by Lee Child
‘Did you make that clear?’
‘Of course.’ The guitar player straightened up. ‘I did. I insisted he pay us. He made like he was going to, and took me to his office. Only a guy was waiting there. The bouncer. He’s huge. They must have planned the whole thing in advance because he didn’t say anything. Didn’t wait. Just grabbed my hand. My left.’ He held up his left hand to emphasize the point. ‘He grabbed it and pushed it down on to the desk where there’s this kind of metal plate. It’s all dented and stained. Anyway, he held my hand there, and the owner went around the desk and opened the top drawer. He took out a hammer. Used the claw thing to spread my fingers apart, then said I had to choose. We could have the money, and he’d break my fingers. One at a time. Or I could leave, unhurt, with no cash.’
Reacher was conscious of a voice in his head telling him to walk away. Saying this wasn’t his problem. But he had heard how the guy could make a guitar wail. He remembered watching his fingers when he was on stage. They were the opposite of Reacher’s own. Quick and delicate, dancing across the strings. He pictured the thug grabbing his hand. The owner, wielding the hammer. He stayed where he was.
‘If you like, I could go back in there,’ Reacher said. ‘Help the owner see things from a different angle. Maybe get him to reconsider tonight’s fee.’
‘You could do that?’ The singer didn’t look convinced.
‘I’ve been told I can be very persuasive.’
‘You could get hurt.’
‘Someone could. Not me.’
‘He has a hammer.’ The guitarist shuffled on the spot.
‘I doubt the hammer will come into play. And there wouldn’t be a problem if it did. So why don’t I give it a try? What have you got to lose?’
‘I’m not sure I’m—’
‘Thank you.’ The singer cut him off. ‘We appreciate any help you can give us. Just please be careful.’
‘I always am,’ Reacher said. ‘Now, tell me about the guitar. Your good spare. The guy really stole it?’
‘The big guy did,’ the guitarist said. ‘Kind of. He followed me down from the office and snatched it. Then he tossed it down the stairs to the basement and looked at me all weird, like he was daring me to go get it.’
‘You left it there?’
The guitarist looked away.
‘Don’t feel bad. That was the right move.’ Reacher paused. ‘Was it worth much?’
‘A grand, maybe?’ The guitarist shrugged. ‘That’s a lot to me.’
‘And the owner, with the hammer. What’s his name?’
‘Lockhart. Derek Lockhart.’
‘How much did he promise to pay you?’
‘Two hundred dollars.’
‘OK. And aside from Lockhart, the guy who was with him in the office, and the bartender, who else works there?’
‘No one.’
‘There is someone,’ the singer said. ‘A kid who busses tables. He’s out back most of the time, smoking weed.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘Have you seen any weapons on the premises?’
They looked at one another and shook their heads.
‘OK then. Where’s Lockhart’s office?’
‘Second floor,’ the guitarist said. ‘Stairs are past the bathrooms.’
Back inside, a solitary customer was nursing his last bottle of beer. The barman was shoving a threadbare broom across the floor between the tables and the stage. There was no sign of anyone else so Reacher made his way past the bathrooms and crept up the stairs. He saw one door leading off a narrow landing. It was closed. Reacher could hear a voice on the other side. It was male, he was sure of that, but he couldn’t make out any words. They were soft. Rhythmic. Like someone counting. Probably checking the week’s take. So they’d likely be locked in. Reacher took hold of the handle. Turned it. And simultaneously slammed his shoulder into the door. It gave easily, sending fragments of splintered wood spinning into the air.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen.’ He stepped into the room and pushed the door back into its ruined frame. ‘I didn’t realize that was locked.’
The space was small. More like a closet than an office. Two men were crammed in behind the desk, shoulder to shoulder. The regular-size guy Reacher took to be Lockhart. The other, a slack, flabby giant, would be the bouncer. Both were frozen in their seats. And the surface of the desk was covered with heaps of creased, greasy banknotes.
‘Who the hell are you?’ It took Lockhart a moment to find his voice.
