by Dan Ames
At the time, they were focused exclusively on the situation at hand, which had been a kidnapping and a group of bloodthirsty mercenaries.
Not a lot of time for idle chitchat.
Pauling looked at her phone, as if it might have an answer.
She stood and paced around the room, hoping that some physical activity might provide some insight.
But it didn’t.
So she waited.
18
The guy in the bar bugging the waitress was huge. He had a big square head that sat on top of his stump of a neck like one of the statues on Easter Island.
His torso alone probably had to weigh two hundred pounds and the hand holding a mug of beer was so big it looked like he was holding a toy.
Tallon ignored him and wondered what he had been thinking.
It wasn’t so much a rule as just his routine. He had studiously avoided hanging out in the local bars near his home, preferring to maintain privacy and a low-key presence. It wasn’t that he was unfriendly, it was just that he preferred avoiding local complications.
But ever since Lauren Pauling had left and gone back to New York, he’d felt a little different. Suddenly, his home had seemed a little too quiet. Which was odd, because that had always been the thing he loved the most.
On impulse, he’d decided to head to the local bar and have a beer.
The place was called Rooster’s, and not surprising featured several paintings of the barnyard birds, as well as various life-size representations. Some of them were made of wood, others glass.
They’d even installed a phone that when it rang, made the sound of a rooster crowing in the morning.
Now, Tallon was questioning the decision to drop into Rooster’s for a cold one. He probably would have been better off going for a long run in the desert.
Motion caught Tallon’s eye and he heard a little smack.
He knew the big guy had already slapped the waitress’s ass once, and she’d swatted his arm, a little too late. Tallon thought he’d seen a flash of irritation cross her face.
He looked at the back of the bar and wondered if there was anyone in the office. A boss, perhaps, who might come to the rescue of his or her employee, if the need should arise.
But so far, there was nobody and certainly no sign of help coming.
Above the bar, a television was reporting on something about another bombing in the Middle East. No surprise. People there had been fighting all their lives. It was a way of life, not a temporary situation.
There was also a news story about the implications of legal marijuana and a massive car accident caused by a stoned driver. It hadn’t been too far away, but out here, distance was relative. The long, empty stretches of desert somehow made ‘local’ news apply to things that were five hundred miles away.
The report was talking about a vote that was supposed to have happened at the state government level, but everyone was gone on vacation.
Again, no surprise.
“Another one?” the waitress asked him. She had come around behind the bar. It seemed like she was a one-woman show. Waitress. Bartender. Maybe this was her place. Maybe she was Rooster.
“Sure,” Tallon said, even though he didn’t really want another. But maybe he wanted to talk.
“You work alone here?” he asked.
She was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with red hair, pale skin, and a trim body. Her arms were wiry and muscular, her hands red from work.
She looked at him with a wry smile. “Why?”
He shrugged his shoulders, glanced at the huge guy glowering at them from his table.
“Just wondering,” Tallon said.
The woman pulled a hand towel from a stainless steel hook and wiped down the bar near Tallon.
“This is my place. I’ve got someone who comes in closer to the five o’clock rush. For now, it’s just me.”
Tallon nodded.
“You from around here?” she asked.
“Nope,” he said. “Just passing through, really.”
Her pretty face turned into a frown. “You sure? You look familiar.”
“I’ve got a place here, but I’m not from here, as in, originally. My business takes me out of town a lot so when I’m home, I usually stay home.”
A loud bang came from the table where the big guy was. He’d slammed his glass down on the tabletop.
“Beer me, bitch!” he called out.
The woman flushed red and put the rag down.
She walked over to the table.
“We’re fresh out of beer,” she said. “And the bar is closed for you, until you learn some manners.”
The big guy got to his feet and he was even bigger than Tallon had thought.
Tallon put his beer down and turned slightly, ready to move fast if need be.
The giant put his arm out like he was going to grab the waitress by the throat, but she deflected the arm up, caught it, and cranked it around the ogre’s back, and then she pushed him to the door.
It was quite a sight.
The giant had to outweigh her by a couple hundred pounds but she steered him like he was on a hand truck.
The real test would be the door. How would she get him out the door?
Tallon watched with interest as she slammed him forward, switched hands, and managed to open the door. She pushed him through and ignored his shouts and quickly shut the door behind him.
Tallon waited, wondering if the man would come back.
“He won’t,” she said, glancing at him.
She took her spot behind the bar.
“Nicely done,” Tallon said.
The woman was about to respond when Tallon’s phone buzzed.
He glanced down and saw the name.
Pauling.
19
When the door handle turned, Pauling made a bet in her mind. She was curious who they were sending to begin the next phase of whatever they wanted to call this.
The choices were Deerfield, Rodriguez, Ferguson and Starr.
Pauling made a mental bet that it would be Starr. The lowest-ranking member, someone she might feel she could wheedle some information from, and who, in turn, would try to get some more information from her, too. It was the easy choice. He would arrive with a hangdog expression on his face, maybe mumble an apology and bring her back, this time more as a member of the team, as opposed to an object of suspicion.
