Reckoning Road_A Get Jack Reacher Short Story

by Scott Blade

  He gulped.

  “Listen up. I got two questions. They’re important. You could say they’re a matter of life or death. Your life or death.

  “You see, depending on how you answer, you might live—and then again, you might not.”

  He said nothing.

  I said, “How many guns on them?”

  “One. Just Carter.”

  I moved the muzzle in closer to him.

  He said, “I swear!”

  I nodded. I reached out slowly and gripped his collar. I pulled his face up close to the gun. I asked, “You got any evidence lying around? Somewhere safe? The kind of evidence you stashed away in case you ever got caught? You know, the type of evidence that’s bad for you, bad for them?”

  He started to say something and then stopped. Again, he looked like he was thinking it over. He said, “Sure. Of course. Insurance policy. Lots of cops do that.”

  “I figured. Where is it?”

  He shook his head like all of a sudden he had decided that he would rather die.

  I said, “Where is it? I’m not going to ask again.”

  He gave me a locker number at an old train station in Las Vegas. I believed him. He had truth in his eyes—truth and fear.

  I said, “Okay. Handcuffs?”

  He nodded and looked down at his jacket pocket.

  I said, “Slow. Get ’em out.”

  He did.

  I told him to get in the bathroom. He walked inside, and I handcuffed him to the pipe under the sink and checked his pockets. I took everything—phone, watch, keys, and badge. I memorized his name and badge number and all of his information, but I made a show of it to him. I kept his badge, but I didn’t need to do that. I would remember him. I just wanted him to know that I knew everything about him—and he knew nothing about me.

  Before I left him in the bathroom, I shoved a huge wad of napkins down his throat so he couldn’t make any noise. I crammed them so far down that I was afraid he might choke on them, but I shrugged and figured he deserved it.

  I darted back out the back door. I still had a primal urge to deal with. I walked off a little ways from the building. There was plenty of darkness and no one around. I took a minute to relieve myself. Then I took the US marshal’s keys and threw them as hard as I could into the dark woods to the east. I tossed the rest of his stuff—except for the Glock—in the dumpster.

  I zipped my pants back up and headed back inside.

  Chapter 14

  I STEPPED THROUGH THE BACK DOOR and into the kitchen. I headed to the front of the restaurant, stopped at the swinging door. I tucked the Glock into the waistband of my pants and covered it with my shirttail.

  I walked back into the restaurant and smiled at everyone. The guys still sat where they had been. I guessed they had been waiting for their friend’s signal.

  Kara was at the counter, doing dishes in a low sink. Mostly coffee mugs and spoons. Most likely, she was just trying to look busy.

  I sat down, looked at the two guys who were left, and smiled.

  A shared expression of utter confusion swept over their faces. They looked at each other and then back at me, back at each other and then again at me. I ignored them and signaled for Kara to bring me another cup of coffee.

  She brought it, and I thanked her but said nothing about the US marshal in the back or the danger she was in. Didn’t want to give it away. Not my strategy.

  I wondered how long I’d have to wait before the steely guy came over and sat with me. Turned out it wasn’t long. I had only taken one pull from my coffee when I looked up to see him on his feet.

  He unbuttoned the one button of his jacket as he approached, an ancient signal from the Old West. A gunslinger approaching a potentially dangerous situation usually exposed his gun, tucked into a belt holster.

  I didn’t want to resort to guns. This was a small town and probably had a local constable or deputy on patrol. Small town cops could be a major headache because they came in only a few types, and usually the one who was the readiest to spring to action tended to work the graveyard shift. I wasn’t in the mood to stick around after a gunfight, giving explanations to cops, answering questions, or waiting in a jail cell. My motto was hit fast, hit hard, and get the hell out of town faster.

  Just in case, I took one more pull from my coffee, slipped my free hand under the table, and took out the Glock. Laid it on my lap only as a precaution.

  Regan Carter sat down across from me. He didn’t ask permission, just dumped himself down in the booth.

  The big guy stood directly behind him like a big tree.

  I looked at both of them and said, “No thanks, fellas. I’d rather sit alone. Not looking for company.”

  Carter said, “Where’s Derek?”

  I asked, “Who?”

  “Marshal Derek? You went to the bathroom, and he went right behind you.”

  I shrugged and said, “So?”

  “So where is he?”

  Carter had some kind of accent I wasn’t quite sure of. It was a mixture of East Coast meets the South. Maybe it was a North Carolina or West Virginia accent or something else from where the two converged.

  I said, “I didn’t see him. The back door was open. Maybe he went out there to piss.”

  Carter looked over his shoulder and said, “Go check.”

  I smiled. Another tactic of combat that always worked was divide and conquer. I loved the classics.

  The big guy said nothing. He walked back past the counter and into the kitchen.

  Kara backed up against the wall as he passed. I figured she realized something was going on. She just didn’t know what exactly.

  I guessed it would be only twenty seconds before the big guy either called out or came running back out of the kitchen. At which point, Carter would draw his weapon. I didn’t know what kind of gun he had. If I had to guess, I would say it was some kind of gold-plated nonsense. My first impression of him was that he was style over substance—no question.

