Ten Two Jack

by Diane Capri

  “There’s a lot we don’t know about Bramall. Maybe he needs money. Opioids with a street value of a few million dollars and a fair amount of illegally obtained cash provided further incentives,” the Boss said.

  “Which Bramall knew about before he got there. Or at least, he knew the contents of the storage unit were worth breaking and entering to get.” Her thinking felt a little sluggish, but she was coming closer to figuring things out.

  The Boss waited while she worked things through.

  She said, “So his accomplice was nearby all along. When Bramall called, he arrived quickly. The two of them could have planned to move the drugs and the money, but the bodies were an added complication. They could have left them.”

  She heard a powerful SUV engine behind her and turned to see a line of vehicles moving toward her from the west end of the lot. The auction was over. They were headed to the next one. She moved aside as the line rolled past.

  Each vehicle was large enough to haul cargo away. Most carried only one passenger, probably to help with the heavy lifting. None of the vehicles or passengers were familiar to her.

  When the last truck rumbled away, she asked, “So Bramall and his associate put the two bodies into that black SUV they arrived in, probably. Those guys were pretty big. It would have been hard to move them any other way.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Bramall moved the drugs and the money out quickly, too. What vehicle did they use to do that?”

  “Still checking.”

  She tried the theory. “Bramall drives his sedan out, and the accomplice drives the victims’ SUV. When did the SUV leave the lot?”

  He took a big, audible breath. “Operating theory is that the SUV is stored somewhere, with the bodies still inside. Probably in one of those garage-sized storage units out there at U Store Stuff.”

  “What’s the basis for that theory?”

  “Bramall had disappeared before the next legitimate customer arrived. Which was sixty-six minutes after you went to the hotel.”

  She nodded. She figured he could see her. He usually could. “What about the drugs and the cash?”

  “It’s doubtful the drugs were removed in Bramall’s sedan. Not enough room in the trunk.”

  “The accomplice didn’t bring a panel van or something with him?”

  The boss paused for a long moment. “It’s possible he arrived on foot.”

  Otto blinked. Every nerve ending in her body came alive. “Meaning he was already in the lot when I arrived.”

  “Probably.”

  Anxiety clamped her stomach. “He was there when Bramall broke into Unit D-6. He was there when Bramall killed those two guys.”

  The Boss didn’t reply.

  Anxiety grew to anger. “The whole time, he was there. That’s what you’re saying.”

  He breathed heavily and said nothing.

  Understanding dawned.

  “You think it was Reacher,” she said flatly.

  CHAPTER 19

  Friday, February 11

  12:25 p.m.

  St. Louis, Missouri

  “Possibly,” he said, but his tone implied certainty.

  “And that’s why you wanted me to leave the scene before the locals arrived.”

  “Partially.”

  “I’m not clear on my mission here. Not twenty-four hours ago you ordered me to find Reacher.”

  He said nothing.

  “So we’re about to find him, and then you order me to stand down.” Her nostrils flared, and she pressed her lips together to hold her temper in check.

  He said nothing.

  She closed her eyes, cocked her head, and thought things through. Steadily, she said, “I can think of a half-dozen reasons why you would do that, and none of them are worthy of the FBI.”

  “When we locate the bodies and the drugs, you’ll be among the first to know.” His tone was quiet and stern. “Meanwhile, your assignment remains. Find Reacher. I’ll handle the rest.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but he’d hung up. She threw the phone onto the seat with enough force to make it bounce. She could feel the steam coming from her ears.

  He’d said the bodies were most likely stored right here. How could they find Jimmy Two, Little Hugh, and their Expedition, stashed inside one of these units?

  Dead humans had no heat signature, which meant thermal imaging of all the big storage units wouldn’t help. He probably couldn’t get search warrants, even if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t. The whole process would take too long and require him to be a lot more transparent with his evidence than he’d ever agree to. A cabinet X-ray system might work, but the tech on those things was iffy at best.