But she was wrong.
It was Ferguson.
“There have been some developments,” the woman said as she closed the door behind her and sat down in one of the chairs across from Pauling. Ferguson’s body language screamed contrition, but Pauling knew she wouldn’t actually verbalize an apology. The woman was simply hoping that her demeanor would convey the message.
Pauling decided to let her off the hook and accept the new approach.
“Great, let’s hear them,” Pauling said, the sarcasm creeping into her voice. There were no developments, she knew that. The only thing that was new was the next phase of their operation. Operation Pauling. What was the goal, she wondered?
“Timelines,” Ferguson replied. “New and verified.”
Pauling waited.
“The last woman happened while you were under surveillance.”
“The Asian woman?”
Ferguson nodded.
“So, what?” Pauling asked. “Wasn’t Deerfield hinting that I’m possibly behind all of these women disappearing? What’s it matter if I was there or not?”
“I don’t believe that’s what he thinks,” Ferguson said, toeing the line carefully. “In fact, I don’t believe any of us thought that. However, in a case like this there are never any certainties.”
“Well, you wasted a lot of time covering your…possibilities. In the meantime, I assume no one has found the women?”
Pauling was tempted to take her questioning even further, but she knew everything was probably being recorded, so there was no need to supply anything that could be used later,
out of context.
Ferguson didn’t answer and then Pauling realized something else.
“So you’ve been monitoring all of my communication?” That was why they weren’t worried about her suddenly. They knew she hadn’t been orchestrating anything.
The door opened and Starr poked his head into the room. A look of mild relief passed across Ferguson’s face. Pauling realized she’d been stalling.
“Okay, they’re ready.”
Ferguson quickly got to her feet and Pauling followed along. That’s how she thought of it anyway, sort of like playing along to get along. She knew that in reality, she could leave if she wanted to. If she really raised holy hell and decided that she absolutely had to get out, she could. They weren’t really going to hold her, or put her under arrest. For now, she was maintaining patience because she was curious. Now, she wanted to know the real story behind what had happened to these women.
And how Reacher was involved.
Pauling had seen through their smokescreen, the bluffs, the intimidation, the good cop/bad cop routine.
When she hadn’t cracked, they’d sent her away so they could talk among themselves and now they’d come to a conclusion.
Pauling followed Ferguson and Starr down the hallway to a smaller conference room. Deerfield was gone.
Now it was just Rodriguez.
Ferguson and Starr sat on opposite sides of Rodriguez, Pauling took the chair directly across from him.
She didn’t mind direct confrontation.
“The Bureau–” Rodriguez began, but Pauling cut him off.
“Yeah, I know,” she interrupted him. “The Bureau apologizes blah blah blah, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit – just tell me what’s going on.”
“We’re not really sure,” Rodriguez said. “That’s why we need your help.”
20
Tallon threw a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and nodded at the bartender. She gave a short wave of the hand and then he walked out the door. He was looking at his phone, at the text message Pauling had sent asking him to call her when he had a moment.
No rush, she’d added.
He was nearly at his SUV when he caught a sudden movement to his left.
The huge guy had just stepped out of a Ford 4x4 and was walking toward the bar.
With a baseball bat in his hand.
Tallon hesitated.
Something told him that the woman inside could handle this, too. But he thought about the way the big man had slapped her on the ass and it kind of pissed him off. In this day and age, that stuff shouldn’t happen. And Tallon would be damned if he’d let this big slab of meat go into that bar with a baseball bat. Inside, Tallon had let the woman handle the situation on her own, and she had done so admirably.
But out here, it was just the two men.
Tallon didn’t mind addressing the problem now.
“Hey, you heading to batting practice?” Tallon called out.
The big guy stopped and looked over at him.
“Maybe,” the guy growled at him, in a voice that was probably supposed to be menacing, but mostly sounded like an uneducated oaf. “Maybe your head will be the ball.” The big man wrinkled his face at Tallon, a gesture of attempted intimidation.
Tallon laughed.
“If you’re going into the bar, you don’t really need a bat, do you?” he said. He slipped his phone into his pocket and walked toward the big man.
Tallon saw the mild look of surprise in his eyes. The giant was expecting, and maybe used to, people walking quickly the other way. His size alone deterred most people who considered going up against him.
But now, someone didn’t seem to be bothered by it.
“You’re making a helluva mistake, pal,” the guy said, shaking his boulder-sized head like he truly felt compassion for folks who can’t make good decisions.
“You have any idea how hard it is to operate a successful small business these days?” Tallon asked. “90% failure rate. Why don’t you let her run her bar the way she wants to? Or go buy your beer somewhere else? You look like the kind of guy who could drink a case in one sitting. Maybe you should go to Costco or Sam’s Club. Buy your beer in bulk. You’ll save money that way.”
The big guy was incredulous. He turned and faced Tallon, took a couple of steps closer.
