The Essential Jack Reacher 10-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  “See any ammunition?” I said.

  “Here,” Villanueva called. He had a box of Brenneke Magnum slugs in his hand. Behind him was an open carton full of dozens of identical packages. I broke open two boxes and loaded six shells and jacked one into the chamber and loaded a seventh. Then I clicked the safety, because the Brennekes were not birdshot. They were one-ounce solid copper slugs that would leave the Persuader at nearly eleven hundred miles an hour. They would punch a hole in a cinder block wall big enough to crawl through. I put the weapon on the table and unwrapped another one. Loaded it and clicked the safety and laid it next to the first one. Caught Duffy looking right at me.

  “It’s what they’re for,” I said. “An empty gun is no good to anybody.”

  I put the empty Brenneke boxes back in the carton and closed the lid. Villanueva was looking at Bizarre Bazaar’s crates. He had paperwork in his hands.

  “These look like carpets to you?” he said.

  “Not a whole lot,” I said.

  “U.S. Customs thinks they do. Guy called Taylor signed off on them as handwoven rugs from Libya.”

  “That’ll help,” I said. “You can give this Taylor guy to ATF. They can check his bank accounts. Might make you more popular.”

  “So what’s really in them?” Duffy said. “What do they make in Libya?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “They grow dates.”

  “This all is Russian stuff,” Villanueva said. “It’s been through Odessa twice. Imported to Libya, turned right around, and exported here. In exchange for two hundred Persuaders. Just because somebody wants to look tough on the streets of Tripoli.”

  “And they make a lot of stuff in Russia,” Duffy said.

  I nodded. “Let’s see what, exactly.”

  There were nine crates in three stacks. I lifted the top crate off the nearest stack and Villanueva got busy with his claw hammer. He pulled the lid off and I saw a bunch of AK-74s nested in wood shavings. Standard Kalashnikov assault rifles, well used. Boring as hell, street value maybe two hundred bucks each, depending on where you were selling them. They weren’t fashion items. I couldn’t see any guys in North Face jackets trading in their beautiful matte-black H&Ks for them.

  The second crate was smaller. It was full of wood shavings and AKSU-74 submachine guns. They’re AK-74 derivatives. Efficient, but clunky. They were used too, but well maintained. Not exciting. No better than a half-dozen Western equivalents. NATO hadn’t lain awake at night worrying about them.

  The third crate was full of nine-millimeter Makarov pistols. Most of them were scratched and old. It’s a crude and lazy design, ripped off from the ancient Walther PP. The Soviet military was never much of a handgun culture. They thought using sidearms was right down there with throwing stones.

  “This is all crap,” I said. “Best thing to do with this stuff would be melt it down and use it for boat anchors.”

  We started on the second stack, and found something much more interesting in the very first crate. It was full of VAL Silent Sniper rifles. They were secret until 1994, when the Pentagon captured one. They’re all black, all metal, with a skeleton stock. They fire special heavy nine-millimeter subsonic rounds. Tests showed they penetrated any body armor you chose to wear at a range of five hundred yards. I remember a fair amount of consternation at the time. There were twelve of them. The next crate held another twelve. They were quality weapons. And they looked good. They would go really well with the North Face jackets. Especially the black ones with the silver linings.

  “Are they expensive?” Villanueva asked.

  I shrugged. “Hard to say. Depends on what a person is willing to pay, I guess. But an equivalent Vaime or SIG bought new in the U.S. could cost over five grand.”

  “Then that’s the whole invoice value right there.”

  I nodded. “They’re serious weapons. But not a lot of use in south-central LA. So their street value might be much less.”

  “We should go,” Duffy said.

  I stepped back to line up the view through the glass and out the back office window. It was mid-afternoon. Gloomy, but still light.

  “Soon,” I said.

  Villanueva opened the last crate in the second stack.

  “What the hell is this?” he said.

  I stepped over. Saw a nest of wood shavings. And a slim black tube with a short wooden section to act as a shoulder rest. A bulbous missile loaded ready in the muzzle. I had to look twice before I was sure.

