Gone Tomorrow jr-13

by Lee Child

  I aimed the MP5. Black and wicked. It was hot. It stank of gunpowder and oil and smoke. I could smell it quite clearly.

  I said, ‘Put your hands on the counter.’

  They complied. Four hands appeared. Two brown and gnarled, two paler and slim. They spread them like starfish, two blunt and square, two longer and more delicate.

  I said, ‘Step back and lean on them:

  They complied. It made them more immobile. Safer. I said, ‘You’re not mother and daughter.’

  Lila said, ‘No, we’re not.’

  ‘So what are you?’

  ‘Teacher and pupil.’

  ‘Good. I wouldn’t want to shoot a daughter in front of her mother. Or a mother in front of her daughter.’

  ‘But you would shoot a pupil in front of her teacher?’

  ‘Maybe the teacher first.’

  ‘So do it.’

  I stood still.

  Lila said, ‘If you mean it, this is where you do it.’

  I watched their hands. Watched for tension, or effort, or moving tendons, or increased pressure on their fingertips. For signs they were about to go somewhere.

  There were no such signs.

  The phone vibrated in my pocket.

  In the silent room it made a tiny sound. A whir, a hum, a grind. A rhythmic little pulse. It jumped and buzzed against my thigh.

  I stared at Lila’s hands. Flat. Still. Empty. No phone.

  She said, ‘Perhaps you should answer that:

  I juggled the MP5’s grip into my left hand and pulled out the phone. Restricted Call. I opened it and put it to my ear. Theresa Lee said, ‘Reacher?’

  I said, ‘What?’

  ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘You called my cell, remember? Your number is in the call log.’

  ‘Why is your number blocked?’

  ‘Precinct switchboard. I’m on the landline now. Where the hell are you?’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Listen carefully. You have bad information. Homeland Security got back to us again. One of the Tajikistan party missed a connection in Istanbul. He came in through London and Washington instead. There are twenty men, not nineteen.’

  Lila Hoth moved and the twentieth man stepped out of the bathroom.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  Scientists measure time all the way down to the picosecond. A trillionth of a regular second. They figure all kinds of things can happen in that small interval. Universes can be born, particles can accelerate, atoms can be split. What happened to me in the first few picoseconds was a whole bunch of different things. First, I dropped the phone, still open, still live. By the time it was down level with my shoulder whole lines of conversation with Lila were screaming in my head. On the same phone, minutes ago, from Madison Avenue. I had said, You’re down to your last six guys. She had started to reply, and then she had stopped. She had been about to say, No, I’ve got seven, like earlier, when she had started to say, That’s not close to me. The voiced dental fricative. But she had stopped herself. She had learned.

  For once, she hadn’t talked too much.

  And I hadn’t listened enough.

  By the time the phone was down level with my waist I was focusing on the twentieth guy himself. He looked just like the previous four or five. He could have been their brother or their cousin, and probably was. Certainly he looked familiar. Small, sinewy, dark hair, lined skin, body language bridging wariness and aggression. He was dressed in a pair of dark knit sweatpants. A dark knit sweatshirt. He was right-handed. He was holding a silenced handgun. He was sweeping it through a long upward arc. He was aiming to bring it level. His finger was tightening on the trigger. He was going to shoot me in the chest.

  I was holding the MP5 left-handed. The magazine was empty. The last round was already chambered. It had to count. I wanted to change hands. I didn’t want to fire from my weaker side, under my weaker eye.

  No choice. To change hands would take half a second. Five hundred billion picoseconds. Too long. The other guy’s aim was nearly there. By the time the phone was down around my knees my right palm was slapping upward to meet the barrel. I was turning and straightening and tucking the grip back towards my chest. My right palm stopped and cradled the barrel and my left index finger squeezed the trigger with exaggerated calm. Lila was moving on my left. She was stepping out into the room. My finger completed its squeeze and the gun fired and my last round hit the twentieth guy in the face.

  The phone hit the floor. It sounded like the padlock. A loud wooden thump.

