Blue Moon

by Lee Child

  “Situation C,” Hogan said. “Got to be someone.”

  “Maybe not anymore,” Abby said. “They’ve been cut off two hours. I think the instinct would be to come out and fight on the barricades. At the wire. I think it would be irresistible. Because of human nature. You wouldn’t want to hide in a corridor, waiting for the inevitable.”

  Reacher said, “This is what the pointy-heads would call a wide range of baseline assumptions. Anywhere from no one in the room to a Guards regiment.”

  “What’s your guess?”

  “I don’t care,” he said again. “As long as Trulenko is one of them.”

  “Seriously.”

  “It’s a ratio. Depends how many nerds they have. There could be dozens packed in there. Rows and rows of them.”

  “No,” Vantresca said. “This is the custom shop. This is the skunk works. The drones are elsewhere. In the cloud.”

  “Or in their mom’s basement,” Hogan said.

  “Wherever,” Vantresca said. “Trulenko is an artist. It’s him, and a small handful of others. Maybe one or two. Maximum.”

  “OK,” Reacher said. “Then either four guards in the room, or one. Probably the close protection part of Situation C calls for a crew of four within arm’s-length contact at all times. Worst case, they’re maintaining discipline on that. Best case, Abby is right and Trulenko doesn’t like it. In which case maybe they came to a private arrangement. I saw it happen, time to time. Typically the watch leader sits in the corner like part of the furniture. Maybe they become friends. You could sell the movie rights. Meanwhile the other three from the crew go hang out someplace else, with whoever else Situation C has called for.”

  “Which is it, one or four?”

  The back of his brain said, one.

  Out loud he said, “Four.”

  They peered around the next corner, and Barton pointed out the corresponding door, that down on five had led to the big suites in back.

  Chapter 50

  The short end of the elevator core was at Reacher’s left shoulder. The door was dead ahead. Therefore outside of the width of the core. Therefore not part of the room itself. An exterior hallway, or an entrance lobby. Reacher pushed the door, with spread fingertips, slowly, carefully.

  An anteroom. Empty. Three chairs, dragged in, casually arranged. The back part of Reacher’s brain said, this is where they hung out. The other three from the crew. Then they heard the commotion at the elevators. They ran over there. Now they’re dead. The front part of his brain saw another door. Ahead on the left. In the side wall. Perfectly in line with the short end of the core. Therefore the door into the room.

  It was an impressive piece of hardware. Almost certainly soundproof. Like in movies Reacher had seen, about recording studios or radio stations. It hinged outward. Big and heavy. Slow to move. A security system all its own. To open it, a person would need to plant a hand on the wall, and curl about two hundred pounds with the other, all the time dragging his own center mass into a vulnerable gap he was making invitingly wider and wider by his own voluntary efforts. Nowhere to be found in the field manual. Because one guy or four inside, they would be guarding the point of entry pretty closely. Guns out and ready. Textbook. Their last stand.

  Reacher went through it in sign language. He tapped his chest. I will. He mimed wrenching open the door, a sudden jerk, maximum strength. He tapped Abby on the shoulder. Mimed kneeling and aiming at the future gap. He tapped Vantresca on the shoulder and mimed crouching and aiming over Abby’s head. Then Hogan, over Vantresca’s head. He put Barton at ninety degrees, just in case the door opened to reveal a different trajectory.

  The others got in position. Kneeling, crouching, standing. Reacher grasped the door, both hands. He braced his feet. He took a breath. He nodded, one, two, three.

  He wrenched the door.

  Abby fired. Vantresca fired. Hogan fired. All at once. One round each. Then nothing, except the clatter of a dropped gun, and the fleshy thump of a falling body, and hissing, ringing silence.

  Reacher looked around the door. One guy. The watch leader. No longer sitting in the corner like part of the furniture. No longer making friends. Recently standing alert, watching the door. Probably with his gun in a two-handed grip. But the wait was long. Time passed slow. Attention wandered. Focus drifted. Arms got tired. The muzzle drooped down.

  Beyond the dead guy was a room that looked pretty much the way Hogan had called it. White laminate and chilly air. Huge. The size of the street lobby. Windows floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Benches and racks. Someone’s idea of a technical facility. Maybe last year. Or last week. Since updated with an overlay of drooping wires and unexplained boxes. The heart of the operation seemed to be even skinnier than Vantresca had predicted. Five laptops, not six. They were lined up side by side, on a bench.

  Behind the bench were two guys. Reacher recognized Trulenko immediately. From Abby’s description. From the pictures in the paper. A pretty small guy. Young, but his hair was going. He wore eyeglasses. He won’t be breaking rocks in a quarry. He was wearing chino pants and a T-shirt. Next to him was a guy maybe five years younger. Taller, but reedy. Stooped shoulders already, from typing too much.

  Trulenko said something in Ukrainian.

  Vantresca said, “He just told his pal not to tell us anything.”

  “Not a good start,” Reacher said.

  Barton and Hogan backed the two guys away from their keyboards. Reacher looked out the window, at the earthlings below.

