Blue Moon

by Lee Child

  At Reacher, at first. Then at Abby. Then back again. And again. Back and forth. Like on a TV show. The guy was making it clear he was covering both of them at once. He was wearing a blue suit. And a red tie, tied tight.

  They won’t shoot me. They want to ask me questions.

  It’s a psychological dynamic. Like in the theater.

  It’s not necessarily the kind of thing that has a yes or no answer.

  The gun was a Glock 17, a little scratched and worn. The guy was using a two-handed grip. Both wrists were resting on the window rubber. His trigger finger was in position. The gun was steady. Its left-right arc was controlled and horizontal only. Competent, except that a crouch was an inherently unstable position, and also a pointless one, because a car door offered no kind of meaningful protection against a bullet. Better than aluminum foil, but not much. A smart guy would stand straight and rest his wrists on top of the door. More commanding. Easier to transition to whatever came next, like walking or running or fighting.

  The guy with the gun called out, “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Reacher called back, “Do we have a problem?”

  The guy called out, “I don’t have a problem.”

  “OK,” Reacher said. “Good to know.” He turned to Abby and said, quieter, “You could head back to the corner, if you like. I could join you there in a minute. This guy wants to ask me questions, is all.”

  But the guy called out, “No, she stays, too. Both of you.”

  A man and a woman.

  Reacher turned to face front again, and used the maneuver to conceal half a step of forward progress.

  He said, “We stay for what?”

  “Questions.”

  “Ask away.”

  “My boss will ask the questions.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Coming.”

  “What’s on his mind?”

  “Many things, I’m sure.”

  “OK,” Reacher said. “Put the gun away and come out from there and we’ll all wait together. Right here on the sidewalk. Until he shows up.”

  The guy stayed crouched behind his door.

  The gun didn’t move.

  “You can’t use it anyway,” Reacher said. “Your boss wouldn’t like it if he showed up and found us dead or wounded or in shock or in a coma. Or quivering with some kind of traumatic stress disorder. He wants to ask us questions. He wants coherent answers that make sense. Plus the cops wouldn’t stand for it. I don’t care what kind of accommodations you think you got with them. A gunshot on a city street at night is going to get a reaction.”

  “You think you’re a smart guy?”

  “No, but I’m hoping you are.”

  The gun didn’t move.

  Which was OK. The trigger was the important part. Specifically the finger. Which was connected to the guy’s central nervous system. Which could get all frozen up, even if just temporarily, with doubts and thoughts and second guesses.

  Or at least slowed down a beat.

  Reacher took another step. He raised his left hand halfway, palm out, patting the air, a conciliatory gesture, but also urgent, as if there was an immediate problem to solve. The guy’s gaze followed the moving object, and appeared to miss Reacher’s right hand, which was also moving, but slower and lower. It slipped unobtrusively into his right-hand pocket, where the H&K was that he knew for sure worked.

  The guy said, “We wait in the car. Not on the sidewalk.”

  “OK,” Reacher said.

  “Doors closed.”

  “Sure.”

  “You in the back, me in the front.”

  “Until your boss shows up,” Reacher said. “Then he can get in the front with you. He can ask his questions. Is that the plan?”

  “Until then you keep quiet.”

  “Sure,” Reacher said again. “You win. You’re the man with the gun, after all. We’ll get in the car.”

  The guy nodded, satisfied.

  After which it was easy. The guy dropped the outer fingers out of his two-handed grip, and pressed them hard on the window rubber, tented, like a pianist playing an emphatic chord, which could have been a semaphore signal that a conclusive agreement had been reached, but was more likely simple physics, as the guy prepared to boost and balance and bounce his way up out of his crouch. Which by then had been going on a long time, to bad effect, in terms of numbness and tingle. Either way the gun came under reduced control, and its butt tipped back and its barrel tipped up, which again could have been seen as a gesture, that the immediate threat was thereby formally withdrawn, in favor of newfound cooperation, but was more likely weight and balance and a natural backward rotation around the trigger guard.

  Reacher left the H&K in his pocket.

  He took a long pace forward and kicked the car door gently. It clanged back and whacked the guy in the knees, and that small pulse of force rolled him backward over the balls of his feet, agonizingly slow, but irresistible, until finally he rolled over on his back, helpless, like a turtle. His hands whipped up to break his fall and the clenched Glock hit the sidewalk with a plastic smack and bounced loose and skittered away. But then the guy jerked sideways and rolled once and sprang up, from the horizontal to the vertical almost instantly, and without apparent effort. Athletic, like he had been minutes before, getting out of the car. All of which meant Reacher got there half a step late.

  The guy danced sideways, out of range of the swing of the still-open driver’s door, and then he came up with another instant change of direction, suddenly leaning in and launching a clubbing right at Reacher’s face, which Reacher saw coming, so he ducked and twisted and took it high on the shoulder, all sharp knuckles, not much of a blow, but even so the action and reaction opened up a fractional gap between them, just a split second, which given the guy’s speed meant he could dance away again, scuffing his feet across the ground, glancing down, searching for his gun.

