The Essential Jack Reacher 12-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  Reacher nodded. “Exactly like we used to. I’ll drive.”

  They took one last look at Swan’s house and then they turned and walked slowly back to the curb. They slid into O’Donnell’s rental, Reacher in the driver’s seat, Neagley next to him in the front, O’Donnell behind him in the back. No seat belts.

  “Don’t hurt my car,” O’Donnell said. “I didn’t get the extra insurance.”

  “You should have,” Reacher said. “Always a wise precaution.”

  He started the engine and eased away from the curb. Checked the view ahead, checked the mirror.

  Nothing coming.

  He spun the wheel and stamped on the gas and pulled a fast U-turn across the width of the road. Hit the gas again and accelerated thirty yards. Jammed on the brakes and O’Donnell jumped out a yard in front of the Crown Vic and Reacher hit the gas and then the brake again and stopped dead level with the Crown Vic’s driver’s door. O’Donnell was already at the passenger window. Reacher jumped out and O’Donnell shattered the passenger glass with his knuckles and chased the driver out the other side of the car straight into Reacher’s arms. Reacher hit him once in the gut and then again in the face. Fast and hard. The guy slammed back against the side of his car and went down on his knees. Reacher picked his spot and hit him a third time, a solid elbow against the side of his head. The guy fell sideways, slowly, like a bulldozed tree. He finished up jammed in the space between the Crown Vic’s sill and the road. Sprawled out on his back, inert, unconscious, bleeding heavily from a broken nose.

  “Well, that still works,” O’Donnell said.

  “As long as I do the hard part,” Reacher said.

  Neagley took hold of the loose folds of the guy’s sport coat and flipped him on his side, so that the blood from his nose would pool on the blacktop rather than in the back of his throat. No point in drowning him. Then she pulled the flap of his coat open, looking for a pocket.

  And then she stopped.

  Because the guy was wearing a shoulder holster. An old well-used item, made of worn black leather. There was a Glock 17 in it. He was wearing a belt. The belt had a pouch for a spare magazine on it. And a pancake holder with a pair of stainless-steel handcuffs in it.

  Police issue.

  Reacher glanced inside the Crown Vic. There were pebbles of broken glass all over the passenger seat. There was a radio mounted under the dash.

  Not a taxicab radio.

  “Shit,” Reacher said. “We just took down a cop.”

  “You did the hard part,” O’Donnell said.

  Reacher crouched and put his fingers against the guy’s neck. Felt for his pulse. It was there, strong and regular. The guy was breathing. His nose was busted bad, which would be an aesthetic problem later, but he hadn’t been very good-looking to start with.

  “Why was he tailing us?” Neagley said.

  “We’ll work that out later,” Reacher said. “When we’re a long way from here.”

  “Why did you hit him so hard?”

  “I was upset about the dog.”

  “This guy didn’t do that.”

  “I know that now.”

  Neagley dug through the guy’s pockets. Came out with a leather ID folder. There was a chrome-plated badge pinned inside it, opposite a laminated card behind a milky plastic window.

  “His name is Thomas Brant,” she said. “He’s an LA County deputy.”

  “This is Orange County,” O’Donnell said. “He’s outside of his jurisdiction. As he was on Sunset and in Santa Monica.”

  “Think that will help us?”

  “Not very much.”

  Reacher said, “Let’s get him comfortable and get the hell out of here.”

  O’Donnell took Brant’s feet and Reacher took his shoulders and they piled him into the rear seat of his car. They stretched him out and arranged him and left him in what medics call the recovery position, on his side, one leg drawn up, able to breathe, unlikely to choke. The Crown Vic was spacious. The engine was off and there was plenty of fresh air coming in through the broken window.

  “He’ll be OK,” O’Donnell said.

  “He’ll have to be,” Reacher said.

  They closed the door on him and turned back to O’Donnell’s rental. It was still right there in the middle of the street, three doors open, engine still running. Reacher got in the back. O’Donnell drove. Neagley sat next to him. The polite voice inside the GPS set about guiding them back toward the freeway.