  “It’s an RPG-7,” I said. “It’s an anti-tank rocket launcher. An infantry weapon, shoulder-fired.”

  “RPG means rocket propelled grenade,” he said.

  “In English,” I said. “In Russian it means Reaktivniy Protivotankovyi Granatomet, rocket anti-tank grenade launcher. But it uses a missile, not a grenade.”

  “Like the long-rod penetrator?” Duffy said.

  “Sort of,” I said. “But it’s explosive.”

  “It blows up tanks?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “So who’s going to buy it from Beck?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Drug dealers?”

  “Conceivably. It would be very effective against a house. Or an armored limousine. If your rival bought a bulletproof BMW, you’d need one of these.”

  “Or terrorists,” she said.

  I nodded. “Or militia whackos.”

  “This is very serious.”

  “They’re hard to aim,” I said. “The missile is big and slow. Nine times out of ten even a slight crosswind will make you miss. But that’s no consolation to whoever else gets hit by mistake.”

  Villanueva wrenched the next lid off.

  “Another one,” he said. “The same.”

  “We need to call ATF,” Duffy said. “FBI too, probably. Right now.”

  “Soon,” I said.

  Villanueva opened the last two crates. Nails squealed and wood split.

  “More weird stuff,” he said.

  I looked. Saw thick metal tubes painted bright yellow. Electronic modules bolted underneath. I looked away.

  “Grails,” I said. “SA-7 Grails. Russian surface-to-air missiles.”

  “Heat seekers?”

  “You got it.”

  “For shooting down planes?” Duffy said.

  I nodded. “And really good against helicopters.”

  “What kind of range?” Villanueva asked.

  “Good up to nearly ten thousand feet,” I said.

  “That could take down an airliner.”

  I nodded.

  “Near an airport,” I said. “Soon after takeoff. You could use it from a boat in the East River. Imagine hitting a plane coming out of La Guardia. Imagine it crashing in Manhattan. It would be September 11 all over again.”

  Duffy stared at the yellow tubes.

  “Unbelievable,” she said.

  “This is not about drug dealers anymore,” I said. “They’ve expanded their market. This is about terrorism. It has to be. This one shipment alone would equip a whole terrorist cell. They could do practically anything with it.”

  “We need to know who’s lining up to buy it. And why they want it.”

  Then I heard the sound of feet on the floor in the doorway. And the snick of a round seating itself in an automatic pistol’s chamber. And a voice.

  “We don’t ask why they want it,” it said. “We never do. We just take their damn money.”

  CHAPTER 14

  It was Harley. His mouth was a ragged hole above his goatee. I could see his yellow teeth. He was holding a Para Ordnance P14 in his right hand. The P14 is a solid Canadian-made copy of the Colt 1911 and it was way too heavy for him. His wrists were thin and weak. He would have been better off with a Glock 19, like Duffy’s.

  “Saw the lights were on,” he said. “Thought I’d come in and check.”

  Then he looked straight at me.

  “I guess Paulie screwed up,” he said. “And I guess you faked his voice when Mr. Xavier calle
d you on the phone.”

  I looked at his trigger finger. It was in position. I spent half a second mad at myself for letting him walk in unannounced. Then I moved on to working out how to take him down. Thought: Villanueva is going to yell at me if I take him down before we ask about Teresa.

  “You going to introduce me around?” he said.

  “This is Harley,” I said.

  Nobody spoke.

  “Who are these other people?” Harley asked me.

  I said nothing.

  “We’re federal agents,” Duffy said.

  “So what are you all doing in here?” Harley asked.

  He asked the question like he was genuinely interested. He was wearing a different suit. It was shiny black. He had a silver tie under it. He had showered and washed his hair. His pony tail was secured by a regular brown rubber band.

  “We’re working in here,” Duffy said.

  He nodded. “Reacher has seen what we do to government women. He’s seen it with his own eyes.”

  “You should jump ship, Harley,” I said. “It’s all coming apart now.”