The man’s size was truly impressive, Tallon thought. He’d underestimated him a bit. Probably close to four hundred pounds, not much of it fat. Everything about the guy was enormous. A malfunctioning pituitary gland, had to be, Tallon thought. Or he was the illegitimate son of Sasquatch.
“I’m going to line up the sweet spot,” the guy started to say, holding the bat out in front of him. Even though it was a full-sized Louisville Slugger, it looked like a plastic toy in the big man’s hands.
He pointed it directly at Tallon like he was sizing up his swing. Maybe trying to recreate the famous Babe Ruth photograph.
It was the first mistake the big guy made. There would have been two decisions. Either swing, which would require a big windup, or lash out, with a jab. The jab tended to be better, especially done right and with enough force. A big swing was too easy to step inside, especially if the holder of the bat had huge arms, which was certainly the case here.
But to hold the bat out straight in front of him was the third, highly unusual choice. It was a decision made from sheer overconfidence. The idea that someone could take anything away from him never crossed the giant’s mind.
Tallon simply reached up with both hands and grasped the end of the bat.
A look of naked glee lit up the man’s eyes and Tallon knew exactly what he was going to do. The man would be enormously strong, and was probably constantly on the lookout for a chance to display his freakish ability. So he would heave back on the bat, hoping to lift Tallon off his feet, pull him in and bash him.
Maybe even deliver a head butt in the process.
And considering the size of the guy’s skull, it would be a punishing blow.
Tallon responded in a way that would give the big man what he wanted. Tallon seemed to dig in his heels and gather himself, as if he was going to heave back in some kind of epic tug-of-war. But instead of pulling, he pushed forward, just as the big man heaved backward.
The result was that the bat was now thrust in the same direction by two very strong men. It shot backward in a straight line, helpfully guided by Tallon, so that the butt end of the handle caught the man on the point of the chin.
Tallon heard a resounding crack and knew the man’s jaw was broken.
The man’s face went suddenly slack and he staggered slightly. Tallon’s momentum carried him forward and he kicked the man’s feet out from underneath him, no small feat in and of itself. Tallon’s shins felt like he’d kicked a pair of adult oak trees.
The leg sweep was successful, though, and the big man fell backward and Tallon heard the man’s giant skull crack on the pavement.
He wrenched the baseball bat free and threw it over the chain-link fence running along the side of the parking lot.
Tallon knew he should leave, but he also knew the odds were good that the man would come to, and possibly get a different weapon, like a tire iron, from his truck and continue the job he had intended to do.
Even on his back, the man appeared enormous. His hands were like catchers’ mitts. Tallon’s eyes lingered on the hands. A fact he’d read somewhere came to mind. Something about 90% of all hand function is performed by only the thumb and the index finger.
Tallon reached down, and took the man’s right thumb in his hand. It was like holding a roll of quarters. Tallon snapped it in two until it was dangling from a thin band of skin, and then he did the same thing to the index finger.
He was tempted to stop there, but then he pictured the man swinging a tire iron one-handed. It could still do a lot of damage. So he moved to the left hand and broke the thumb and index finger on that side, too.
When he was finished, he got into his SUV and drove quickly onto the f
reeway, back toward his casita. Hopefully, the local cops wouldn’t have an issue with what he’d done, and the owner of the bar didn’t seem like the type to snitch.
Tallon relaxed.
He would call Pauling from his home.
And then, hopefully, she would ask him to come to New York.
A small smile crept across Tallon’s face.
21
“My help?” Pauling repeated. “Interesting way of asking.”
“Like I said,” Rodriguez began again.
“No need,” Pauling stopped him. “Let’s get to it.”
With a sigh, the heavyset agent pushed back from the table and nodded to Starr, who was apparently the most technologically savvy member of the team. He powered up a laptop connected to a flat-screen monitor at the end of the room.
The image of a woman appeared. It was the same one Pauling had figured was a Fed.
“Agent Lisa Harper,” Rodriguez said. “One of ours. She’s been missing for over twenty-four hours. A very capable woman. Tough. Smart. Savvy. So far, there’s no evidence at all of what happened. No witnesses. No clues at her apartment. Nothing. It’s like she vanished.”
“What was she working on?” Pauling asked.
“That was our first thought, too,” Rodriguez said. “We went through everything. Her current cases. Closed assignments. Even future projects she hadn’t yet been assigned.”
“What was her most current case?”
Ferguson answered. “It had to do with a Romanian Ponzi scheme headquartered in Maryland. But the players involved in that are relatively harmless. White-collar types.”
The screen flashed and the next woman was the cop.
“Vaughan. From Hope, Colorado. Missing.”
Rodriguez spoke. “Ellen Vaughan. A cop for over a dozen years, husband was ex-National Guardsman, suffered a traumatic injury and died after holding on for a little while. She answered a stranded motorist call and disappeared. We listened to the 9-1-1 call and it was inconclusive. The phone used was a burner. It, too, disappeared after Vaughan was taken.”