  My last spent shell case ejected and raffled away across the room.

  The twentieth guy went down in a clatter of limbs and head and gun, dead before he hit the boards, shot through the base of the brain.

  A head shot. A hit. Not bad for my left hand. Except that I had been aiming for his centre mass.

  Lila kept on moving. Gliding, swooping, ducking down.

  She came back up with the dead guy’s gun. Another Sig P220, another silencer.

  Swiss manufacture.

  A nine-round detachable box magazine.

  If Lila was scrambling for the gun, it was the only one in the apartment. In which case it had been fired at least three times, through the ceiling.

  Maximum six rounds left. Six versus zero.

  Lila pointed the gun at me. I pointed mine at her.

  She said, ‘I’m faster.’

  I said, ‘You think?’

  Way off to my left Svetlana said, ‘Your gun is empty.’

  I glanced at her. ‘You speak English?’

  ‘Fairly well.’

  ‘I reloaded upstairs.’

  ‘Bullshit. I can see from here. You’re set to three-round bursts. But you fired only once. Therefore that was your last bullet.’

  * * *

  We stood like that for what seemed like a long time. The P220 was as steady as a rock in Lila’s hand. She was fifteen feet from me. Behind her the dead guy was leaking fluid all over the floor. Svetlana was in the kitchen. There were all kinds of smells in the air. There was a draught from the open window. Air was moving in and stirring through the room and funnelling up the staircase and out through the hole in the roof.

  Svetlana said, ‘Put your gun down.’

  I said, ‘You want the memory stick.’

  ‘You don’t have it.’

  ‘But I know where it is.’

  ‘So do we.’

  I said nothing.

  Svetlana said, ‘You don’t have it but you know where it is. Therefore you employed a deductive process. Do you think you are uniquely talented? Do you think that deductive processes are unavailable to others? We all share the same facts. We can all arrive at the same conclusions.’

  I said nothing.

  She said, ‘As soon as you told us you knew where it was, we set about thinking. You spurred us on. You talk too much, Reacher. You make yourself disposable.’

  Lila said, ‘Put the gun down. Have a little dignity. Don’t stand there like an idiot, holding an empty gun.’

  I stood still.

  Lila dropped her arm maybe ten degrees and fired into the floor between my feet. She hit a spot level with and exactly equidistant between the toecaps of my shoes. Not an easy shot. She was a great markswoman. The floorboard splintered. I flinched a little. The Sig’s silencer was louder than the H&K’s. Like a phone book smashed down, not dropped. A wisp of wood smoke drifted upward, where the friction of the bullet had burned the pine. The spent shell case ejected in a brassy arc and tinkled away.

  Five rounds left.

  Lila said, ‘Put the gun down.’

  I looped the strap up over my head. Held the gun by the grip down by my side. It was no longer any use to me, except as a seven-pound metal club. And I doubted that I would get near enough to either one of them for a club t
o be effective. And if I did, I would prefer bare-knuckle hand-to-hand combat. A seven-pound metal club is good. But a 250-pound human club is better.

  Svetlana said, ‘Throw it over here. But carefully. If you hit one of us, you die.’

  I swung the gun slowly and let it go. It cartwheeled lazily through the air and bounced off its muzzle and clattered against the far wall.

  Svetlana said, ‘Now take off your jacket.’

  Lila pointed her gun at my head.

  I complied. I shrugged the jacket off and threw it across the room. It landed next to the MP5. Svetlana came out from behind the kitchen counter and rooted through the pockets. She found the nine loose Parabellum rounds and the part-used roll of duct tape. She stood the nine loose rounds upright on the counter, in a neat little line. She put the roll of tape next to it.

  She said, ‘Glove.’

  I complied. I bit the glove off and tossed it after the jacket.

  ‘Shoes and socks.’

  I hopped from foot to foot and leaned back against the wall to steady myself and undid my laces and eased my shoes off and peeled my socks down. I threw them one after the other towards the pile.

  Lila said, ‘Take your shirt off.’