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  “See, we don’t get that feeling from the computers. Your friend and mine in the body bag, she didn’t tell them nothing yet. They’re still waiting on her first report. Matter of fact, most days it seems like they’ve forgotten about her altogether.”

  “We’ve nothing to do with computers.”

  “Even better,” he said. “You’re freelance operators, nobody knows you’re here, and I got you all covered.”

  “Paulie had me covered,” I said.

  “With a gun?”

  “With two.”

  His eyes flicked down for a second. Then back up.

  “I’m smarter than Paulie,” he said. “Put your hands on your heads.”

  We put our hands on our heads.

  “Reacher’s got a Beretta,” he said. “I know that for sure. I’m guessing there are two Glocks in the room as well. Most likely a 17 and a 19. I want to see them all on the floor, nice and slow, one at a time.”

  Nobody moved. Harley shaded the P14 toward Duffy.

  “The woman first,” he said. “Finger and thumb.”

  Duffy slid her left hand under her jacket and dragged her Glock out, pinched between her finger and thumb. She dropped it on the floor. I moved my arm and started my hand toward my pocket.

  “Wait,” Harley said. “You’re not a trustworthy character.”

  He stepped forward and reached up and pressed the P14’s muzzle into my lower lip, right where Paulie had hit me. Then he reached down with his left hand and burrowed in my pocket. Came out with the Beretta. Dropped it next to Duffy’s Glock.

  “You next,” he said to Villanueva. He kept the P14 where it was. It was cold and hard. I could feel the muzzle’s pressure on my loose teeth. Villanueva dropped his Glock on the floor. Harley raked all three guns behind him with his foot. Then he stepped backward.

  “OK,” he said. “Now get over here by the wall.”

  He wheeled us around until he was next to the crates and we were lined up against the back wall.

  “There’s one more of us,” Villanueva said. “He isn’t here.”

  Mistake, I thought. Harley just smiled.

  “So call him,” he said. “Tell him to come on down.”

  Villanueva said nothing. It felt like a dead end. Then it turned into a trap.

  “Call him,” Harley said again. “Right now, or I’ll start shooting.”

  Nobody moved.

  “Call him, or the woman gets a bullet in the thigh.”

  “She’s got the phone,” Villanueva said.

  “In my purse,” Duffy said.

  “And where’s your purse?”

  “In the car.”

  Good answer, I thought.

  “Where’s the car?” Harley asked.

  “Close by,” Duffy said.

  “The Taurus next to the stuffed animal place?”

  Duffy nodded. Harley hesitated.

  “You can use the phone in the office,” he said. “Call the guy.”

  “I don’t know his number,” Duffy said.

  Harley just looked at her.

  “It’s on my speed dial,” she said. “I don’t have it memorized.”

  “Where’s Teresa Daniel?” I asked.

  Harley just smiled. Asked and answered, I thought.

  “Is she OK?” Villanueva said. “Because she better be.”

  “She’s fine,” Harley said. “Mint condition.”

  “You want me to go get the phone?” Duffy asked.

  “We’ll all go,” Harley said. “After you put these crates back in order. You messed them up. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  He stepped up next to Duffy and put the muzzle of his gun to her temple.

  “I’ll wait right here,” he said. “And the woman can wait here with me. Like my own personal life insurance policy.”

  Villanueva glanced at me. I shrugged. I figured we were nominated to do the quartermaster work. I stepped forward and picked up the hammer from the floor. Villanueva picked up the lid from the first Grail crate. Glanced at me again. I shook my head just enough for him to see. I would have loved to bury the hammer in Harley’s head. Or his mouth. I could have solved his dental problems permanently. But a hammer was no good against a guy with a gun to a hostage’s head. And anyway, I had a better idea. And it would depend on a show of compliance. So I just held the hammer and waited politely until Villanueva had the lid in place over the fat yellow missile tube. I butted it with the heel of my hand until the nails found their original holes. Then I hammered them in and stood back and waited again.