  U Store Stuff had hundreds of units on this lot, but not all were large enough to conceal an SUV of that size. And they’d all be leased by someone with a lock and a right to privacy. She could wait until tonight and cut the locks off all of them to check and then replace the locks. Which wasn’t feasible.

  Okay. Step back. If she couldn’t look inside the units, what was the next best thing?

  First, she had to figure out which units had the potential to conceal the SUV and the dead bodies inside. Maybe the drugs were inside, too. And if Bramall was the one who stored them, he might come back tonight.

  She’d looked at the website and the map of the units on the lot. But the sizes of the individual units were not listed. She could get a look inside one of them, though.

  She jumped into her rental and followed the line of vehicles to the last auction of the day. She parked at the end of the building block because the alley between Buildings R and S was already full.

  A dozen people left their vehicles and waited in the cold for the auction to begin. A security officer stood near the hasp on the garage door holding a pair of bolt cutters. The auctioneer stood in the center of the closed door, hands in his pockets, waiting for the crowd to settle into silence.

  According to the sitemap on the website, some of the units at this end were larger than Building D. Although the garage doors were the same size, meaning the units were the same width, these were deeper, allowing for more property to be stored inside.

  All the units were locked. A few of the units had two locks through their hasps instead of one, which probably meant the lessors were delinquent on the rent. The owner added the second lock to prevent the renter from moving his stuff out without paying.

  Otto joined the group, standing near the back next to a sturdy woman wearing jeans, boots, and a sheepskin jacket.

  “What’s inside this one? Got any idea?” Otto asked her.

  “Could be a car. Maybe a boat. I got a sweet pair of snowmobiles once. Hard to say.” She shrugged. “No way to know until we open the door. Except they always save the big ones for last. The other units went cheap today.”

  “You buy here regularly?” Otto asked.

  She shrugged again. “Sometimes. Depends. But it’s pretty much the same crowd all the time, yeah.”

  “What do you do with the stuff you buy at these auctions?”

  The woman stared at her as if she was a few cards short of a full deck. “Sell it. Make a profit. What else?”

  Otto nodded. “Right.”

  The auctioneer declared, “Now this is some serious storage, folks. Unit R-4 is ten-by-thirty, a whopping three hundred square feet of space. Ideal for a five- to seven-bedroom house. This puppy can hold entertainment centers, beds, refrigerators, even your truck. Anything at all could be in here. Today’s buyer with enough cash could get an amazing haul. So let’s get started.”

  The auction only lasted fifteen minutes. Three principal bidders broke away from the pack and raised each other several times until two fell silent. A big, brusque man wearing a Stetson won the bid. The small crowd cheered.

  He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and approached the auctioneer. While the paperwork was signed, the crowd thinned, but several spectators stomped around in the cold waiting to see what was inside.


  Otto had surreptitiously snapped a few photos of the crowd earlier. She shot a few more of those hanging around until the very end. The sturdy woman in the sheepskin jacket gave up and returned to her truck. The two competing bidders hung around to see what they missed, or maybe to make Stetson guy an offer if he didn’t want the booty inside. Both men stuffed hands in pockets and turned up collars.

  Finally, the man in the Stetson stuffed the folded paperwork into his pocket and nodded to the security officer. He used a key to remove the U Store Stuff lock and then raised the bolt cutters and snapped the shackle on the owner-supplied lock. Both pieces thudded to the ground while the crowd held its collective breath.

  The guy in the Stetson raised the garage door while everyone else watched.

  While he emptied the contents of the storage unit into his truck, Otto spent twenty minutes talking to the security guy. He was a rent-a-cop from a local company who knew less about the U Store Stuff facility than Otto did. She took a business card from him and headed toward her rental, empty-handed.

  The Boss’s phone vibrated. She lifted it from her pocket.

  “Otto,” she said, still walking.