  “We should return this car,” Neagley said. “Right now. And then my Mustang. He’ll have gotten both the plate numbers.”

  “And then do what for transport?” Reacher asked.

  “Your turn to rent something.”

  “I don’t have a driver’s license.”

  “Then we’ll have to take cabs. We have to break the link.”

  “That means changing hotels, too.”

  “So be it.”

  The GPS wouldn’t allow adjustment on the fly. A liability issue. O’Donnell pulled over and stopped and altered the destination from the Beverly Wilshire to the Hertz lot at LAX. The unit took the change in its stride. There was a second’s delay while a Calculating Route bar spooled up and then the patient voice came back and told O’Donnell to turn around and head west instead of east, toward the 405 instead of the 5. Traffic was OK through the subdivisions and heavy on the freeway. Progress was slow.

  “Tell me about yesterday,” Reacher said to Neagley.

  “What about it?”

  “What you did.”

  “I flew into LAX and rented the car. Drove to the hotel on Wilshire. Checked in. Worked for an hour. Then I drove up to the Denny’s on Sunset. Waited for you.”

  “You must have been tailed all the way from the airport.”

  “Clearly. The question is, why?”

  “No, that’s the second question. The first question is, how? Who knew when and where you were coming in?”

  “The cop, obviously. He put a flag against my name and Homeland Security tipped him off as soon as I bought my ticket.”

  “OK, why?”

  “He’s working on Franz. LA County deputies. I’m a known associate.”

  “We all are.”

  “I was the first to arrive.”

  “So are we suspects?”

  “Maybe. In the absence of any others.”

  “How stupid are they?”

  “They’re about normal. Even we looked at known associates if we struck out everywhere else.”

  Reacher said, “You do not mess with the special investigators.”

  “Correct,” Neagley said. “But we just messed with the LA County deputies. Big time. I hope they don’t have a similar slogan.”

  “You can bet your ass they do.”

  LAX was a gigantic, sprawling mess. Like every airport Reacher had ever seen it was permanently half-finished. O’Donnell threaded through construction zones and perimeter roads and made it to the car rental returns. The different organizations were all lined up, the red one, the green one, the blue one, and finally the Hertz yellow. O’Donnell parked on the end of a long nose-to-tail line and a guy in a company jacket rushed up and scanned a barcode in the rear window with a handheld reader. That was it, vehicle returned, rental over. Chain broken.

  “Now what?” O’Donnell said.

  Neagley said, “Now we take the shuttle bus to the terminal and we find a cab. Then we check out of the hotel and the two of us come back here with my Mustang. Reacher can find a new hotel and start work on those numbers. OK?”

  But Reacher didn’t reply. He was staring across the lot, through the rental office’s plate glass windows. At the line of people inside.

  He was smiling.

  “What?” Neagley said. “Reacher, what?”

  “In there,” Reacher said. “Fourth in line. See her?”

  “Who?”

  “Small woman, dark hair? I’m pretty sure that’s Karla Dixon.”

  23

  Reacher and Ne
agley and O’Donnell hurried across the lot, getting surer with every step. By the time they were ten feet from the office windows they were absolutely certain. It was Karla Dixon. She was unmistakable. Dark and comparatively small, a happy woman who thought the worst of people. She was right there, now third in line. Her body language said she was simultaneously impatient with and resigned to the wait. As always she looked relaxed but never quite still, always burning energy, always giving the impression that twenty-four hours in the day were not enough for her. She was thinner than Reacher remembered. She was dressed in tight black jeans and a black leather jacket. Her thick black hair was cut short. She had a black leather Tumi roll-on next to her and a black leather briefcase slung across her shoulder.

  Then as if she felt their gazes on her back she turned around and looked straight at them, nothing much in her face, as if she had last seen them minutes ago instead of years ago. She smiled a brief smile. The smile was a little sad, as if she already knew what was happening. Then she jerked her head at the clerks behind the counter as if to say, I’ll be right there but you know how it is with civilians. Reacher pointed at himself and Neagley and O’Donnell and held up four fingers and mouthed, Get a four-seat car. Dixon nodded again and turned back to wait.

