Blue Moon

by Lee Child

  “No.”

  “OK,” Reacher said. “We’re leaving here on foot. No choice. The small slender woman, and the big ugly man. Broad daylight. Eyes everywhere. Probably not a walk in the park anymore. Probably your second thing of the day.”

  “Back to Frank Barton’s house?”

  “We need to warn them somehow.”

  “I’ll keep trying the phone. But they’ll sleep till ten. You know how it is. Their gig starts at twelve.”

  “Wait,” Reacher said. “You can find Vantresca on your phone. He said he had a private security license, and his number was listed in the national directories.”

  Abby searched. She typed and swiped and tapped and scrolled.

  She said, “Got him.”

  Then she said, “It looks like it’s just an office landline. He won’t be in yet.”

  “Try anyway.”

  She did. She put the phone on speaker and held it balanced on her palm. They heard a series of clicks, as if the call was being bounced from one place to another.

  She said, “Maybe out of hours it forwards to his house.”

  It did exactly that. Vantresca answered. He sounded all squared away. He sounded crisp, and alert, and cheerful. And corporate. He said, “Vantresca Security, how may I help you?”

  Reacher said, “Guy, this is Reacher. The MP. Abby and I got your number from a directory. On that thing everyone talks about.”

  “The internet?”

  “That’s it. But this is not official, OK? Not for the after-action report.”

  “OK.”

  “Also it’s a shoot-first kind of thing. Just do it, right now, and ask questions later.”

  “Do what right now?”

  “Go check your pal Joe Hogan is OK. And Frank Barton.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  “I said questions later.”

  “That one now.”

  “The Albanians may be close to confirming where we were last night. May already have confirmed. Hogan and Barton aren’t answering their phones. We hope because they’re asleep.”

  “OK, on my way.”

  “Get them out of there, even if they’re OK so far. Could go south anytime.”

  “Where will they go?”

  “They can go crash at my house,” Abby said. “No one is watching it anymore.”

  “How long do they need to be gone?”

  “A day,” Reacher said. “That seems to be the way the wind is blowing. No need to pack a big suitcase.”

  Vantresca clicked off. Abby put her phone away. Reacher redistributed the things in his pockets, to balance his load. Abby buttoned her coat. They set out walking. A small woman and a big man. Broad daylight. Eyes everywhere.

  * * *

  —

  Gregory had said he would go talk to Dino again, first thing in the morning, and what Gregory said, Gregory meant. He got up early, and dressed the same way he had before, on his previous visit. Tight pants, tight shirt. Nothing to hide. No gun, no knife, no wire, no bomb. Necessary, but not comfortable. The dawn air was too cold for single layers. He waited for a little warmth, and until there were shadows. He wanted daylight hours to be visibly underway. It was a matter of presentation. He was a man of energy and vigor, as fresh as the new day, taking charge, taking action, bright and early. Not a mistimed nightcrawler coming in out of the gloom.

  Once again he drove to the garage on Center Street. Then he walked. Once again he was followed all the way. Once again calls were made ahead. When he got where he was going he found the same six figures, in the same half circle between the sidewalk and the lumber yard’s gate. Like chess pieces. The same defensive formation.

  Once again one of the six figures stepped up. It was Jetmir. Once again partly a blocking maneuver, and partly ready to listen.

  Gregory told him, “I need to speak with Dino.”

  Jetmir asked, “Why?”

  “I have a proposal.”

  “What kind?”

  “At this point it’s for his ears only.”

  “On what general subject?”

  “A matter of urgent mutual interest.”

  “Mutual,” Jetmir said. “A concept in short supply recently.”

  An impertinence, given their disparity in rank. Only one step apart, but it was the biggest step of all.

  But Gregory didn’t react.

  He said, “I believe we were both deceived.”

  Jetmir paused a beat.

  “In what way?” he said.

  “The fox got the blame, but really it was the dog who did it. You probably have a folk tale in your culture. Or a similar saying.”

  “Who is the dog?” Jetmir asked.