  I said, ‘I will if you will.’

  She dropped her arm ten degrees and put another round into the floor between my feet. The bang of the silencer, the splintering wood, the smoke, the hard tinkle of the spent case.

  Four left.

  Lila said, ‘Next time I’ll shoot you in the leg.’

  Svetlana said, ‘Your shirt.’

  So for the second time in five hours I peeled my T-shirt off at a woman’s request. I kept my back against the wall and threw the shirt overhand into the pile. Lila and Svetlana spent a moment looking at my scars. They seemed to like them. Especially the shrapnel wound. The tip of Lila’s tongue came out, pink and moist and pointed between her lips.

  Svetlana said, ‘Now your pants.’

  I looked at Lila and said, ‘I think your gun is empty.’

  She said, ‘It isn’t. I have four left. Two legs and two arms.’

  Svetlana said, ‘Take your pants off.’

  I unbuttoned. I unzipped. I pushed the stiff denim down. I stepped out. I kept my back against the wall and kicked the pants towards the pile. Svetlana picked them up. Went through the pockets. Made a mound of my possessions on the kitchen counter next to the nine loose rounds and the roll of tape. My cash, plus a few coins. My old expired passport. My ATM card. My subway card. Theresa Lee’s NYPD business card. And my clip-together toothbrush.

  ‘Not much,’ Svetlana said.

  ‘Everything I need,’ I said. ‘Nothing I don’t.’

  ‘You’re a poor man.’

  ‘No, I’m a rich man. To have everything you need is the definition of affluence.’

  ‘The American dream, then. To die rich.

  ‘Opportunity for all.’

  ‘We have more than you, where we come from.’

  ‘I don’t like goats.’

  The room went quiet. It felt damp and cold. I stood there in nothing except my new white boxers. The P220 was rock steady in Lila’s hand. Muscles like thin cords stood out in her arm. Next to the bathroom the dead guy continued to leak. Outside the window it was five o’clock in the morning and the city was starting to stir.

  Svetlana bustled about and balled up my gun and my shoes and my clothes into a tidy bundle and threw it behind the kitchen counter. She followed it with the two hard chairs. She picked up my phone, and shut it off, and tossed it away. She was clearing the space. She was emptying it. The living room part of the studio was about twenty feet by twelve. I was backed up against the centre of one of the long walls. Lila tracked around in front of me, keeping her distance, pointing the gun. She stopped in the far corner, by the window. Now she was facing me at a shallow angle.

  Svetlana went into the kitchen. I heard a drawer rattle open. Heard it close. Saw Svetlana come back.

  With two knives.

  They were long butcher’s tools. For gutting or filleting or boning. They had black handles. Steel blades. Wicked wafer-thin cutting edges. Svetlana threw one of them to Lila. She caught it expertly by the handle with her free hand. Svetlana moved to the corner opposite her. They had me triangulated. Lila was forty-five degrees to my left, Svetlana was forty-five degrees to my right.

  Lila twisted her upper body and jammed the P220’s silencer hard into the angle where the front wall met the side. She found the catch at the heel of the butt with her thumb and dropped the magazine. It fell out and hit the floor in the corner of the room. Three rounds showed in the slot. Therefore one was still chambered. She threw the gun itself into the other corner, behind Svetlana. The gun and the magazine were now twenty feet apart, one behind one woman, and the other behind the other.

  ‘Like a treasure hunt,’ Lila said. ‘The gun won’t fire without the magazine in place. To prevent an accidental discharge if a round is mistakenly left in the chamber. The Swiss are very cautious people. So you need to pick up the gun, and then pick up the magazine. Or vice versa. But first, of course, you need to get past us.’

  I said nothing.

  She said, ‘If you should succeed, in a mad wounded scramble, then I recommend you use the first round on yourself.’

  And then she smiled, and stepped forward a pace. Svetlana did the same. They held their knives low, fingers below the handle, thumbs above. Like street fighters. Like experts.

  The long blades winked in the light.

  I stood still.

