Reckoning Road_A Get Jack Reacher Short Story

by Scott Blade

  “That’s a relief. I’m tied up at the moment. Can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Can you call the other family members? I’m the black sheep of the family. I can’t tell them.”

  She paused a beat, and then she said, “Of course. I understand.”

  I thanked her and hung up the phone and set it down on the table for Kara to pick up.

  As she started to walk over to me, I glanced out at the parking lot again and saw a car’s headlights breach a dip in the road and turn into the space next to the black Explorer.

  The car was a dark Ford Taurus, an unmarked police car for sure because the back was covered in antennas and the driver handled it with a careless bravado that I had seen in other cops. Not a regular cop but some sort of big dog cop like a guy who thought he was the alpha male. Usually, this kind of attitude was because the cop felt as though he were untouchable like there was no one else around to challenge him. He was the king of the jungle. I had not seen this kind of behavior too much in patrol men or deputies or the everyday men and women in blue, not to say that it was never there. Mostly, I had seen this kind of behavior in lower level feds. The middle management types—a new detective or FBI agent, or someone recently promoted to a position of authority with little supervision.

  Whatever the cop was like didn’t matter to me because I was just happy to see him.

  I smiled because the cavalry was here. Good thing, too, because I was getting tired and antsy. I was ready to move on, preferably to a motel room with a soft, welcoming bed and a good night’s sleep to follow.

  But once again, I was dead wrong.

  Chapter 10

  THE COP WHO GOT out of the unmarked police car wore a thin leather jacket, a shirt and tie, and blue jeans. He looked like he’d been driving awhile, maybe all night because as soon as he stepped out, he stretched his legs and arms.

  I watched as he made several stretches to the right and then to the left like he was getting ready to go jogging.

  He walked over to the guys in the black Ford Explorer, but something was wrong about his demeanor. He didn’t look like a cop who was questioning a couple of bad guys. He looked like he knew them. And he did because the occupants of the Explorer stepped out of the vehicle.

  Two guys who looked like the kind of guys I had seen before—rough and less-than-upstanding citizen types.

  The driver from the Explorer was a big guy, probably as tall as me but heavier. He looked like he had a lot of gym hours penciled into his days. He was so big that if a blood test returned anything other than verification that there were huge amounts of steroids in his veins, I would’ve been shocked.

  The driver walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger door. A slick-looking older man stepped out. He had a gray beard, cropped close to his face, and a steely look like he was the guy in charge.

  At first, I thought that maybe they were all cops. Maybe John Martin had called them. Maybe they were US Marshals. Maybe they were here to stake out the diner and protect Kara or her mother. But that was obviously not the case.

  The cop was definitely a cop. He looked, walked, and stood like a cop. But not the other two. No way. I had grown up around cops, and I had met all kinds of cops. These two were not cops.

  The three of them walked up to the diner, slowly and spaced far apart like they were prowling. The big guy and the cop looked around like they were scanning the scene for threats. I knew the look. These two were the employees. The steely guy with the gray beard was the leader. He walked like a man who paid guys to do his work for him. He was the first to enter the diner. He scanned the room quickly and honed in on Kara.

  About five seconds later, the big guy entered. He looked around the room as well. He looked at the truckers first, and then he looked right at me. His eyes were tiny black holes wrapped up in small eye sockets. There was no real life there. He was obviously a human being, but he looked as emotionless as a shark.

  He followed the leader to a booth in the front corner of the diner, diagonal to me. They were maybe twenty-five feet away.

  The cop walked in after. He stared directly at me, didn’t even look at the truckers or Kara. He followed the others over to the booth but didn’t sit down with them. Instead, he pulled up a chair from another table and sat on it.

  Kara walked over to them with some menus.

  The leader said, “You gotta waitress here named Kara?”

  “That’s me. Not wearing my nametag tonight. Left it at home.”

  The leader nodded slowly like something was dawning on him. He said, “You got another Kara here?”

  She said, “No. Just me. I’m the only one.”

  He said nothing.

  She said, “My mom used to work here. Her name was also Kara. I’m kinda a junior.”

  The steely guy smiled and said, “Where’s your momma?”

  “She passed away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She said, “Thanks. Can I get you boys something?”

  “So you don’t recognize me?”

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  He said, “I’m an old friend of your momma.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. I knew her…oh…fifteen years ago. I guess when you were just a little girl.”

  “I was five years old then.”

  “And you don’t remember me?”

  “No. Sorry. Did we know each other?”

  The steely guy said nothing. He and the other two just stared at her for a long, awkward moment.

  Finally, one of the truckers called to her. She turned and said, “I’m comin.”

  She left them with menus, but they never picked them up. The cop fidgeted around in his chair like he was uncomfortable. He pulled out a gun that had been tucked into a clip-on holster and placed it on the table. I glanced over at it but didn’t stare. I didn’t want to make eye contact with them, and the big guy was still staring at me.