  Neagley said, “This is kind of biblical. People keep coming back to life.”

  “Nothing biblical about it,” Reacher said. “Our assumptions were wrong, is all.”

  A fourth clerk came out of a back office and took up station behind the counter. Dixon went from being third in line to being served within about thirty seconds. Reacher saw the pink flash of a New York driver’s license and the platinum flash of a credit card changing hands. The clerk typed and Dixon signed a bunch of stuff and then received a fat yellow packet and a key. She hoisted her briefcase and grabbed her roll-on and headed for the exit. She stepped out to the sidewalk. She stood in front of Reacher and Neagley and O’Donnell and looked at each of them in turn with a level, serious gaze. Said, “Sorry I’m late to the party. But then, it’s not really much of a party, is it?”

  “What do you know so far?” Reacher asked her.

  Dixon said, “I only just got your messages. I didn’t want to wait around in New York for a direct flight. I wanted to be on the move. First flight out was through Las Vegas. I had a two-hour layover there. So I made some calls and did some running around. Some checking. And I found out that Sanchez and Orozco are missing. It seems that about three weeks ago they just vanished off the face of the earth.”

  24

  Hertz had given Dixon a Ford 500, which was a decent-sized four-seat sedan. She put her bags in the trunk and climbed in the driver’s seat. Neagley sat next to her in the front and Reacher and O’Donnell squeezed in the back. Dixon started up and left the airport heading north on Sepulveda. She talked for the first five minutes. She had been working undercover as a new hire at a Wall Street brokerage house. Her client was a major institutional investor worried about illegalities. Like all undercover operatives who want to survive, she had stuck religiously to her cover, which meant she could afford no contact with her regular life. She couldn’t call her office on her brokerage-supplied cell or on her brokerage-supplied landline from her brokerage-supplied corporate apartment, or get her e-mail on her brokerage-supplied BlackBerry. Eventually she had checked in clandestinely from a Port Authority pay phone and found the long string of increasingly desperate 10-30s on her machine. So she had ditched her job and her client and headed straight for JFK and jumped on America West. From the Vegas airport she had called Sanchez and Orozco and gotten no reply. Worse, their voice mail was full, which was a bad sign. So she had cabbed over to their offices and found them deserted with three weeks’ worth of mail backed up behind the door. Their neighbors hadn’t seen them in a long time.

  “So that’s it,” Reacher said. “Now we know for sure. It’s just the four of us left.”

  Then Neagley talked for five minutes. She gave the same kind of clear concise briefing she had given a thousand times before. No wasted words, no omitted details. She covered all the hard intelligence and all the speculation from Angela Franz’s first phone call onward. The autopsy report, the small house in Santa Monica, the trashed Culver City office, the flash memories, the New Age building, O’Donnell’s arrival, the dead dog, the unfortunate attack on the LA County deputy outside Swan’s house in Santa Ana, the subsequent decision to ditch the Hertz cars to derail the inevitable pursuit.

  “Well, that part is taken care of at least,” Dixon said. “Nobody is following us now, so this car is clean for the time being.”

  “Conclusions?” Reacher asked.

  Dixon thought for three hundred yards of slow boulevard traffic. Then she slid onto the 405, the San Diego Freeway, but heading north, away from San Diego, toward Sherman Oaks and Van Nuys.

  “One conclusion, mainly,” she said. “This wasn’t about Franz calling only some of us because he assumed only some of us would be available. And it wasn’t about him calling only some of us because he underestimated the extent of his problem. Franz was way too smart for that. And too cautious now, apparently, what with the kid and all. So we need to shift the paradigm. Look at who’s here and who isn’t. I think this was about Franz calling only those of us who could get to him in a big hurry. Real fast. Swan, obviously, because he was right here in town, and then Sanchez and Orozco because they were only an hour or so away in Vegas. The rest of us were no good to him. Because we were all at least a day away. So this is about speed and panic and urgency. The kind of thing where half a day makes a difference.”

