Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  She shrugged across the distance at him.

  “Some sort of a thin stew,” she said. “Or a thick soup, I guess. One or the other. You want some?”

  “They give you a fork?” he asked.

  “No, a spoon,” she said.

  “Shit,” he said. “Can’t do anything with a damn spoon.”

  “You want some?” she asked again.

  “Can you reach?” he said.

  She spent some time eating, then she stretched out. One arm tight against the chain, the other pushing the messtin across the floor. Then she swiveled and used her good foot to slide the tin farther across the stone. Reacher slid forward, feet first, as far as his chain would let him go. He figured if he could stretch far enough, he could hook his foot around the tin and drag it in toward him. But it was hopeless. He was six five, and his arms were about the longest the Army tailors had ever seen, but even so he came up four feet short. He and Holly were stretched out in a perfect straight line, as near together as their chains would let them get, but the messtin was still way out of his reach.

  “Forget it,” he said. “Get it back while you can.”

  She hooked her own foot around the tin and pulled it back.

  “Sorry,” she said. “You’re going to be hungry.”

  “I’ll survive,” he said. “Probably awful, anyway.”

  “Right,” she said. “It’s shit. Tastes like dog food.”

  Reacher stared through the dark at her. He was suddenly worried.

  HOLLY LAY DOWN apologetically on her mattress and calmly went to sleep, but Reacher stayed awake. Not because of the stone floor. It was cold and damp, and hard. The cobblestones were wickedly lumpy. But that was not the reason. He was waiting for something. He was ticking off the minutes in his head, and he was waiting. His guess was it would be about three hours, maybe four. Way into the small hours, when resistance is low and patience runs out.

  A long wait. The thirteen-thousand-seven-hundred-and-sixty-first night of his life, way down there in the bottom third of the scale, lying awake and waiting for something to happen. Something bad. Something he maybe had no chance of preventing. It was coming. He was certain of that. He’d seen the signs. He lay and waited for it, ticking off the minutes. Three hours, maybe four.

  IT HAPPENED AFTER three hours and thirty-four minutes. The nameless driver came back into the barn. Wide awake and alone. Reacher heard his soft footsteps on the track outside. He heard the rattle of the padlock and the chain. He heard him lift the heavy crossbar out of its brackets. The barn door opened. A bar of bright moonlight fell across the floor. The driver stepped through it. Reacher saw a flash of his pink pig’s face. The guy hurried down the aisle. No weapon in his hand.

  “I’m watching you,” Reacher said, quietly. “You back off, or you’re a dead man.”

  The guy stopped opposite. He wasn’t a complete moron. He stayed well out of range. His bright eyes traveled up from the handcuff on Reacher’s wrist, along the chain, and rested on the iron ring in the wall. Then he smiled.

  “You watch if you want to,” he said. “I don’t mind an audience. And you might learn something.”

  Holly stirred and woke up. Raised her head and glanced around, blinking in the dark.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  The driver turned to her. Reacher couldn’t see his face. It was turned away. But he could see Holly’s.

  “We’re going to have us a little fun, bitch,” the driver said. “Just you and me, with your asshole friend here, watching and learning.”

  He put his hands down to his waist and unbuckled his belt. Holly stared at him. Started to sit up.

  “Got to be joking,” she said. “You come near me, I’ll kill you.”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” the driver said. “Now would you? After I gave you a mattress and all? Just so we could be comfortable while we’re doing it?”

  Reacher stood up in his stall. His chain clanked loudly in the silent night.

  “I’ll kill you,” he called. “You touch her, you’re a dead man.”

  He said it once, and then he said it again. But it was like the guy wasn’t hearing him. Like he was deaf. Reacher was hit with a clang of fear. If the guy wasn’t going to listen to him, there was nothing he could do. He shook his chain. It rattled loudly through the silence of the night. It had no effect. The guy was just ignoring him.

  “You come near me, I’ll kill you,” Holly said again.