  The gun was a Glock 22, I was pretty sure, which was a standard weapon for a lot of police departments. It was standard for US Marshals. John Martin had had one in his car earlier, which didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  The truckers asked Kara for their checks, separate. They each paid and stood up from the counter and left at the same time. After five minutes, the big rig truck without a trailer hitched to it that was out in the parking lot cranked up and drove away. A few minutes later, a second one with a short white trailer hitched to it drove past the diner from another parking lot down the street. It was most likely one of the truckers.

  Now, Ceanna’s Diner was completely empty except for Kara, the three guys, a cook, and me.

  Chapter 11

  PEOPLE ALWAYS CLAIM THAT time seems to drag whenever you’re waiting a long time. Take the airport and waiting during a layover when your plane delays seem to take forever. That feeling is doubled when you’re locked in a dangerous situation with three possible criminals who want revenge on a federal witness.

  The cop’s back was to me, but something told me that didn’t mean he had taken his eyes off of me. He probably watched me in the window’s reflection. Not a great view but effective enough to know my position in the room. Certainly, he would know if I stood up or made any drastic movements.

  I sat, drinking my coffee, acting as if I hadn’t a care in the world and had no intention of leaving.

  Kara came over and asked, “You having more coffee?”

  “No, I guess not. Better lay off for a while.”

  She nodded and returned to the other guys. The cop drank coffee. The big guy drank nothing. The steely guy had ordered a coffee but hadn’t touched it. It rested in front of him, steam piping out of the cup. He stared at me.

  The big guy didn’t stare, but he looked in my general direction, acting as if he was studying the cheap paintings on the wall. He looked bored.

  Boredom was a great tactic in conflicts. Boredom made the other side weak, complacent. It made them o
verconfident. They would either think they could manage on autopilot, or they’d think there was no real threat.

  Boredom was going to be my advantage, but I had made a mistake. The mistake that I had made was that no man could drink as much liquid as I had and not have to go to the bathroom. Coffee was primarily water. And water goes straight through any man very, very fast. Especially when ingested in long hours of waiting.

  I figured that I had two choices—well, really three if you considered my bladder bursting to be a choice. On the one hand, I could go get up and go to the bathroom. At which point, they would have the chance to make a move. They could get up, lock the door, draw their guns, and shoot Kara dead. They could shoot the cook and then me. They could set the place on fire and watch it burn to the ground, destroying any evidence they left behind. And then they could disappear into the night, down Route 66, never to be heard from again. My quest to find Jack Reacher would be over.

  The second choice was to get up, walk over to them, and make the first move. This would be risky. The one guy had a Glock, but there was probably another gun in the room. The steely guy might’ve had one. The big guy probably didn’t have one. He looked more like the muscle type. He didn’t need a gun to do his job.

  I had to assume there were at least two guns.

  Instead of deliberating the options, my bladder made my choice for me. I scooted out of my booth, kept my hands out in plain view, and asked Kara where the bathroom was.

  “Through the kitchen. Near the back door.”

  I smiled and nodded then shuffled quickly through the dining room. I did not want to give the guys time to make a move or take advantage of my position. So I moved quickly. I passed through a swinging door into the kitchen and stopped on the inside and turned. I peeked through the opening and saw the guys still seated at the table. I waited a moment. The cop did what I was hoping he would do. He stood up and nodded at the steely guy.

  He was headed in my direction.

  I turned and weaved through the kitchen appliances and workstations. I did not see a cook. There was no one else in the kitchen, just me. The place was clean and had been mopped recently. It looked like the cook had finished his closing duties and left hours ago. I guessed that maybe he had left, and if anyone ordered anything, Kara would have to cook it herself. Which was not a completely unreasonable prospect since on most nights there was probably no one in the diner all night—like tonight.

  I walked to the back of the kitchen, past the sinks, past a walk-in fridge, and saw the bathroom. There was one door. No men’s and women’s restrooms, just the one shared bathroom.

  I opened it and studied the lock. It was a pretty weak door. The lock was a deadbolt, which was not what I had been hoping for. I was hoping for a doorknob lock so I could shut it, lock it, and pretend I was inside. Not the case.

  I switched the light and the fan on and then ran the water to make it sound like it was occupied. I shut the door and went to the back door across from it, opened it, and left it ajar.

  Time was running out. So I looked around for anything I could use as a weapon. I hoped that the cook had left the cleaning supplies out back. A broom handle, broken in half, would make a nice weapon. It could be used as a billy club or a stabbing weapon with the jagged side. But there was nothing like that.

  I did see a hose. It was one of those long, thick ones. Black rubber. I turned the water on full blast, pinched the end shut, and waited.

  Chapter 12

  PRISON RIOTS BREAK OUT ALL THE TIME. It’s an everyday occurrence all over the world. Prison guards, in general, don’t carry firearms. They have them at their disposal, but firearms lead to shootings. More often than not, they are taken away from the guards and used against them. Dead guards. Dead inmates. Those aren’t the kinds of things the public wants to hear about their nearby prisons. A better solution to riot control is the use of water pressure.

  High-pressure hoses are often used to subdue rioters. The water’s pressure can knock full-grown men down on their butts. The water pressure can be so great that it takes two or three or more guys to hold the hose while they fire it. The same kind of water pressure is often used by firemen to douse burning structures.