  Gregory didn’t answer directly.

  Instead he said, “That’s for Dino’s ears only.”

  “No,” Jetmir said. “Given the history of recent days, you’ll understand that Dino will not feel well disposed toward taking a meeting with you at this time. Not without an extensive preview of the issue at hand, and a good word, both from me. I’m sure you would operate in the same manner, under the same circumstances. You have a staff for a reason. So does Dino.”

  Gregory said, “Tell him we didn’t start killing your guys, and I don’t believe you started killing our guys. Ask him if he could get on board with that theory.”

  “And if he can?”

  “Ask him what it means.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “That’s enough of a preview. Now I’m requesting the courtesy of a meeting.”

  “Then who killed our guys? And yours? You’re saying someone was running a false-flag operation against both of us at once.”

  Gregory said nothing.

  “Yes or no answer,” Jetmir said. “Do you believe there was outside interference?”

  “Yes,” Gregory said.

  “Then we should talk. Dino delegated the matter to me.”

  “This is above your pay grade. With respect. There’s a reason staffs have bosses.”

  “Dino isn’t here,” Jetmir said.

  “When will he get in?”

  “He was in early. He already left again.”

  “I’m serious,” Gregory said. “This is very urgent.”

  “Then talk to me. Dino will tell you to anyway. Right now you’re wasting time.”

  Gregory said, “Did they take phones from you?”

  Jetmir paused a long moment.

  He said, “You ask because clearly they took phones from you, which would indicate an imminent data attack, which narrows the field, when it comes to potential opponents.”

  “We think narrows it all the way down to the only one who would dare.”

  “Dino will say you Ukrainians are always obsessed with the Russians. It’s a well known fact. You would accuse them of anything.”

  “Suppose this time it’s true?”

  “Neither one of us can beat the Russians.”

  “Not separately.”

  “Is that your proposal? I’ll make sure Dino gets it.”

  “I’m serious,” Gregory said again. “This is very urgent.”

  “I’m taking it seriously. Dino will get back to you as soon as he can. Maybe he’ll walk over to see you himself. To the taxi office.”

  “Where he will be treated with the same courtesy I have enjoyed here.”

  “Perhaps we’ll become accustomed to trusting each other,” Jetmir said.

  “Time alone will tell,” Gregory said.

  “Perhaps we’ll become friends.”

  Gregory had no answer to that. He walked away. Out of the scoop, onto the sidewalk, and west, toward Center. Jetmir stood and watched him go. Then he turned away and ducked back inside, through the judas gate, to the low corrugated shed, with t
he smell of pine and the whine of saws.

  Where his cell phone rang. With bad news. A made man from the night watch by the name of Gezim Hoxha had been found half dead in the trunk of his own car, abandoned way out on the edge of a ticky-tack old housing development. A tip had been called in by one of their old moneylending customers, hoping for points off her next loan. At that time no suspects had yet been identified. But a careful search of the area was already underway. There were extra cars on the streets. There were plenty of eyes wide open.

  * * *

  —

  Reacher and Abby threaded their way out of the Shevicks’ development by following their inward route in reverse, keeping well out of sight of the parked Ukrainian car, staying on side streets wherever possible, until the very last moment, when they had to make a right and join the main drag, that led past the gas station with the deli counter, and on toward downtown. Up until then they felt pretty good. But from that point onward the exposure was pitiless. The sun was bright. The air was clear. There was no possibility of concealment. It was a standard urban streetscape. On the left, a three-story brick façade, with dusty windows and mean doors. Then a brick sidewalk, and a stone curb, and a blacktop street, and a stone curb, and a brick sidewalk. On the right, a three-story brick façade, with dusty windows and mean doors. No cover anywhere taller than a hydrant, or wider than a light pole.

  Only a matter of time.

  Abby’s phone rang. She answered. Vantresca. She put him on speaker. She walked with her phone out in front of her, carried flat on her hand. She looked like a carving from an old Egyptian tomb.

