shack the second guy was still on the phone. Outside the guard shack the first guy was still darting side to side. A second car drove in, and a second car drove out. Turner rolled forward and stopped, now first in line to leave, but also completely boxed in, on the left and the right, with two cars behind her, and the striped metal barrier in front of her. She took a breath, and popped the trunk, and fanned the IDs, and buzzed her window down.

  The second guy got off the phone. He put the instrument down and looked straight at the exit lane. He scanned it, front to back, and back to front, starting with Turner and finishing with Turner. He came out of the shack and stepped to her window.

  He said, ‘Sorry for the delay.’

  He glanced at the fanned IDs, and stepped back and glanced at the trunk, and closed it for them, and hit the button on the side of the shack, and the barrier went up, and Turner rolled forward.

  And breathed out.

  Reacher said, ‘One more. And good things come in threes.’

  ‘You really believe that?’

  ‘No, not really. The chances of three yes-or-no propositions working out right are about twelve in a hundred.’

  Up ahead the third guard shack looked to be an exact repeat of the second. The same queue of the same three cars, a matching queue on the entrance side, two guys on duty, one of them outside ducking back and forth, and one of them inside on the phone.

  Listening intently.

  Turner said, ‘These phone calls have to be important, right? I mean, these guys have got better things to do right now. There’s a whole bunch of senior officers getting delayed here. And some of them must be Marines. They don’t like that kind of stuff.’

  ‘And we do?’

  ‘Not like the Marines don’t. We’re not always on standby to save the world.’

  ‘My dad was a Marine.’

  ‘Did he save the world?’

  ‘He wasn’t a very senior officer.’

  ‘I wish I knew who was on the phone.’

  Reacher thought back to when he had been a captain. How long would he have waited for another captain to finish up his business? Not too long, probably. But maybe Edmonds was a nicer person. More patient. Or maybe she felt out of her depth, in a guardhouse environment. Although she was a lawyer. She must have seen plenty of guardhouses. Unless she was mostly a desk person. A paperwork lawyer. Which she might have been. She was assigned to HRC, after all. That had to mean something. How much of HRC’s work was done in the cells?

  He said, ‘This is a big base. Those calls aren’t necessarily coming from the guardhouse.’

  ‘What else would be so important?’

  ‘Maybe they have to clear the way for a general. Or maybe they’re ordering pizza delivery. Or telling their girlfriends they’ll be home soon.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Turner said. ‘One of the above. Or all of them.’

  In the opposite lane the barrier went up and a car drove in. The guy on the outside ducked across to the exit lane and checked ID, and checked a trunk, and raised the barrier, and a car drove out. Turner rolled forward one place. The inside guy was still on the phone.

  Still listening hard.

  Turner said, ‘They don’t even need a phone call. I’m not wearing my tapes or my tags. They were taken away from me. I look exactly like an escaping prisoner.’

  ‘Or a Special Forces hardass. Undercover and anonymous. Look on the bright side. Just don’t let them see your boots.’

  Another car drove in, and another car drove out. Turner rolled forward to the head of the line. She popped the trunk, and fanned the IDs, and buzzed her window down. The inside guy was still on the phone. The outside guy was occupied in the other lane. Up ahead beyond the last barrier the dragons’ teeth stopped and the exit road widened out and became just a regular Virginia street.

  There was an Arlington County police cruiser parked on it.

  Turner said, ‘Still want me to bust out?’

  ‘Only if we have to,’ Reacher said.

  The outside guy finished up checking and raised the entrance barrier. The inside guy finished up listening and put the phone down. He came out and bent down and looked at the IDs in Turner’s hand. Not just a glance. His eyes flicked from the photos to the faces. Reacher looked away a
nd stared ahead through the windshield. He stayed low in his seat and tried to look middle-aged and medium-sized. The guy at the window stepped back to the trunk. More than a glance. And then he put his palm on the lid and eased it back down and gently latched it shut.

  Then he stepped away to the side of the shack.

  And hit the exit button.

  The barrier rose up high, and Turner nudged the gas, and the car rolled forward, under the barrier, and past the last of the dragons’ teeth, and out into the neat suburban street, all wide and prosperous and tree-lined, and then onward, past the parked Arlington cruiser, and away.

  Reacher thought: Captain Tracy Edmonds must be one hell of a patient woman.

  TWENTY-ONE

  SUSAN TURNER SEEMED to know the local roads. She made a left and a right and skirted the northern edge of the cemetery, and then she turned again and drove partway down its eastern flank. She said, ‘I assume we’re heading for Union Station. To dump the car and make them think we took a train.’

  ‘Works for me,’ Reacher said.

  ‘How do you want to get there?’

  ‘What’s the dumbest route?’

  ‘At this time of day?’ she said. ‘Surface streets, I guess. Constitution Avenue, for sure. We’d be slow and visible, all the way.’

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll do. They’ll expect something different.’

  So Turner got in position and lined up to cross the river. Traffic was bad. It was rush hour in the civilian world, too. Nose to tail, like a moving parking lot. She drummed her fingers on the wheel, and watched her mirror, looking to jink from lane to lane, trying to find a tiny advantage.

  ‘Relax,’ Reacher said. ‘Rush hour is definitely our friend now. There’s no chance of pursuit.’

  ‘Unless they use a helicopter.’

  ‘Which they won’t. Not here. They’d be too worried about crashing and killing a Congressman. Which would do their budget no good at all.’

  They crept on to the bridge, slowly, and they moved out over the water, and they left Arlington County behind. Turner said, ‘Talking of budgets, I have no money. They took all my stuff and put it in a plastic bag.’