  Physically Reacher could have been called athletic in his own right, but it was a heavyweight kind of athleticism, a kind of weightlifter savagery, not nimbleness. He was fast, but not real fast. He was not capable of an instant reversal of momentum. Which meant he spent a certain half second of time locked in a neutral position, neither stop nor go, during which interval the other guy threw another punch, which Reacher ducked and dodged again, and like before the guy danced away to safety and searched on another radius, scuffing his feet, glancing down in the dark. Reacher kept on coming, a half step at a time, dodging and weaving, on the one hand slow in comparison, but on the other hand hard to stop, especially with the kind of weak blows so far attempted, and furthermore the guy was tiring all the time, hopping about and breathing hard.

  The guy danced away.

  Reacher kept on coming.

  The guy found his gun.

  The side of the guy’s shoe tapped against it and sent it skittering an extra inch, with a brief plastic scraping sound, unmistakable. The guy froze for an imperceptible period, just a blink of time, thinking as fast as he was about to act, and then he swooped down, twisting, his right hand whipping through a long arc, aiming to snatch up the gun and grab it tight and whirl it away to safety. An instinctive calculation, based on space and time and speed, all four dimensions, with his own generous capabilities no doubt accurately accounted for, and his opponent’s capabilities no doubt cautiously estimated, based on worst-case averages, plus a safety margin, for the purposes of the arithmetic, which still showed plenty of time for a guy as quick as he was. Reacher’s own instinctive calculation came to the same conclusion. He agreed. No way could he get there first.

  Except that some of his disadvantages carried their own compensation. His limbs were slow because they were heavy, and they were heavy because they were not only thick but also long. In the case of his legs, very long. He drove hard off his left foot and
kicked out with his right, stretching low, a huge vicious wingspan, aiming at anything, any part of the guy, any part of the swoop, any window of time, whatever came along.

  What came along was the guy’s head. A freak result. Four dimensional geometry gone wrong. His slight hesitation, Reacher’s primeval thrust, triggered by instinct, soaked in ancient all-or-nothing aggression. The guy chose to keep his head up and his arm long, all the better to scoop up the gun and wheel away, but Reacher was already there, like a batter early on a fastball, a foul ball for sure, and the guy hit the first inch of his follow-through, his temple solidly against the welt of Reacher’s shoe, not a perfect connection, but close to it. The guy’s neck snapped back and he scraped and clattered cheek-down on the sidewalk.

  Reacher watched him.

  He said, “Do you see his gun somewhere?”

  The guy wasn’t moving.

  Abby said, “I see it.”

  “Pick it up. Finger and thumb, butt or barrel.”

  “I know how.”

  “Just checking. Always safer that way.”

  She darted in, knelt, picked up the Glock, and darted back.

  The guy still wasn’t moving.

  She said, “What should we do about him?”

  Reacher said, “We should leave him right where he is.”

  “And then what?”

  “We should steal his car.”

  “Why?”

  “His boss is coming. We need to leave the right kind of message.”

  “You can’t declare war on them.”

  “They already did. On me. For no apparent reason. So now I’m offering a robust initial response. I’m saying their policy should be reconsidered. It’s a standard diplomatic move. Like playing chess. It gives them a chance to parley, no harm, no foul. I hope they see that.”

  Abby said, “This is the Albanian mob we’re talking about. You’re one guy. Frank is right. This is crazy.”

  “But it’s happening,” Reacher said. “We can’t roll the clock back. We can’t wish it away. We just have to deal with it the best we can. So we can’t leave the car here. Too meek and mild. Like we’re saying, oops, sorry. Like we didn’t really mean it. We got to make a point. We got to say, don’t mess with us, or you get a kick in the head and your car stolen. That way they’ll take it seriously. They’ll act with an element of tactical caution. They’ll assemble larger forces.”

  “That’s a bad thing.”

  “Only if they find us. Assuming they don’t, all they’re doing by bunching up is leaving bigger gaps elsewhere, for us to walk through.”

  “Walk through where?”

  “I guess the ultimate goal would be a face to face meeting with the big boss. Gregory’s equivalent.”

  “Dino,” Abby said. “That’s crazy.”

  “He’s one guy. Same as me. We could have an exchange of views. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

  “I have to work in this town. One side of Center or the other.”

  “I apologize,” Reacher said.

  “You should.”

  “But that’s why we need to do this right. We need to play to win.”

  “OK, we’ll steal the car.”

  “Or we could set it on fire.”

  “Stealing is better,” she said. “I want to get out of here as fast as I can.”

  * * *

  —

  They drove the car four blocks into a tangle of blank urban streets, and they left it on a corner, keys in, all four doors standing open, plus the hood, plus the trunk. Somehow symbolic. Then they walked back to Barton’s place, via a long circuitous route, and they checked all four sides of his block before they stepped to his door. He was up, waiting, with Hogan.