‘My name’s Jack Reacher. I represent the band that played for you tonight. I’m here to talk about their contract.’
‘They don’t have a contract.’
‘They do now.’ Reacher took hold of a bentwood chair which was the only other piece of furniture in the room, tested its strength, and sat down.
‘Time for you to leave,’ Lockhart said.
‘I only just got here.’
‘You can’t be here. Not during the count.’
‘You didn’t think that through all the way, did you?’
Lockhart paused, searching for a trap. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You said I can’t be here. And yet clearly I am. Faulty reasoning on your part.’
‘You can leave.’ Lockhart spoke with exaggerated clarity. ‘Or I can throw you out.’
‘You can throw me out?’ Reacher allowed himself a smile.
Lockhart’s fist clenched on the desk in front of him. ‘I can have you thrown out.’
‘Are you sure? Where are all your guys?’
‘I have all the guys I need, right here.’ Lockhart pointed to his companion.
‘Him? For a start, he’s one guy. Singular. So you’d have to say “the only guy I need”. But that’s not right either, is it? Because he’s obviously not up to the job. I could be asleep and he couldn’t throw me out. I could have died of old age and he still couldn’t do it.’
Reacher was watching the big guy’s eyes throughout the whole exchange. He saw them flicker towards Lockhart. Saw Lockhart respond with the tiniest nod of his head. The big guy rose out of his chair. Reacher knew there was only one possible play that stood any chance of success. The guy could launch himself straight over the desk. If he was quick enough he’d arrive before Reacher was on his feet. But even if Reacher was already standing, the guy would still have his most powerful weapon. His weight. He had at least a hundred pounds on Reacher. Coupled with the speed he’d have gained diving forward, all those pounds would translate into some formidable momentum. There’d be no way for Reacher to counter it. He’d be knocked backwards on to the floor. Pinned down. Jammed in the corner, unable to bring his fists or feet or elbows to bear. And unable to breathe. Then all the guy would have to do would be wait. Physics would finish the fight for him. He could just lie there till Reacher passed out. It would be the easiest victory he ever won.
The guy made the wrong choice. Instead of diving over the table he tried to shimmy around it. That was a serious mistake for someone with his build. Reacher’s goading had clouded his thinking. He wasn’t focused on the win. He was picturing the pummelling he could dish out. Which gave Reacher time to scoop up the metal plate from the desk. Grip it securely with one edge against his palms. And drive it up into the guy’s onrushing neck like a reversed guillotine blade, crushing his larynx and windpipe. Then Reacher shoved him square in the face and the guy fell back in the direction he came from and landed, choking and spluttering, in the corner.
‘Normally I wouldn’t have done that,’ Reacher said, settling back in his chair. ‘Not right off the bat. I’d have given him a chance to walk away. But then I remembered he was the one who took the kid’s guitar, so I figured all bets were off.’
Lockhart was scrabbling for his phone. ‘We should call 911. Quick.’
‘Your friend will be fine,’ Reacher said. ‘Or maybe he won’t. But in the meantime, while he’s dealing with his breathing issues, let’s get back to the band’s contract. You promised to pay how
much?’
‘I promised nothing.’
Reacher ran his finger along the edge of the plate. ‘I think you did.’
Lockhart lunged sideways, going for his drawer. Reacher tracked his movement and tossed the plate, spinning it like a frisbee. It caught Lockhart on the bridge of his nose, shattering the bone and rocking him back in his chair.
‘I’m beginning to think this toy is dangerous.’ Reacher picked up the plate and dropped it on the floor. ‘You shouldn’t play with it any more. Now. The contract. Give me a number.’
‘Two hundred dollars.’
‘Two hundred dollars was the original figure. But since it was agreed, you’ve revealed an interest in human fingers. Tell me, how many are there on a guitar player’s left hand, for example?’
‘Five.’ Lockhart’s voice was muffled thanks to his restricted airway.
‘Technically there are four. The other digit is a thumb. But I’ll take your answer. So two hundred dollars multiplied by five is …?’
‘A thousand.’