  No greeting, just brief orders. “Bramall’s on his way to a private jet. Flight plan says Las Vegas. Air traffic is holding it on the ground. Get on the plane. I’ve texted you the location.”

  She’d have protested, but what was the point? “You got things on the ground here, then?”

  “Nothing worth watching yet. Get going before Bramall escapes again,” he replied before he hung up.

  She looked at his text. Bramall’s jet was close by. She shrugged and walked back to her rental. On the way, she texted Gaspar to say she’d arrive later than expected.

  She found a new burner phone in her bag and fired it up. She sent a text to Lamont Finlay, the man she considered her best source of intel on all things Reacher. Especially things the Boss didn’t want her to know.

  Her message was only four words: “We need to talk.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Friday, February 11

  1:15 p.m.

  St. Louis, Missouri

  The private jet was a Gulfstream G-100 perched near the gate. The pilot and co-pilot were aboard. The jet stairs were down, waiting for passengers.

  Otto hurried out onto the tarmac, covered the distance to the jet, and hopped up the stairs carrying her bags. She ducked her head through the door as she slipped into the unoccupied cabin. Her breathing returned to normal as soon as she confirmed that neither Bramall nor Reacher was aboard.

  The interior of the luxury jet had been modified from an eight-passenger configuration to a roomier six-passenger layout complete with a service bar.

  The seats were akin to captain’s chairs in an SUV. Larger, higher backs, more room in the seat, more comfortable leather upholstery. The result was compact but high-end private travel most FBI agents could never hope to experience.

  Retirement was much plusher for Bramall than Otto’s government salary afforded. No matter how much they paid her, she wouldn’t have flown in a small jet if a paying client held a gun to her head. Which was practically what the Boss had done. Meaning, she was actively employed, and she had no choice.

  Might have been nice if he’d told her what the hell she was supposed to do after she boarded the flight, though.

  She moved through to the tail section, stowed her bag, and hunkered down in a seat near the back of the plane to wait.

  Even advocates for airplane safety admitted that small aircraft went down at a higher crash rate than commercial jets. An average of five small planes crashed every day in the United States, and a staggering ninety-seven percent of aviation fatalities happened on private planes. The potential for human error was undeniable.

  She popped a couple of antacids into her mouth and chewed.

  Ten minutes later, the copilot came into the cabin and stood by the open door. Two more passengers hurried across the pavement toward the jet’s stairs.

  The first to arrive was Rex Mackenzie. She recognized him from the file photos.

  The co-pilot said, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Mackenzie.”

  Mackenzie nodded, raised his index finger to cross his lips, and pointed to his Bluetooth headset attached to his ear. He was on the phone.

  He didn’t even glance in her direction but took his seat, still on the phone.

  Fast on his heels was Bramall. She ducked behind the seat. He didn’t notice her as he hustled to get settled and fasten his seatbelt for takeoff.

  She waited for the third shoe to drop. When no one else entered the plane, Otto released the breath she’d been holding. She hadn’t expected Reacher to show up. Not really.

  But the Boss had suggested Reacher was the one who had helped Bramall move the bodies and the drugs from Unit D-6. If true, where was he now? Las Vegas? Were they flying out to meet him?

  The co-pilot closed the door and returned to the cockpit. The jet began to taxi toward the runway.

  Mackenzie was still engaged in last minute communications with someone he must have felt was more important.

  She made a mental note to check his call records.

  The jet taxied into position for takeoff.

  The pilot’s voice came through the speaker from the cockpit. “We’re number one for takeoff, Mr. Mackenzie. Looks like we’re battling a strong headwind all the way. Expect some moderate chop.”

  Her stomach flipped over.

  Moderate chop meant way too many bumps and jolts. It caused variations in airspeed, but the plane remained in positive control at all times.

  Or so the pilots claimed.

  They weren’t likely to admit otherwise, were they?

  She pulled her seat belt a bit tighter. Unsecured objects, including humans, could be displaced in moderate chop.

  From her position in the back and across the aisle, Otto had a clear view of Mackenzie.