  Restaurant hoses weren’t equipped with the same kind of strength and pressure. That wouldn’t make sense. But restaurants often used hoses to spray down their floors at night. The pressure needed for this act was less than the pressure needed to fight fires or to subdue prisoners, but it was a lot greater than the pressure from an everyday garden hose.

  Up until this point, I really had nothing to go on but instinct and observation regarding whether or not these guys were the threat that had caused a retired US marshal to jump into his car and drive without telling anyone where he was going. But the cop told me all that I needed to know because he came to the back of the kitchen. The moment I saw his shoe turn the corner, I gently closed the back door almost shut. I left nothing but a sliver so that I could watch him.

  He went to the bathroom door, leaned in, and listened. His Glock was in his right hand. He reached down with his other hand and threw open the door. He shoved his gun out into the air like he expected to shoot me as I stood at the sink.

  But I wasn’t there.

  The cop wasn’t dumb, not completely, not in the same way I imagined the big guy was. He pivoted—fast. He spun back and pointed the gun at the back door.

  I sidestepped to the left in case he started firing his gun through the door. I held the hose up, hand tight and arm nimble. The water was building up with a strong force behind my hand as I drove it back. I covered the end and pinched it with my palm to allow the pressure to build up.

  As soon as the cop ripped the door open, his gun appeared in the doorway. I stepped in—swiftly, kept my body out of the line of the gun, and shoved the hose straight into his face. I let go of my grip around the end and let the water spray out.

  I was born with a long reach. Very long. And I had hands the size of footballs, which meant I could hold back a lot of water. It came out, drenching his face all at once.

  He gushed and winced, shifting his face from side to side in a desperate attempt to breathe. That was all he wanted. It was the most basic of human desires, but I wasn’t giving it to him.

  I held the hose with my left hand. I clamped down on his gun with my right. I squeezed and jerked the Glock straight down. He didn’t get a chance to fire, but he did fall straight backward, gurgling from the shock of the water.

  The reason why water had become such an effective tool in everything from enhanced interrogation to the control of rioting prisoners was that large amounts of rushing water automatically set off an alert system in the human body. It forced the body to react like it was drowning. Everything else shut down. Every other instinct. Every other sensation was overridden. Nothing worked.

  After I took the gun away from the cop, I tossed the hose behind me and shoved the Glock in his face.

  I put my finger to my lips and said, “Shhhh.”

  Chapter 13

  A SECOND ELEMENT THAT TERRIFIED the human body into submission was darkness. Darkness was a powerful ally because it brought forth a natural fear in people that was as old as bipedal creatures.

  I had neither the time nor the know-how to shut the power off in the diner or I would’ve done it. But I did have a Glock 22, and that would do just fine.

  I said, “Get up!”

  The cop stood up. He put his hands up near his head.

  Water soaked his face and shirt. He said, “You’ve got no idea what you just did!”

  “What? What did I do?”

  He said, “I’m a cop!”

  I stayed quiet.

  He seemed surprised that I didn’t seem intimidated by that fact.

  He said, “I’m a US marshal. You just assaulted a federal agent! That’s ten years in prison! Minimum!”

  I shook my head and said, “No it’s not. It’s twenty years—maximum. There’s no minimum.”

&nbs
p; “You’ll get ten!”

  “Shut up!”

  He said nothing.

  I asked, “You ever been shot?”

  His face turned a deep shade of blue like he was strongly considering this question, which he should have been.

  Then he said, “No! No! Please!”

  I asked, “Who’s the guy? Your boss?”

  He started to say something and then stopped himself. I guessed he was going to try to deny it, play stupid, but he looked at my face and decided it was a bad idea.

  “His name is Carter. Regan Carter.”

  I smiled and almost laughed. I said, “Bullshit! What’s his name?”

  “That’s it! I swear!”

  “Regan Carter?”

  He said, “Like the presidents.”

  “Whatever. What about the girl?”

  “What about her?”

  “You here to help them kill her?”

  He said, “What? No! I’m a US marshal! I told ya that!”

  “Cut the shit! You’re the reason John Martin was in such a big hurry to get here.”

  His eyes lit up like I touched a nerve. He said, “You know Martin? Where is he?”

  I said, “He’s safe. Told me all about you.”

  “You’re working for him? You’re too young to be a Fed. What are you, some kind of new recruit? FBI trainee or something?”

  I said, “Nope. I’m just a guy passing through.”

  He said, “What? Like a good Samaritan?”

  “No. Not good. Not necessarily.”

  He said nothing.

  I said, “I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t like guys like you.”

  He looked puzzled. He said, “So you don’t work for anyone?”

  “I’m here for John. For Kara.”

  “What? Like a hired bodyguard?” He giggled.

  I smiled and said, “You shouldn’t make fun because, see, I don’t work for the government. I’m not bound by laws. Right now, I could put a bullet in your head, and no one would know. No one but you knows I’m here. And no one here knows anything about me.”