  “Who exactly are you, my friend?”

  Five seconds had passed.

  “Me? I’m nobody.”

  Six seconds.

  “Mr. Nobody, you got some bad luck.”

  Eight seconds.

  “How’s that?”

  Ten.

  “Cause you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Eleven.

  Carter went for his gun. My mother had been a sheriff and an ex-Marine cop. She’d taught me a lot about combat and military verve. She used to say that self-defense was letting the other guy throw the first punch. But these weren’t fists. These were firearms. When it came to guns, if you let the other guy strike first, then you ran a very high risk of letting his first strike be your last.

  The cemeteries were chock-full of guys who played by the rules.

  Thirteen.

  I’d planned on pulling the Glock before Carter went for his gun, but he was faster than I thought.

  Fifteen.

  Chapter 15

  CARTER WAS FAST, but he made the same quick motion that every gunslinger throughout history has ever made. He grabbed his gun from his jacket and pulled it out into view—big and obvious. He was all about the show. At least that was his intention as it had been of all of those old, dead gunslingers from Texas all the way to California.

  I didn’t go the traditional route. I already had my gun on my lap. I ducked my hand under the tabletop, put it on the gun, and squeezed the trigger. No finesse. No quick draw moves like in the movies. I was all about results, and the first result was not getting shot myself.

  The gun fired under the table. The gunshot was deafening in the cramped space. It echoed loudly through the diner, the kitchen, and probably the parking lot.

  I had to give Carter credit. He had gotten his gun completely out and in his hand and pointed almost in my direction. He was fast, but not fast enough. Preparation counted far more than finesse—I had been prepared every time.

  The bullet must’ve
slammed into his kneecap because his top half jolted forward like a catapult had launched him out of his seat. His gun was a shiny Colt Night Defender. The name was etched across the chrome barrel in huge letters. The whole thing was an insult to guns, at least it was to me. His gun was just like him, style over substance.

  Carter screamed and wailed. I knocked the gun away from him. It slid across the table and fell down under the seat, out of view.

  The big guy’s twenty seconds were up. Either he had seen the US Marshal tied up in the back or he’d heard the gunshot and assumed it was his boss taking me out because he came running from the kitchen. The door blasted open, and a priceless look oozed down his face.

  I said, “Welcome back.”

  I pointed the gun at him and said, “Come back in. Sit.”

  The big guy looked at his boss and then at me. For the first time, he expressed an emotion—anger.

  He didn’t move.

  Kara was inching away, past Carter.

  Without turning my head toward her, I said, “Kara, go to the front window. See if there’s anyone else out there.”

  She said, “What?”

  “Go check it out. It’s okay. See if they got any friends out there.”

  “Friends? What’s going on?”

  “Go check for me. It’s important.”

  She nodded and walked over to the front door and looked out the window. She said, “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She said, “I think so.”

  I said, “Okay. Kara, listen to me.”

  I glanced at her to make sure she was listening, and then I looked back at the big guy. He still wasn’t sitting.

  I said, “Take a good look at these guys. Especially that one.” I pointed at Carter.

  She came back over and looked at them.

  I said, “These guys came here to kill you.”

  She gasped and said, “What? Why?”

  “Something your mom saw twenty years ago. There’s a guy in the ER. The one down the street. His name is John Martin. He’s a Marshal. Go to the ER and find him. Find the sheriff’s deputies. They’ll be there already. This guy Martin will explain everything to you. He’s in bad shape right now, but he’ll be okay in a couple of days. Meanwhile, you tell the sheriff what went on here tonight. Make sure he knows about the other cop that was here. Tell him that twenty years ago, you and your mom were moved here by John Martin.”

  Her mouth hung open. I could only imagine what she felt. I knew something about not knowing who you were your whole entire life. In a way, I was the lucky one. At least my old man was still out there somewhere. What did Kara have?

  I said, “I know. It’s a lot. Trust me. You’ll be better off with John Martin explaining it all to you. Just remember that these guys are bad. This guy came here for you and your mother. He’s the bad guy. You ever see him again, you steer clear. Got it?”

  She either nodded or said nothing because I didn’t hear a response. I craned my head and asked again, “Got it?”

  She said, “Yeah.”

  “Good. Now get the hell out of here.”

  Kara said nothing, didn’t go to the back to pick up any of her belongs. She didn’t go to a car in the parking lot. She just took off out the door, running.

  I turned back to the big guy and said, “She’s running. I walked from the ER in less than ten minutes. So we don’t have a lot of time. Means I gotta get going.”

  The big guy said, “What you going to do?”

  Carter said, “Who the hell are you?”

  “I told you. I’m nobody.”

  The big guy lowered his hands but kept them in my sight. He said, “No one’s going to believe you. We got a cop with us.”

  I said, “You don’t listen too good. I’m not going to be telling my side. I told you. I’ve got to be going.”

  The big guy said, “You’re a pussy.”

  I said, “Whatever. You’re the one who got beat.”

  “Bet you aren’t anything without that gun.”

  I looked down at Carter, who was on the dirty diner floor. He was scooting toward the table like he was going for his gun.