  “Specifically?” Reacher asked.

  “No idea. It’s a shame you burned the first eleven passwords. We could have seen what information was new or different.”

  O’Donnell said, “It’s got to be the names. They were the only hard data.”

  “Numbers can be hard data, too,” Dixon said.

  “You’ll go blind figuring them out.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes numbers speak to me.”

  “These won’t.”

  There was quiet in the car for a moment. Traffic was moving OK. Dixon stayed on the 405 and blew through the intersection with the 10.

  “Where are we headed?” she asked.

  Neagley said, “Let’s go to the Chateau Marmont. It’s out of the way and discreet.”

  “And expensive,” Reacher said. Something in his tone made Dixon take her eyes off the road and glance behind her. Neagley said, “Reacher’s broke.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Dixon said. “He hasn’t worked in nine years.”

  “He didn’t do much when he was in the army, either,” O’Donnell said. “Why change the habit of a lifetime?”

  “He’s sensitive about other people paying for him,” Neagley said.

  “Poor baby,” Dixon said.

  Reacher said, “I’m just trying to be polite.”

  Dixon stayed on the 405 until Santa Monica Boulevard. Then she struck out north and east, aiming to pass through Beverly Hills and West Hollywood and to hit Sunset right at the base of Laurel Canyon.

  “Mission statement,” she said. “You do not mess with the special investigators. The four of us here have to make that stick. On behalf of the four of us who aren’t here. So we need a command structure and a plan and a budget.”

  Neagley said, “I’ll take care of the budget.”

  “Can you?”

  “This year alone there’s seven billion dollars of Homeland Security money washing around the private system. Some of it comes our way in Chicago and I own half of whatever part of it sticks in our books.”

  “So are you rich?”

  “Richer than I was when I was a sergeant.”

  “We’ll get it back anyway,” O’Donnell said. “People get killed for love or money, and our guys sure as hell didn’t get killed for love. So there’s money in this somewhere.”

  “So are we agreed on Neagley staking the budget?” Dixon asked.


  “What is this, a democracy?” Reacher said.

  “Temporarily. Are we agreed?”

  Four raised hands. Two majors and a captain, letting a sergeant pick up the tab.

  “OK, the plan,” Dixon said.

  “Command structure first,” O’Donnell said. “Can’t put the cart before the horse.”

  “OK,” Dixon said. “I nominate Reacher for CO.”

  “Me too,” O’Donnell said.

  “Me three,” Neagley said. “Like it always was.”

  “Can’t do it,” Reacher said. “I hit that cop. If it comes to it, I’m going to have to put my hands up for it and leave the rest of you to carry on without me. Can’t have a CO in that position.”

  Dixon said, “Let’s cross that bridge if we come to it.”

  “We’re coming to it,” Reacher said. “For sure. Tomorrow or the next day at the latest.”

  “Maybe they’ll let it go.”

  “Dream on. Would we have let it go?”

  “Maybe he’ll be too shamefaced to report it.”

  “He doesn’t have to report it. People will notice. He’s got a busted window and a busted nose.”

  “Does he even know who you are?”

  “He put Neagley’s name in the machine. He was tailing us. He knows who we are.”

  “You can’t put your hands up for it,” O’Donnell said. “You’ll go to jail. If it comes to it, you’ll have to get out of town.”

  “Can’t do that. If they don’t get me, they’ll come after you and Neagley as accessories. We don’t want that. We need boots on the ground here.”

  “We’ll get you a lawyer. A cheap one.”

  “No, a good one,” Dixon said.

  “Whatever, I’ll still be preoccupied,” Reacher said.

  Nobody spoke.

  Reacher said, “Neagley should be CO.”

  “I decline,” Neagley said.

  “You can’t decline. It’s an order.”

  “It can’t be an order until you’re CO.”

  “Dixon, then.”

  “Declined,” Dixon said.

  “OK, O’Donnell.”

  “Pass.”

  Dixon said, “Reacher until he goes to jail. Then Neagley. All in favor?”