‘Very good. That’s our new figure. We take cash.’
‘Forget it.’
‘There’s plenty of cash here. If counting is too difficult for you, maybe I should just take all of it?’
‘All right.’ Lockhart almost squealed. He selected two stacks of bills and slid them across the desk.
‘Good. Now let’s add your late payment fee. That’s an additional five hundred.’
Lockhart glowered, and handed over another stack.
‘We’re almost done now. Next up is the equipment replacement surcharge. A round one thousand.’
‘What the—’
‘For the kid’s guitar. Your buddy tossed it down some stairs. Get the money back from him if you want, but there’s no way it’s coming out of my client’s pocket.’
Lockhart’s eyes were flickering back and forth across his dwindling heap of cash. Reacher could almost see his brain working as he calculated how much he had left, and whether his chances of keeping any would improve if he cooperated. ‘OK. Another thousand. But not one cent more. And tell those kids if they ever come back, I’ll break more than their fingers. And even if they don’t come here, they’ll never play in this town again.’
Reacher shook his head. ‘We were doing so well, and you had to ruin it. You didn’t let me finish. We’d covered the payments. But we hadn’t gotten around to the incentives. This is important, so listen carefully. Every band member I represent has me on speed dial. If anything happens to any of them, I’ll come back here. I’ll break your arms. I’ll break your legs. And I’ll hang your underwear from the ceiling of the bar. While you’re still wearing it. Are we clear?’
Lockhart nodded.
‘Good. Now, incentive number two: other bands. Even if I don’t represent them, I’m extending an umbrella agreement. As a courtesy. Think of it as my contribution to the arts. What it means is that if I hear about you ripping off another band, I’ll come back. I’ll take all your money. And I’ll hang your underwear from the ceiling of the bar, same way as before. Are we clear on that, too?’
Lockhart nodded.
‘Excellent. And in case you were wondering, I’ll be carrying out random spot checks to test for compliance. Now, when is the next band playing here?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘OK. I hope they’re as good as tonight’s. But even if they’re not, remember. They get paid.’
TWO
Rusty Rutherford was not normally the type of guy who dawdled in his local coffee shop. He used to go to the same one every day. Always on his way to work. And purely for the caffeine. He didn’t go in search of conversation. He wasn’t interested in finding new company. His routine was always the same. He stood quietly in line and used the time to contemplate whatever problems were in store for him that day. He placed his order. Collected his drink as soon as it was ready. And left. The process was transactional, not social. Even after the week he spent isolated in his apartment it proved a difficult habit to break.
The adjustment process wasn’t made any easier by the response he received from the other patrons. Normally his was a pretty neutral presence. People weren’t pleased to see him. They weren’t displeased. They displayed no curiosity. No animosity. He could have been a store mannequin for all the effect he had on the social interactions that occurred in the place. That Monday, though, he felt like a magnet with the wrong polarity. He seemed to repel everyone around him. The surrounding customers left a bigger space than usual on either side. In the rare moments he was able to make eye contact the other person turned away before he could think of a way to start a conversation. By the time he reached the counter he still hadn’t exchanged a single word with a fellow human being. But he had seen how the barista interacted with the two men in front of him when they stepped up to order. She smiled at them. And asked if they wanted their regular. She didn’t smile at him. And she didn’t say a word.
‘My regular, please,’ Rusty said.
‘Which would be what?’ she asked.
Rusty heard someone sniggering behind him in the line. He felt the urge to run. But no, he was there on principle. To fight for his rights. A little ridicule was not going to break his resolve. ‘House blend, medium, no room for milk.’
‘Two dollars even.’ The barista turned, grabbed a to-go cup, and slammed it on the counter.
‘No.’ Rusty shook his head. ‘I want to drink it here.’
The barista shot him a look that said Really? I’d rather you didn’t.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ she said out loud. ‘I forgot. You lost your job. You don’t have any place to go.’ She tossed the to-go cup in the trash, took out a china one, poured, slopping coffee into the saucer, and slid it towards him, spilling even more.