  I fired another round at him. It hit near his face. Tile exploded up in a small dust cloud.

  I said, “Next one goes in your back. Paralysis will ensure you don’t make it back here looking for Kara. You want that?”

  The big guy scrambled forward. He was quick, faster than I thought, but useless.

  I pointed the Glock back at him and said, “Don’t make me kneecap you, too.”

  He froze. Now I had to figure out what to do with him.

  I said, “You want me to ditch the gun? Go at it with you? We could go blow for blow until one of us is dead or the cops show up. What do you think?”

  The big guy said, “I’m game for that.”

  I thought about it for a moment. The thought was appealing in a way. We could duke it out like a couple of characters from a stupid Hollywood flick. Or whatever.

  I said, “I guess I could give you a chance. Not very sporting for me to just shoot you while you’re unarmed? Right?”

  He grinned and said, “Right.”

  Carter said, “Emile, kill him!”

  I said, “Emile? What kind of name is that?”

  The big guy ignored the question and said, “So we gonna do this or what?”

  “Sure. I’ll fight you. Why not?”

  He grinned again.

  I motioned like I was going to throw away the gun, but instead I stopped and said, “One question first. Seeing as I’m about to give you a fighting chance, it occurred to me to ask you something.”

  He said, “Yeah, what?”

  “You got another pair of handcuffs?”

  He said, “What?”

  I said, “Well, there were two of us left in the diner. That’s me and the waitress. One and one equals two.”

  He said, “I know that.”

  “Ah. Well, you know that. So you must have another pair of handcuffs. So where are they?”

  “We don’t got no handcuffs.”

  I said, “Funny. Because I used a pair on the dirty cop you brought. And there were two of us in the diner. So you must’ve brought two pairs of handcuffs, right? You were going restrain both of us, right?”

  He shrugged and said, “I don’t follow.”

  I said, “Well, the way I see it, I’m about to give you a fighting chance. So weren’t you going to give me one, too? I mean, you were planning to just handcuff me and leave me here, right?”

  He said nothing.

  I said, “So you were going to kill me? Kill that girl?”

  No response.

  I said, “Then why should I give you a chance?”

  I shot him in the kneecap, same as Carter. Same reaction even. The big guy flung forward in a violent arc like a sack of potatoes heaved down a staircase.

  He screamed as much as Carter.

  I turned and walked out of the diner and through the parking lot. I looked both ways. The ER was to the east, so I headed west.

  I left Carter’s gun behind. Maybe he would reach it and try to shoot it out with the cops when they arrived. That would bring a bad outcome for him, but a good one for Kara.

  Chapter 16

  IT WASN’T VERY LONG before I heard sirens behind me, back at the diner and Cedar Corner. They were distant but not too far away. I figured they would find the guys in the diner in maybe ten minutes. The terrain along the highway was basically flat desert with sporadic low patches of trees and greenery here and there.

  If the deputies believed their story, then they would come looking for me. But the night was on my side. I walked off of the road and far enough out into the desert that I was camouflaged by the darkness but still close enough that I could see the road and any headlights that drove down it.

  I wasn’t tired anymore because of all of the coffee and adrenaline.

  I walked on and on until morning. After a while, I felt s
afe enough to walk back near the highway. I walked into a huge truck stop and made my way into the showers. I waited for the only other patron to finish showering and come out, and then I went into the showers and into one of the stalls, pulling the curtain closed. I pried the drain open—it was wide and square-shape. I took out the Glock and ejected the magazine and the spent shell. I tossed the gun into the drain and replaced the grate. Someday someone would find the gun. Maybe they would be showering and peek down and see something dark in the water. Or maybe a worker would come in and clean and check the pipes. Perhaps a plumber would find it a year from now.

  Whatever. It didn’t matter to me.

  I turned on the shower. Keeping my clothes out of the water spray, I leaned forward and let the water rinse through my hair and off my head. I leaned back out and took some water on my face. Then I shut the shower off and dried myself with brown paper towels.

  I went out to the parking lot and stood around for a bit. It was very late at night. There were rows and rows of big rig trucks, hauling all kinds of things from huge logs to gas to whatever else. Most of the parked ones were still running, but the lights were turned down low like they were on power-down mode. Sleeping truckers, America’s backbone.

  I felt dead tired myself.

  I waited outside the truck stop on an old, green bench. I waited for the right trucker to pull up. The kind who looked like he recognized a fellow traveler and would take pity on a tired drifter. But before I did that, I walked over to an ancient pay phone. It was still encased in a booth, but the door had been ripped from the hinges long ago.

  I stepped inside and pulled out some quarters and dialed the ER back in Cedar Corner. There was a dial tone and then a ringing.

  A voice answered.

  I said, “Hi. I don’t have a lot of time. Spotty cell phone. I was calling to check on my father. John Martin. Any change in his condition?”

  The voice said, “Oh, sure. He’s awake. Doctor thinks he’ll be just fine. Let me put the deputy on for you. They’ve been posted here all night.”

  I said, “No. Listen, I don’t have time for that.”

  She said, “Oh. Okay. Are you coming in?”