  Vantresca said, “I got Barton and Hogan. They’re OK. They’re right here in the car with me. They told me what happened last night. No one has been to their house since then.”

  Reacher asked, “Where are you now?”

  “We’re setting out over to Abby’s, like she said. Barton knows where it is.”

  “No, come pick us up first.”

  “They told me you had a car.”

  “Unfortunately it just got repossessed. With the guy still in the trunk. Which is why I was worried about Barton’s address.”

  “No one has been to the house,” Vantresca said again. “Not so far. Clearly the guy isn’t talking yet. Maybe he can’t. Barton told me about the Precision Bass.”

  “A blunt instrument,” Reacher said. “But the point is right now we’re walking. Right now our asses are hanging out in the breeze. We need a rendezvous for an emergency evacuation.”

  “Where are you exactly?”

  Which was a difficult question. There were no legible street signs. They were either faded or rusted out or missing altogether. Maybe hit by a streetcar, the year the Titanic went down. The year Fenway Park opened for business. Abby did something with her phone. She kept Vantresca on the line, and came up with a map. There were pointers and arrows and pulsing blue spheres. She read out the street and the cross street.

  “Five minutes,” Vantresca said. “Maybe ten. Morning rush hour is coming. What is the exact location for the pick-up?”

  Another good question. They couldn’t stand on the corner like they were hailing a taxi. Not if exposure was their main concern. Reacher looked all around. Unpromising. Small commercial enterprises, not yet open. All faintly seedy. The kind of places where gray-faced individuals weaseled in about ten o’clock, after a last furtive backward glance. Reacher knew cities. On the next block he could see a waist-high double-sided chalkboard tented on the sidewalk, which probably meant a coffee shop, which would be open at that hour, but maybe hostile. No man on the door, in such a place on such a street, but maybe a sympathizer at the espresso machine, hoping for points off his loan.

  “There,” he said.

  He pointed to a narrow building across the street, about ten yards farther on. At the front it was propped up with steeply angled balks of wood. As if it was in danger of falling down. The wood supports were shrouded in a tough black net. Maybe a local regulation. Maybe the city worried about stressed chips of brick randomly flinging themselves outward from the faulty wall, to the detriment of passersby, or those lingering beneath. Whatever the reason, the result in practical terms could be used as an improvised semi-hideaway, because a person could squeeze in behind the net, and then just stand there, semi-obscured from view.

  Maybe sixty percent obscured. It was a thick net.

  Maybe forty percent. It was a sunny morning.

  Better than nothing.

  Abby relayed the information.

  “Five minutes,” Vantresca said again. “Maybe ten.”

  “What kind of car?” Reacher asked him. “We don’t want to squeeze out again for the wrong people.”

  “It’s an ’05 S-Type R in anthracite over charcoal.”

  “Remember what I said about armor people?”

  “We glamorize the machine.”

  “I didn’t understand what any of those words meant.”

  “It’s a moderately old Jaguar,” Vantresca said. “The hardcore sports version of the first refresh of the retro model they designed at the end of the nineties. With the upgraded cam followers and the bored-out motor. And the supercharger, obviously.”

  “Not helping,” Reacher said.

  Vantresca said, “It’s a black sedan.”

  He clicked off. Abby put her phone away. They started across the street, on a shallow diagonal, heading for the propped-up building.

  A car came around the corner.

  Fast.

  A black sedan.

  Too soon. Five seconds, not five minutes.

  And not an old Jaguar.

  A new Chrysler. With a low roof, and a high waistline, and shallow windows. Like slots. Like the vision ports in the side of an armored vehicle.

  Chapter 34

  The black Chrysler came on toward them, then slowed a step, then picked up again. Like a stumble. Like the automotive equivalent of a double take. As if the car itself couldn’t believe what it was seeing. A small slender woman and a big ugly man. Suddenly right there on the street. Front and center in the windshield. Large as life. Be on the lookout.