  We did the second Grail crate the same way. Lifted it up and piled it back on top of the first one. Then we did the RPG-7s. Nailed down the lids and stacked them exactly like we had found them. Then we did the VAL Silent Snipers. Harley watched us carefully. But he was relaxing a little. We were compliant. Villanueva seemed to understand what we were aiming for. He had caught on fast. He found the lid for the Makarov crate. Paused with it halfway into position.

  “People buy these things?” he said.

  Perfect, I thought. His tone was conversational, and a little puzzled. And professionally interested, just like a real ATF guy might be.

  “Why wouldn’t they buy them?” Harley said.

  “Because they’re junk,” I said. “You ever tried one?”

  Harley shook his head.

  “Let me show you something,” I said. “OK?”

  Harley kept the gun pressed hard against Duffy’s temple. “Show me what?”

  I put my hand in the crate and came out with one of the pistols. Blew wood shavings off it and held it up. It was old and scratched. Well used.

  “Very crude mechanism,” I said. “They simplified the original Walther design. Ruined it, really. Double-action, like the original, but the pull is a nightmare.”

  I pointed the gun at the ceiling and put my finger on the trigger and used just my thumb on the back of the butt to exaggerate the effect. Pincered my hand and pulled the trigger. The mechanism grated like a balky stick shift in an old car and the gun twisted awkwardly in my grip.

  “Piece of junk,” I said.

  I did it again, listening to the bad sound and letting the gun twist and rock between my finger and thumb.

  “Hopeless,” I said. “No chance of hitting anything unless it’s right next to you.”

  I tossed the gun back into the crate. Villanueva slid the lid into position.

  “You should be worried, Harley,” he said. “Your reputation won’t be worth shit if you put junk like this on the street.”

  “Not my problem,” Harley said. “Not my reputation. I just work here.”

  I hammered the nails back in, slowly, like I was tired. Then we started on the AKSU-74 crate. The old submachine guns. Then we did the AK-74s.

  “You could sell these to the movies,” Villanueva
said. “For historical dramas. That’s about all they’re good for.”

  I hammered the nails into position and we stacked the crate with the others until we had all of Bizarre Bazaar’s imports back into a neat separate pile, just like we had found them. Harley was still watching us. He still had his gun at Duffy’s head. But his wrist was tired and his finger wasn’t hard on the trigger anymore. He had let it slide upward to the underside of the frame, where it was helping take the weight. Villanueva shoved the Mossberg crate across the floor toward me. Found the lid. We had only opened one.

  “Nearly done,” I said.

  Villanueva slid the lid into position.

  “Wait up,” I said. “We left two of them on the table.”

  I stepped across and picked up the first Persuader. Stared at it.

  “See this?” I said to Harley. I pointed at the safety catch. “They shipped it with the safety on. Shouldn’t do that. It could damage the firing pin.”

  I snicked the safety to fire and wrapped the gun in its waxed paper and burrowed it deep down into the foam peanuts. Stepped back for the second one.

  “This one’s exactly the same,” I said.

  “You guys are going out of business for sure,” Villanueva said. “Your quality control is all over the place.”

  I set the safety to fire and stepped back toward the crate. Pivoted off my right foot like a second baseman lining up a double play and pulled the trigger and shot Harley through the gut. The Brenneke round sounded like a bomb going off and the giant slug cut Harley in half, literally. He was there, and then suddenly he wasn’t. He was in two large pieces on the floor and the warehouse was full of acrid smoke and the air was full of the hot stink of Harley’s blood and his digestive system and Duffy was screaming because the man she had been standing next to had just exploded. My ears were ringing. Duffy kept on screaming and danced away from the spreading pool at her feet. Villanueva caught her and held on tight and I racked the Persuader’s slide and watched the door in case there were any more surprises coming at us. But there weren’t. The warehouse structure stopped resonating and my hearing came back and then there was nothing except silence and Duffy’s fast loud breathing.

  “I was standing right next to him,” she said.

  “You aren’t standing right next to him now,” I said. “That’s the bottom line.”