  He said, “Suppose you were writing a program. Here’s what you need to know about our side of the equation. We’re not affiliated with any government or any agency. This is purely private enterprise. We have two very specific and very personal requirements. Apart from them, we don’t give a shit. We have no dog in any other fight. Do exactly what we tell you, and we’ll leave, and you’ll never see us again.”

  No response.

  Reacher asked, “What does your impeccable software logic tell you will happen next?”

  No response.

  “Correct,” Reacher said. “We’re not affiliated with any government or any agency. Which means we obey no rules. We just fought through a whole army of the best tough guys you personally ever saw. We just penetrated your innermost lair. Which means we’re tougher than you. Therefore most likely nastier, too. Your impeccable logic tells you you’re going to suffer. If you don’t do what we want. Before we came here, we visited the hardware store. You can play it out like a game of chess. Obviously we’ll start with the kid. A victory for your side is very hard to imagine. Inevitably in the end you’ll do what we tell you. Logic dictates you should skip straight there. Save us all a lot of trouble.”

  Trulenko said, “I’m not one of these guys.”

  “But you work for them.”

  “I ran low on options. But hey, I’m not committed. Maybe we can work something out. I do two things, and you let me walk out of here. Is that what we’re saying?”

  “But don’t get smart,” Reacher said. “We know enough to know what you’re doing. We bought a glass cutter at the hardware store. We could cut a circle out of the window. We could throw you through. Like mailing a letter.”

  “What two things?”

  “The first is the pornography. All your different websites.”

  “That’s what you’re here for?”

  “Two very specific and very personal requirements,” Reacher said again. “The first is the porn.”

  “It’s a sideline, man.”

  “Erase it. Delete it. Whatever the word is.”

  “All of it?”

  “Forever.”

  “OK,” Trulenko said. “Wow. I guess I could do that. Mind me asking, is this some kind of moral crusade?”

  “What part of our process so far strikes you as moral?”

  Trulenko
didn’t answer. Reacher walked over and stood next to him. Barton and Hogan stood back. Trulenko stepped up to the bench. Reacher said, “Tell us what you got here.”

  Trulenko pointed. He said, “The first two are social media. A constant stream of made-up stories. Which also go to the bullshit websites, all of which are dumb enough to believe every word. They also go to the TV networks, only some of which are dumb enough. The third is identity theft. The fourth is miscellaneous.”

  “What’s the fifth?”

  “The money.”

  “Where’s the porn?”

  “Number four,” Trulenko said. “Miscellaneous. It’s a sideline.”

  “Go for it,” Reacher said. “Task number one.”

  The others crowded around. In truth their knowledge was rudimentary. From the consumer end only. But Trulenko didn’t know that. Their scrutiny seemed to keep him on the straight and narrow. He typed long streams of code. He answered yes, yes, and yes, to all kinds of are-you-sure questions. Text marched across the screen. Eventually it stopped.

  Trulenko stood back.

  “It’s gone,” he said. “The content is a hundred percent securely deleted, and the domain names are back for sale.”

  No one objected.

  “OK,” Reacher said. “Now get on five. Show us the money.”

  “Which money?”

  “All the liquid assets.”

  “So that’s what you’re here for.”

  “Makes the world go round.”

  Trulenko took a step to his right.

  “Wait,” Reacher said. “Stay on four for a moment. Show us your own bank account.”

  “Not relevant, man. I got nothing to do with these guys. They’re entirely separate from me. I came here from San Francisco.”

  “Show us anyway. Apply the impeccable logic.”

  Trulenko was quiet a beat.

  Then he said, “My business was a limited liability corporation.”

  “You mean everyone else took a bath, except you.”

  “My personal assets were protected. That’s the point of the corporate structure. It encourages entrepreneurship. It encourages risk taking. That’s where the glory is.”

  “Show us your personal assets,” Reacher said.

  Trulenko paused another beat. Then he arrived at the inevitable conclusion. He seemed to be a pretty quick and decisive thinker. Possibly influenced by his long association with computers. He stepped up again and typed and clicked. Soon the screen redrew. A soothing color. A list of numbers. Maxim Trulenko, checking account, balance four million dollars.

  Maria Shevick had pawned her mother’s rings for eighty bucks.

  “Leave that screen open,” Reacher said. “Shuffle along to number five. Show us what Gregory had.”

  Trulenko shuffled along. He typed and clicked. The screen redrew. He said, “This is the only liquid account. Petty cash, in and out.”

  “How much is in there at the moment?”

  Trulenko looked.

  He said, “Right now twenty-nine million dollars.”

  “Add your money to it,” Reacher said. “Send Gregory a wire.”

  “What?”

  “You heard. Empty out your bank account and move the money to Gregory’s.”

  Trulenko didn’t answer. Didn’t move. He was thinking. Fast, like he could. Within seconds he was at the acceptance stage. Reacher could see it in his face. Better to walk out broke than not walk out at all. Could be worse. He was quickly at home with the notion. Like one broken leg was better than both.

  He stepped back to four and typed and clicked. Yes, yes, and yes to the are-you-sure questions. Then he stepped back. The balance on four pinged down to zero. On five it bumped up to thirty-three million.