  The car jammed to a stop and the front doors opened. Both of them. Twenty feet away. Two guys. Two guns. The guns were Glock 17s. The guys were right-handed. Smaller than Gezim Hoxha, but bigger than the average. Not scrappy little Adriatic guys. That was for sure. Both wore black pants and black T-shirts. And sunglasses. Neither one had shaved. No doubt they had been dragged out of bed and sent on patrol immediately after Hoxha’s car had been found.

  They took a step forward. Reacher glanced left, glanced right. No cover taller than a hydrant or wider than a light pole. He put his hand in his pocket. The H&K that he knew for sure worked. That he also knew for sure he didn’t want to use. A gunshot on a city street at night would get a reaction. Ten times worse in the innocent morning sunshine. There would be more officers on the day watch than the night watch. They would all deploy. There would be dozens of cars, lights flashing, sirens going. There would be news helicopters and cell phone video. There would be paperwork. There would be hundreds of hours in a room with a cop and a table screwed to the floor. Abby’s phone log would implicate Barton and Hogan and Vantresca. The mess would spread far and wide. Could take weeks to resolve. Which Reacher didn’t want, and the Shevicks didn’t have.

  The guys with the Glocks took another step. They were coming in from wide, around their thrown-open doors, guns first, shuffling steps, rigid two-handed grips, concentrated squints over their front sights.

  Another step. And another. Then the guy on Reacher’s right, who had been the driver, kept on coming, but the other guy stopped. The passenger. A wheel play. Like sheepdogs. They wanted to get one of them around and behind, to press Reacher and Abby toward the other one, toward the far sidewalk, toward the three-story wall, where they would finally run out o
f room. An obvious, instinctive tactic.

  Which depended on Reacher and Abby first staying where they were, and then rotating meekly in place, and then stumbling backward.

  Not going to happen.

  “Abby, take a step back,” Reacher said. “With me.”

  He stepped back. She stepped back. The driver’s geometry was distorted. His envelope was enlarged. Now he had further to go.

  “Again,” Reacher said.

  He stepped back. She stepped back.

  “Stand still,” the driver said. “Or I’ll shoot.”

  Reacher thought, will you? It was one of life’s great questions. The guy had all the same structural inhibitions as Reacher himself. The dozens of squad cars, with their lights flashing and their sirens going. The news helicopters and the cell phone video. The paperwork. The hours in the room with the cop. Which would produce an uncertain outcome for the guy. Inevitable. Could go either way. There were no guarantees. Don’t frighten the voters. There was a new police commissioner on the way. Plus the guy had professional obligations to consider. There were questions to be answered. They thought Reacher was an outside agitator. We want to know who you are. There would be bonus points for his capture still able to talk. There would be punishments for his delivery dead or comatose or mortally wounded. Because the dead and the comatose couldn’t talk, and the mortally wounded didn’t last long enough to talk, when they brought out the spoons, and the electric saws, and the smoothing irons, and the cordless power tools, or whatever other grotesque procedures were favored east of Center. So would the guy shoot? Unlikely, Reacher thought. Probably not. But always possible. Was he prepared to bet his life on it? Probably yes. He had before. He had gambled and won. Ten thousand generations later his instincts were still working. He had walked away, and lived to tell the tale. In any case he was fundamentally indifferent. No one lived forever.

  But was he prepared to bet Abby’s life on it?

  The driver said, “Show me your hands.”

  Which would be game over. The point of no return, right there. Which was getting close anyway. The geometry had gone bad. The driver and the passenger had gotten about sixty degrees apart. They were well positioned for enfilade fire. The likely sequence of events was easy to predict. Reacher would shoot through his pocket and hit the driver. One down. No problem. But then the sixty-degree turn toward the passenger would be slow and clumsy, because his hand would be still all snagged up inside his pocket, which would give the passenger time to fire, maybe two or three rounds, which would either hit Abby, or Reacher himself, or both, or miss altogether. Almost certainly the lattermost, he thought, in the real world. The guy was already jumpy. By then he would be startled and panicked. Most handgun rounds missed their target under the best of circumstances.