  Her leg was slowing her down. She was trapped in an awkward struggle to stand up. The driver darted into her stall. Raised his foot and stamped it down on her knee. She screamed in agony and collapsed and curled into a ball.

  “You do what I tell you, bitch,” the driver said. “Exactly what I tell you, or you’ll never walk again.”

  Holly’s scream died into a sob. The driver pulled his foot back and carefully kicked her knee like he was aiming for a field goal right at the end of the last quarter. She screamed again.

  “You’re a dead man,” Reacher yelled.

  The driver turned around and faced him. Smiled a wide smile.

  “You keep your mouth tight shut,” he said. “One more squeak out of you, it’ll be harder on the bitch, OK?”

  The ends of his belt were hanging down. He balled his fists and propped them on his hips. His big vivid face was glowing. His hair was bushed up like he’d just washed it and combed it back. He turned his head and spoke to Holly over his shoulder.

  “You wearing anything under that suit?” he asked her.

  Holly didn’t speak. Silence in the barn. The guy turned to face her. Reacher saw her tracking his movements.

  “I asked you a question, bitch,” he said. “You want another kick?”

  She didn’t reply. She was breathing hard. Fighting the pain. The driver unzipped his pants. The sound of the zip was loud. It fought with the rasping of three people breathing hard.

  “You see this?” he asked. “You know what this is?”

  “Sort of,” Holly muttered. “It looks a little like a penis, only smaller.”

  He stared at her, blankly. Then he bellowed in rage and rushed into her stall, swinging his foot. Holly dodged away. His short wide leg swung and connected with nothing. He staggered off balance. Holly’s eyes narrowed in a gleam of triumph. She dodged back and smashed her elbow into his stomach. She did it right. Used his own momentum against him, used all her weight like she wanted to punch his spine right out through his back. Caught him with a solid blow. The guy gasped and spun away.

  Reacher whooped in admiration. And relief. He thought: couldn’t have done it better myself, kid. The guy was heaving. Reacher saw his face, crumpled in pain. Holly was snarling in triumph. She scrambled on one knee after him. Going for his groin. Reacher willed her on. She launched herself at him. The guy turned and took it on the thigh. Holly had planned for that. It left his throat open to her elbow. Reacher saw it. Holly saw it. She lined it up. The killing blow. A vicious arcing curve. It was going to rip his head off. She swung it in. Then her chain snapped tight and stopped her short. It clanked hard against the iron ring and jerked her backward.

  Reacher’s grin froze on his face. The guy staggered out of range. Stooped and panted and caught his breath. Then he straightened up and hitched his belt higher. Holly faced him, one-handed. Her chain was tight against the wall, vibrating with the tension she had on it.

  “I like a fighter,” the guy gasped. “Makes it more interesting for me. But make sure you save yourself some energy for later. I don’t want you just lying there.”

  Holly glared at him, breathing hard. Crackling with aggression. But she was one-handed. The guy stepped in again and she swung a stinging punch. Fast and low. He crowded left and blocked it. She couldn’t deliver the follow-up. Her other arm was pinned back. He raised his foot and kicked for her stomach. She arched around it. He kicked out again and stumbled straight into an elbow, hard against his ear. It was the wrong elbow, with no force behind it because of
her impossible position. A poor blow. It left her off balance. The driver stepped close and kicked her in the gut. She went down. He kicked out again and caught her knee. Reacher heard it crunch. She screamed in agony. Collapsed on the mattress. The driver breathed fast and stood there.

  “I asked you a damn question,” he said.

  Holly was deathly white and trembling. She was writhing around on the mattress, one arm pinned behind her, gasping with the pain. Reacher saw her face, flashing through the bar of bright moonlight.

  “I’m waiting, bitch,” the guy said.

  Reacher saw her face again. Saw she was beaten. The fight was out of her.

  “Want another kicking?” the driver said.

  There was silence in the barn again.

  “I’m waiting for an answer,” the guy said.

  Reacher stared over, waiting. There was still silence. Just the rasping of three people breathing hard in the quiet. Then Holly spoke.

  “What was the question?” she said quietly.