  “Now type in these numbers,” Reacher said. He recited Aaron Shevick’s bank account details from memory. Learned days before, ahead of the trip to the bar. The man with the prison tattoo thinks you’re Aaron Shevick. You have to go get our money for us. Eighteen thousand nine hundred dollars, on that occasion.

  I’m pretty much a round-figures guy.

  Trulenko read the numbers back.

  All good.

  Reacher said, “Now wire the money.”

  “How much?

  “All of it.”

  “What?”

  “You heard. Empty out Gregory’s bank account and move the money to the account I just gave you.”

  Trulenko paused again. The point of no return. His personal assets were about to disappear out from under his control. But one broken leg was better than both. He typed and clicked. Yes, yes, and yes. He stood back. The balance on the screen pinged down to zero. Thirty-three million dollars set out on a journey.

  Reacher looked at the others. He said, “You guys go on ahead. I’ll catch you by the elevator.”

  They all nodded. He thought only Abby knew why. They filed out. Past the dead guy. Vantresca was last. He looked back. Then he went.

  Reacher stepped up next to Trulenko.

  He said, “Something I need to tell you.”

  Trulenko said, “What?”

  “The part about you walking out of here.”

  “What about it?”

  “It was fake news.”

  Reacher shot him in the forehead, and left him where he fell.

  Chapter 51

  They spent the night at Abby’s place. In the living room, with its muted colors, and its worn and comfortable furniture, and its cozy textures. In the kitchen, with its coffee machine, and its white china mugs, and its tiny table in the window. But mostly in the bedroom. First they took long hot showers, obviously and overtly symbolic, but also warming and comforting and necessary and practical. They got out smelling clean and fresh and fragrant. Innocent. Like flowers. So far Reacher hadn’t said either way, not for sure, but Abby seemed to take it as their last night together. She seemed to have no regrets. I guess not forever. She was bold. She was funny. She was lithe, and experimental, and artful. Between times she snuggled, but she sought no security. Instead from time to time she stretched out like a cat. She smiled, wide and unabashed. A great feeling. You’re alive, and they ain’t.

  In the morning they were woken early by a phone call from the Shevicks. Abby put it on speaker. First Maria came on and said the scan showed total success. The improvement was remarkable. Their little girl was getting better. The doctors were dancing a jig. Then Aaron came on and said he was shocked by the wire. Nearly had a heart attack. Reacher told him what he had told him before. Give the rest away. To people in the same condition. Some to the lawyers. After buying back the house from the bank. Maybe Meg could move in, while she recovered. Maybe they could get a new TV. Maybe a new car also. Or an old car. Something interesting. Something fun. Maybe a Jaguar. A satisfying machine. Reacher said he had it on good authority.

  Then he left. He tracked around the downtown blocks, and he crossed Center Street, and he kept a polite distance from the high-rent districts. Half a mile later he arrived at the bus depot. He went in the door. He checked the board and bought a ticket. He still had five grand in his pocket. From the pawn shop. He was glad of it. He liked the heft, and the deadness. It would pay his way. Two or three weeks, at least. Maybe more, if he was careful.

  Ten days later he was drifting north with the summer. By chance on a bus he found a copy of The Washington Post. There was a long feature story inside. It said organized crime had been cleaned out of a certain notorious city. A longstanding problem, finally solved. Two rival gangs, both gone. No more extortion. Drugs gone, vice gone. No more random violence. No more reign of terror. The new police commissioner was taking all the credit. He called himself a new broom, with new ideas, and new energy. There was talk he might run for office one day. Mayor possibly, or maybe even governor. No reason why not. So far his record was sparklin
g.

  For Jane and Ruth

  My tribe

  By Lee Child

  Killing Floor

  Die Trying

  Tripwire

  Running Blind

  Echo Burning

  Without Fail

  Persuader

  The Enemy

  One Shot

  The Hard Way

  Bad Luck and Trouble

  Nothing to Lose

  Gone Tomorrow

  61 Hours

  Worth Dying For

  The Affair

  A Wanted Man

  Never Go Back

  Personal

  Make Me

  Night School

  No Middle Name

  The Midnight Line

  Past Tense

  Blue Moon

  Short Stories

  Second Son

  Deep Down

  High Heat

  Not a Drill

  Small Wars

  The Christmas Scorpion

  About the Author

  LEE CHILD is the author of twenty-three New York Times bestselling Jack Reacher thrillers, with fourteen having reached the #1 position, and the #1 bestselling complete Jack Reacher story collection, No Middle Name. All of his novels have been optioned for major motion pictures—including Jack Reacher (based on One Shot) and Jack Reacher: Never Go Back. Foreign rights to the Reacher series have sold in one hundred territories. A native of England and a former television director, Child lives in New York City.

  leechild.com

  Facebook.com/​LeeChildOfficial

  Twitter: @LeeChildReacher

  To inquire about booking Lee Child for a speaking engagement, please contact the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau at speakers@penguinrandomhouse.com.

  What’s next on

  your reading list?

  Discover your next