  Lila said, ‘We’re going to enjoy this more than you could possibly imagine.’

  I did nothing.

  Lila said, ‘A delay is good. It heightens the anticipation.’

  I stood still.

  Lila said, ‘But if we get bored waiting, we’ll come and get you.’

  I said nothing. Stood still.

  Then I reached behind me and came out with my Benchmade 3300, from where it had been duct-taped to the small of my back.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  I thumbed the release and the blade snapped out with a sound that was halfway between a click and a thump. A loud sound, in the silent room. And an unhappy sound. I don’t like knives. I never have. I have no real talent with them.

  But I have as much of an instinct for self-preservation as any guy.

  Maybe more than most.

  And by that point I had been scuffling since the age of five, and all of my defeats had been minor. And I’m the kind of guy who watches and learns. I had seen knife fights all over the world. The Far East, Europe, the hardscrabble scrublands outside army bases in the southern United States, in streets, in alleys, outside bars and pool halls.

  First rule: don’t get cut early. Nothing weakens you faster than blood loss.

  Svetlana was more than a foot shorter than me and she was thick and wide and her arms were proportional. Lila was taller, more loose-limbed, more graceful. But all in all I figured that even against blades six inches longer than mine, I still had the advantage.

  Plus I had just changed the game, and they were still dealing with the surprise.

  Plus they were fighting for fun, and I was fighting for my life.

  I wanted to get to the kitchen, so I danced towards Svetlana, who was between me and it. She was up on her toes, knife down at her knees, feinting left, feinting right. I kept my blade down low, to match hers. She swung. I arched back. Her blade hissed past my thigh. I jammed my ass back and my shoulders forward and clubbed her with an overarm left hook. It grazed her eyebrow and then caught her full on the side of the nose.

  She looked astonished. Like most knife fighters she thought it was all about the steel. She forgot that people have two hands.

  She rocked back on her heels and Lila came in from my left. Blade low. Darting, jabbing. Mouth open in an ugly grimace. Concentrating hard. She understood. This was no longer a game. No longer fun. She ducked in, she ducked out, feinting, backing off, always working. Fo
r a time we all danced like that. Frantic, breathless, abrupt abbreviated movements, dust and sweat and fear in the air, their eyes locked on my blade, mine switching constantly between theirs.

  Svetlana stepped in. Stepped out. Lila came at me, balanced, up on her toes. I kept my hips back and my shoulders forward. I swung my blade hard for Lila’s face. Huge. Convulsive. Like I was aiming to throw a ball four hundred feet. Lila ducked back. She knew the swing was going to miss, because she was going to make it miss. Svetlana knew it was going to miss, because she trusted Lila.

  I knew it was going to miss, because I planned not to let it hit. I stopped the violent manoeuvre halfway through and reversed direction and aimed a vicious surprise backhand straight at Svetlana. I sliced her forehead. A solid blow. I felt the blade hit bone. A lock of her hair hit her chest. The Benchmade worked exactly the way it should. D2 steel. You could have dropped a ten-dollar bill on it and gotten two fives in exchange. I put a six-inch horizontal gash halfway down Svetlana’s hairline and her eyebrows. Open to the bone.

  She rocked back and stood still.

  No pain. Not yet.

  Forehead cuts are never fatal. But they bleed a lot. Within seconds blood was sheeting down into her eyes. Blinding her. If I had been wearing shoes I could have killed her there and then. Bring her down with a blow to the knees, and then kick her head to pulp. But I wasn’t about to risk the bones in my feet against her fire-plug body. Lack of mobility would have killed me just as fast.

  I danced back.

  Lila came straight after me.

  I kept my hips back and dodged the hissing arc of her blade. Left, right. I hit the wall behind me. I timed it and waited until her arm was across her body and turned sideways and shoulder-charged her and bounced her away. I spun onward to where Svetlana was tottering around and trying to wipe the pouring blood from her eyes. I swatted her knife arm away and stepped in and nicked her neck above her collar bone and dodged back out.

  Then Lila cut me.