  Her sight line to Bramall was blocked by his seat. Which was fine. If she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her, either.

  Once they were airborne, she’d have plenty of time to handle them.

  Mackenzie wrapped up the call and pulled the headset from his ear.

  “No word from Jane or Rose?” Bramall asked.

  Mackenzie shook his head. “Nothing. We’re booked at the Bellagio. Jane likes to stay there.”

  She crouched low and moved to a closer seat where she could hear their conversation clearly but remain unseen. Acoustics inside the jet were superior. The cabin must have been customized to improve sounds and decrease white noise, or something.

  Bramall nodded. “Tell me again why you think they’re in Vegas?”

  “Educated guess.”

  “Based on what?”

  “I was out of town when Jane sent me that text two weeks ago. She said they wanted a winter break and they’d found a great deal on a last-minute tour to Thailand. To have a little fun,” Mackenzie replied. “I didn’t expect to hear from them while they were gone, but when I got back, they weren’t home.”

  “You checked with the tour company?”

  Mackenzie nodded. “They told me Jane and Rose were booked for the tour, but they didn’t show up for departure.”

  “So you said,” Bramall replied. The vibe Otto picked up was that he didn’t believe the story. “I don’t follow your logic. How does failure to travel to Thailand mean they’re actually in Vegas?”

  Mackenzie shrugged. “Rose has been through hell, and she’s got more medical stuff on the horizon. They’re both big gamblers. Poker mostly. And Jane loves to be pampered. Nice spas in Vegas, too.”

  Bramall cocked his head, eyebrows raised. “I’m not getting this.”

  “I told you I made an educated guess. I don’t know where they are for sure,” Mackenzie said. “You know Rose did five tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. She wanted to make a career in the Army, sure. But she loves the desert and hates snow. Probably because of all those years growing up in Wyoming or something. Jane’s
the same way.”

  “February in Chicago is damn cold,” Bramall spoke slowly as if he was wrapping his head around the idea while ticking off the boxes.

  Otto couldn’t tell if he thought Mackenzie was being straight with this story or not, but she didn’t trust the guy. When a man’s wife goes missing, the husband is usually to blame.

  Bramall said, “Vegas is warmer, no snow, world-class gambling, and the Bellagio is about as luxurious as it gets.”

  Mackenzie smiled. “Exactly.”

  “Makes sense,” Bramall said as if it made no sense at all. “Did you check to see if they’re registered?”

  Mackenzie’s eyes clouded. “They’re not. At least, not under their own names.”

  Bramall turned his head and frowned. “Why wouldn’t they use their own names?”

  “Why would they not show up for a tour they’d paid for? Why leave while I was out of town? Why didn’t they tell me where they were going? Why haven’t they called? Why haven’t they come home?” Mackenzie shook his head and shrugged. “If I knew the answers, I wouldn’t need your services, now would I? You tell me.”

  Bramall must have been totally out of patience because he did exactly that. “Here’s how I read things. You’re punching way above your weight, Mackenzie.”

  “Yeah?” Mackenzie jutted his chin forward.

  “Yeah. You’re a small-time guy who owns a puny dry-cleaning storefront in a bad part of town where only the undertaker would need his suits cleaned.”

  Mackenzie’s face reddened, and his nostrils flared.

  Bramall kept pushing. “And a guy like you doesn’t own a mansion in Lake Forest with a view of Lake Michigan and a wife as hot and accomplished as Jane. Not without a sizeable helping of graft and corruption.”

  Otto understood. She opened her jacket, clearing a path to her weapon. The last thing she needed was a brawl at thirty thousand feet in moderate chop.

  She sympathized with Bramall, though. He’d spent years investigating guys exactly like Mackenzie. Her gut said this guy was bent. So twisted, he should’ve been listed in the phone book under corkscrews. The sort of man neither she nor Bramall would cross the street to save from a vicious beating because the odds were that he’d deserved it.