by Scott Blade
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.”
“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 an
d 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.”
He gulped.
“Listen up. I got two questions. They’re important. You could say they’re a matter of life or death. Your life or death.
“You see, depending on how you answer, you might live—and then again, you might not.”
He said nothing.
I said, “How many guns on them?”
“One. Just Carter.”
I moved the muzzle in closer to him.
He said, “I swear!”
I nodded. I reached out slowly and gripped his collar. I pulled his face up close to the gun. I asked, “You got any evidence lying around? Somewhere safe? The kind of evidence you stashed away in case you ever got caught? You know, the type of evidence that’s bad for you, bad for them?”
He started to say something and then stopped. Again, he looked like he was thinking it over. He said, “Sure. Of course. Insurance policy. Lots of cops do that.”
“I figured. Where is it?”
He shook his head like all of a sudden he had decided that he would rather die.
I said, “Where is it? I’m not going to ask again.”
He gave me a locker number at an old train station in Las Vegas. I believed him. He had truth in his eyes—truth and fear.
I said, “Okay. Handcuffs?”
He nodded and looked down at his jacket pocket.
I said, “Slow. Get ’em out.”
He did.
I told him to get in the bathroom. He walked inside, and I handcuffed him to the pipe under the sink and checked his pockets. I took everything—phone, watch, keys, and badge. I memorized his name and badge number and all of his information, but I made a show of it to him. I kept his badge, but I didn’t need to do that. I would remember him. I just wanted him to know that I knew everything about him—and he knew nothing about me.
Before I left him in the bathroom, I shoved a huge wad of napkins down his throat so he couldn’t make any noise. I crammed them so far down that I was afraid he might choke on them, but I shrugged and figured he deserved it.
I darted back out the back door. I still had a primal urge to deal with. I walked off a little ways from the building. There was plenty of darkness and no one around. I took a minute to relieve myself. Then I took the US marshal’s keys and threw them as hard as I could into the dark woods to the east. I tossed the rest of his stuff—except for the Glock—in the dumpster.
I zipped my pants back up and headed back inside.
Chapter 14
I STEPPED THROUGH THE BACK DOOR and into the kitchen. I headed to the front of the restaurant, stopped at the swinging door. I tucked the Glock into the waistband of my pants and covered it with my shirttail.
I walked back into the restaurant and smiled at everyone. The guys still sat where they had been. I guessed they had been waiting for their friend’s signal.
Kara was at the counter, doing dishes in a low sink. Mostly coffee mugs and spoons. Most likely, she was just trying to look busy.
I sat down, looked at the two guys who were left, and smiled.
A shared expression of utter confusion swept over their faces. They looked at each other and then back at me, back at each other and then again at me. I ignored them and signaled for Kara to bring me another cup of coffee.
She brought it, and I thanked her but said nothing about the US marshal in the back or the danger she was in. Didn’t want to give it away. Not my strategy.
I wondered how long I’d have to wait before the steely guy came over and sat with me. Turned out it wasn’t long. I had only taken one pull from my coffee when I looked up to see him on his feet.
He unbuttoned the one button of his jacket as he approached, an ancient signal from the Old West. A gunslinger approaching a potentially dangerous situation usually exposed his gun, tucked into a belt holster.
I didn’t want to resort to guns. This was a small town and probably had a local constable or deputy on patrol. Small town cops could be a major headache because they came in only a few types, and usually the one who was the readiest to spring to action tended to work the graveyard shift. I wasn’t in the mood to stick around after a gunfight, giving explanations to cops, answering questions, or waiting in a jail cell. My motto was hit fast, hit hard, and get the hell out of town faster.
Just in case, I took one more pull from my coffee, slipped my free hand under the table, and took out the Glock. Laid it on my lap only as a precaution.
Regan Carter sat down across from me. He didn’t ask permission, just dumped himself down in the booth.
The big guy stood directly behind him like a big tree.
I looked at both of them and said, “No thanks, fellas. I’d rather sit alone. Not looking for company.”
Carter said, “Where’s Derek?”
I asked, “Who?”
“Marshal Derek? You went to the bathroom, and he went right behind you.”
I shrugged and said, “So?”
“So where is he?”
Carter had some kind of accent I wasn’t quite sure of. It was a mixture of East Coast meets the South. Maybe it was a North Carolina or West Virginia accent or something else from where the two converged.
I said, “I didn’t see him. The back door was open. Maybe he went out there to piss.”
Carter looked over his shoulder and said, “Go check.”
I smiled. Another tactic of combat that always worked was divide and conquer. I loved the classics.
The big guy said nothing. He walked back past the counter and into the kitchen.
Kara backed up against the wall as he passed. I figured she realized something was going on. She just didn’t know what exactly.
I guessed it would be only twenty seconds before the big guy either called out or came running back out of the kitchen. At which point, Carter would draw his weapon. I didn’t know what kind of gun he had. If I had to guess, I would say it was some kind of gold-plated nonsense. My first impression of him was that he was style over substance—no question.
“Who exactly are you, my friend?”
Five seconds had passed.
“Me? I’m nobody.”
Six seconds.
“Mr. Nobody, you got some bad luck.”
Eight seconds.
“How’s that?”
Ten.
“Cause yo
u’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Eleven.
Carter went for his gun. My mother had been a sheriff and an ex-Marine cop. She’d taught me a lot about combat and military verve. She used to say that self-defense was letting the other guy throw the first punch. But these weren’t fists. These were firearms. When it came to guns, if you let the other guy strike first, then you ran a very high risk of letting his first strike be your last.
The cemeteries were chock-full of guys who played by the rules.
Thirteen.
I’d planned on pulling the Glock before Carter went for his gun, but he was faster than I thought.
Fifteen.
Chapter 15
CARTER WAS FAST, but he made the same quick motion that every gunslinger throughout history has ever made. He grabbed his gun from his jacket and pulled it out into view—big and obvious. He was all about the show. At least that was his intention as it had been of all of those old, dead gunslingers from Texas all the way to California.
I didn’t go the traditional route. I already had my gun on my lap. I ducked my hand under the tabletop, put it on the gun, and squeezed the trigger. No finesse. No quick draw moves like in the movies. I was all about results, and the first result was not getting shot myself.
The gun fired under the table. The gunshot was deafening in the cramped space. It echoed loudly through the diner, the kitchen, and probably the parking lot.
I had to give Carter credit. He had gotten his gun completely out and in his hand and pointed almost in my direction. He was fast, but not fast enough. Preparation counted far more than finesse—I had been prepared every time.
The bullet must’ve slammed into his kneecap because his top half jolted forward like a catapult had launched him out of his seat. His gun was a shiny Colt Night Defender. The name was etched across the chrome barrel in huge letters. The whole thing was an insult to guns, at least it was to me. His gun was just like him, style over substance.
Carter screamed and wailed. I knocked the gun away from him. It slid across the table and fell down under the seat, out of view.