  Plus a third guy, who Reacher had never seen before.

  Chapter 27

  The third guy in Barton’s hallway had the kind of hair and skin that made a person look ten years younger than he really was, which therefore in reality made him about Reacher’s own generation. He was smaller and neater. He had sharp watchful eyes set deep either side of a blade of a nose. He had a long unruly lock of hair that fell across his forehead. He was dressed with a modicum of style, in good shoes and corduroy pants and a shirt and a jacket.

  Joe Hogan said, “This is who I was telling you about. The dogface who knows all the old Commie languages. His name is Guy Vantresca.”

  Reacher stuck out his hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “Likewise,” Vantresca said, and he shook hands, and then he did so all over again, with Abby.

  Reacher said, “You got here fast.”

  “I was still awake,” Vantresca said. “I live close by.”

  “Thanks for helping out.”

  “Actually that’s not why I’m here. I came to warn you off. You can’t mess with these people. Too many, too nasty, too protected. That would be my assessment.”

  “Were you Military Intelligence?”

  Vantresca shook his head.

  “Armor,” he said.

  A company commander late on in the Cold War, Hogan had called him.

  “Tanks?” Reacher asked.

  “Fourteen of them,” Vantresca said. “All mine. All facing east. Happy days.”

  “Why did you learn the languages?”

  “I thought we were going to win. I thought I might be ruling a civilian district. Or at least ordering a bottle of wine in a restaurant. Or meeting girls. It was a long time ago. Plus Uncle Sam paid for it. Back then the army liked education. Everyone was getting postgraduate degrees.”

  Reacher said, “Too many and too nasty are subjective judgments. We can talk about that kind of stuff later. But too protected is different. What do you know about that?”

  “I do some corporate consulting. Mostly physical security of buildings. But I hear things, and I get asked things. Last year a federal project ran a set of integrated numbers from all across the nation, and it turned out the two most law-abiding populations in America were the Ukrainian and Albanian communities right here in town. They don’t even get parking tickets. That suggests a very close relationship with all levels of law enforcement.”

  “But there must be a red line somewhere. I suggested to one of them that gunfire on the city streets at night would get a reaction, and the guy didn’t argue. In fact I guess he agreed with me, because he didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “Plus we’re getting a new police commissioner. They’re nervous. But there’s still plenty of boring invisible stuff their side of the line. Generally speaking this type of thing isn’t about bullets in the street. It’s about someone having a cozy chat with a potential witness, out of sight, out of earshot, probably in the witness’s own home, probably in a meaningful location, like an infant daughter’s bedroom, about what a weird thing memory is, how it comes and goes, how it fades in and out, how it plays tricks, and about how it’s no shame at all to say, look, man, I just can’t recall. People I know say that kind of case is very hard to investigate and very easy to bury.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “Too many. Like I said. Too many, too nasty, too protected. You should forget it.”

  “Where was your company in the order of battle?”

  “Pretty near the tip of the spear,” Vantresca said.

  “In other words hopelessly outnumbered, from day one and possibly forever.”

  “I get the point you’re trying to make. But I had fourteen Abrams tanks. They were the finest fighting vehicles in the world. They were like something out of a science fiction book. I wasn’t walking through the Fulda Gap in a pair of pants and a jacket.”

  “As always with armored people, you over-fetishize the machine. That said, clearly you felt you were more lethal than them. Outnumbered, but nastier. But in turn they we
re certainly protected, by a whole giant nation. One out of three in your favor. Two out of three against. But even so, you would have started your engines, if they had told you to.”

  “I get the point,” Vantresca said again.

  “And you expected to win,” Reacher said. “Which is why you learned the languages. Which are all I really need right now. I’m taking this one step at a time. First I need to understand what they’re saying in the texts, and then I need to use what I learn, in order to figure out what to do next. No combat readiness yet. No warnings necessary.”

  “Suppose what you learn is that it’s hopeless?”

  “Not an acceptable outcome. Can only be a failure of planning. Surely they taught you that in Germany.”

  “OK,” Vantresca said. “One step at a time.”

  * * *

  —

  They worked in the kitchen and started with the Ukrainian language. Vantresca admired Abby’s video capture. Smart, to the point, and efficient. He tapped his finger on the screen, in a slow, syncopated rhythm, play, pause, play, pause, and he read aloud from the freeze-framed screen, at first slow and halting, and then sometimes stopping altogether.

  Because linguistically he was in trouble from the start. These were text messages, full of unknown slang, and single-letter abbreviations, and in-group acronyms, and also full of what could only be misspellings, unless in fact they were deliberate simplifications, perhaps following a convention developed especially for the medium. No one knew. Vantresca said the task could take him some time. He said it would be like translating a difficult foreign language while simultaneously breaking an espionage code. Or maybe two codes, given the oblique allusions and elisions any self-respecting gangster could be expected to use.