The same time Rusty Rutherford was going into the coffee shop, a telephone was starting to ring. In a house a mile outside of town. In a room containing two people. A man and a woman. The woman recognized the ringtone the moment the phone began to chirp. She knew what it meant. Her boss was going to require privacy, so she stood up without waiting to be dismissed. Closed her notebook. Slid it into the pocket at the front of her apron. And made her way to the door.
The man checked that the secure icon on the phone’s screen was green, then hit the answer key. ‘This is Speranski.’
Speranski wasn’t his real name, of course, but it might as well have been. He’d been using it professionally for more than five decades.
The voice at the other end of the line said one word: ‘Contact.’
Speranski closed his eyes for a moment and ran the fingers of his free hand through his wild white hair. It was about time. He had made plenty of plans over the years. Been involved in plenty of operations. Survived plenty of crises. But never had the stakes been so high.
For him. Personally. And for the only person in the world he cared about.
The same time the telephone was being answered, Jack Reacher was getting into a car. He had solved his physics/biology conundrum to his satisfaction – and the bar owner’s extreme discomfort – and begun walking back to the bus station. He had been planning to follow his time-honoured principle of taking the first bus to leave, regardless of its destination, when he heard a vehicle approaching slowly from behind. He stuck out his thumb on the off chance and to his surprise the car stopped. It was new and shiny and bland. A rental. Probably picked up at the airport. The driver was a tidy-looking guy in his early twenties. He was wearing a plain dark suit and the speed of his breathing and the pallor of his face suggested he wasn’t far from a full-blown panic attack. A business guy, Reacher thought. Let out alone for the first time. Desperate not to screw anything up. And therefore screwing up everything he touched.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ The guy sounded even more nervous than he looked. ‘Do you know the way to I40? I need to go west.’ He gestured at a screen on his dashboard. ‘The GPS in this thing hates me. It keeps trying to send me down streets that don’t exist.’
‘Sure,’ Reacher said. ‘But it’s hard to explain. It would be easier to show you.’
The guy hesitated and looked Reacher up and down as if only just taking in his height. The breadth of his chest. His unwashed hair. His unshaved face. The web of scars around the knuckles of his enormous hands.
‘Unless you’d prefer to keep driving aimlessly around?’ Reacher attempted a concerned expression.
The guy swallowed. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Anywhere. I40 is as good a place to start as any.’
‘Well, OK.’ The guy paused. ‘I’ll take you to the highway. But I’m not going far after that. No place you’d want to go, I’m sure.’
‘How much further?’
‘Seventy-five miles, maybe. Some small town near a place named Pleasantville. Sounds inspiring, huh?’
‘Do they have a coffee shop in this town?’
The guy shrugged. ‘Probably. I can’t say for sure. I’ve never been there before.’
‘Probably’s good enough for me,’ Reacher said. ‘Let’s go.’
Rutherford picked up the cup and realized he had another unfamiliar dilemma to face. Where should he sit? Deciding wasn’t a problem, normally. He didn’t stay. And he didn’t have a dozen angry eyes probing him while he searched for an answer. He fought the urge to skulk at the back of the store. That would be the least uncomfortable option, for sure, but it would hardly serve his purpose. He didn’t want a window seat either – he wasn’t ready to put himself on display quite so prominently – so he opted for a small, square table in the centre. It had two chairs covered in red vinyl and its top had writing scrawled across every square inch of its surface. By previous customers, he guessed. There were song lyrics. Poems. Uplifting sayings. He scanned the words, found none he felt any connection to, then forced himself to look up. He attempted to make eye contact with the people at the other tables. And failed. Except with a toddler, whose parents got up and left when they realized what was going on. Rusty sipped at his coffee. He wanted to make it last at least an hour. He worked his way down to the dregs. And still achieved no interaction with anyone but the barista, who missed no opportunity to shoot him hostile glares. He refilled his cup and changed tables. Neither thing brought a change of luck. He stuck it out for another forty minutes, and then the barista approached and told him to either order some food or leave.