  The guy smiled down at her.

  “You wearing anything under that suit?” he said.

  Holly nodded. Didn’t speak.

  “OK, what?” the guy said to her.

  “Underwear,” she said, quietly.

  The guy cupped a hand behind his ear.

  “Can’t hear you, bitch,” he said.

  “I’m wearing, underwear, you bastard,” she said, louder.

  The guy shook his head.

  “Bad name,” he said. “I’m going to need an apology for that.”

  “Screw you,” Holly said.

  “I’ll kick you again,” the guy said. “In the knee. I do that, you’ll never walk without a stick, the whole rest of your life, you bitch.”

  Holly looked away.

  “Your choice, bitch,” the guy said.

  He raised his foot. Holly stared down at her mattress.

  “OK, I apologize,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  The guy nodded, happily.

  “Describe your underwear to me,” he said. “Lots of detail.”

  She shrugged. Turned her face away and spoke to the wooden wall.

  “Bra and pants,” she said. “Victoria’s Secret. Dark peach.”

  “Skimpy?” the driver asked.

  She shrugged again, miserably, like she knew for sure what the next question was going to be.

  “I guess,” she said.

  “Want to show it to me?” the guy said.

  “No,” she said.

  The driver took a step closer.

  “So you do want another kicking?” he said.

  She didn’t speak. The guy cupped his hand behind his ear again.

  “Can’t hear you, bitch,” he said.

  “What was the question?” Holly muttered.

  “You want another kicking?” the guy said.

  Holly shook her head.

  “No,” she said again.

  “OK,” he said. “Show me your underwear, and you won’t get one.”

  He raised his foot. Holly raised her hand. It went to the top button on her suit. Reacher watched her. There were five buttons down the front of the suit. Reacher willed her to undo each of them slowly and rhythmically. He needed her to do that. It was vital. Slowly and rhythmically, Holly, he pleaded silently. He gripped his chain with both hands. Four feet from where it looped into the iron ring on the back wall. He tightened his hands around it.

  She undid the top button. Reacher counted: one. The driver leered down. Her hand slid to the next button. Reacher tightened his grip again. She undid the second button. Reacher counted: two. Her hand slid down to the third button. Reacher turned square-on to face the rear wall of his stall and took a deep breath. Turned his head and watched over his shoulder. Holly undid the third button. Her breasts swelled out. Dark peach brassiere. Skimpy and lacy. The driver shuffled from foot to foot. Reacher counted: three. He exhaled right from the bottom of his lungs. Holly’s hand slid down to the fourth button. Reacher took a deep breath, the deepest breath of his life. He tightened his hold on the chain until his knuckles shone white. Holly undid the fourth button. Reacher counted: four. Her hand slid down. Paused a beat. Waited. Undid the fifth button. Her suit fell open. The driver leered down and made a small sound. Reacher jerked back and smashed his foot into the wall. Right under the iron ring. He smashed his weight backward against the chain, two hundred and twenty pounds of coiled fury exploding against the force of his kick. Splinters of damp wood burst out of the wall. The old planks shattered. The bolts tore right out of the timber. Reacher was hurled backward. He swarmed up to his feet, his chain whipping and flailing angrily behind him.

  “Five!” he screamed.

  He seized the driver by the arm and hurled him into his stall. Threw him against the back wall. The guy smashed into it and hung like a broken doll. He staggered forward and Reacher kicked him in the stomach. The guy jackknifed in the air, feet right off the ground, and smashed flat on his face on the cobblestones. Reacher doubled his chain and swung it through the air. Aimed the lethal length at the guy’s head like a giant metal whip. The iron ring centrifuged out like an old medieval weapon. But at the last second Reacher changed his mind. Wrenched the chain out of its trajectory and let it smash and spark into the stones on the floor. He grabbed the driver, one hand on his collar and one hand in his hair. Lifted him bodily across the aisle to Holly’s mattress. Jammed his ugly face down into the softness and leaned on him until he suffocated. The guy bucked and thrashed, but Reacher just planted a giant hand flat on the back of his skull and waited patiently until he died.

  HOLLY WAS STARING at the corpse and Reacher was sitting next to her, panting. He was spent and limp from the explosive force of tearing the iron ring out of the wall. It felt like a lifetime of physical effort had gone into one split second. A lifetime supply of adrenaline was boiling through him. The clock inside his head had stopped. He had no idea how long they had been sitting there. He shook himself and staggered to his feet. Dragged the body away and left it in the aisle, up near the open door. Then he wandered back and squatted next to Holly. His fingers were bruised from his desperate grip on the chain, but he forced them to be delicate. He did up all her buttons, one by one, right to the top. She was taking quick short breaths. Then she flung her arms round his neck and held on tight. Her breathing sucked and blew against his shirt.

  They held each other for a long moment. He felt the fury drain out of her. They let each other go and sat side by side on the mattress, staring into the gloom. She turned to him and put her small hand lightly on top of his.

  “Now I guess I owe you,” she said.

  “My pleasure,” Reacher said. “Hey, believe me.”

  “I needed help,” she said quietly. “I’ve been fooling myself.”

  He flipped his hand over and closed it around hers.

  “Bullshit, Holly,” he said, gently. “Time to time, we all need help. Don’t feel bad about it. If you were fit, you’d have slaughtered him. I could see that. One arm and one leg, you were nearly there. It’s just your knee. Pain like that, you’ve got no chance. Believe me, I know what it’s like. After the Beirut thing, I couldn’t have taken candy from a baby, best part of a year.”

  She smiled a slight smile and squeezed his hand. The clock inside his head started up again. Getting close to dawn.

  18

  SEVEN-TWENTY WEDNESDAY MORNING East Coast time, General Johnson left the Pentagon. He was out of uniform, dressed in a lightweight business suit, and he walked. It was his preferred method of getting around. It was a hot morning in Washington, and already humid, but he stepped out at a steady speed, arms swinging loosely through a small arc, head up, breathing hard.

  He walked north through the dust on the shoulder of George Washington Boulevard, along the edge of the great cemetery on his left, through Lady Bird Johnson Park, and across the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Then he walked clockwise around the Lincoln Memorial, past the Vietnam Wall, and turned right along C
onstitution Avenue, the reflecting pool on his right, the Washington Monument up ahead. He walked past the National Museum of American History, past the National Museum of Natural History, and turned left onto 9th Street. Exactly three and a half miles, on a glorious morning, an hour’s brisk walk through one of the world’s great capital cities, past landmarks the world’s tourists flock to photograph, and he saw absolutely nothing at all except the dull mist of worry hanging just in front of his eyes.

  He crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and entered the Hoover Building through the main doors. Laid his hands palms down on the reception counter.

  “The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” he said. “To see the Director.”

  His hands left two palm-shaped patches of dampness on the laminate. The agent who came down to show him upstairs noticed them. Johnson was silent in the elevator. Harland Webster was waiting for him at the door to his private suite. Johnson nodded to him. Didn’t speak. Webster stood aside and gestured him into the inner office. It was dark. There was a lot of mahogany paneling, and the blinds were closed. Johnson sat down in a leather chair and Webster walked around him to his desk.

  “I don’t want to get in your way,” Johnson said.

  He looked at Webster. Webster worked for a moment, decoding that sentence. Then he nodded, cautiously.

  “You spoke with the President?” he asked.

  Johnson nodded.

  “You understand it’s appropriate for me to do so?” he asked.

  “Naturally,” Webster said. “Situation like this, nobody should worry about protocol. You call him or go see him?”

  “I went to see him,” Johnson said. “Several times. I had several long conversations with him.”

  Webster thought: face-to-face. Several long conversations. Worse than I thought, but understandable.

  “And?” he asked.

  Johnson shrugged.

  “He told me he’d placed you in personal command,” he said.

  Webster nodded.

  “Kidnapping,” he said. “It’s Bureau territory, whoever the victim is.”

  Johnson nodded, slowly.