Page 28 of Exit Strategy
‘What are you expecting them to do? Bust in through the windows?’
‘No. But I don’t want to end up as a stain on the sidewalk the minute I step outside. I need you to be alert.’
‘I am alert.’
‘You look half asleep.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive.’
‘Okay, if you say so. Now, wish me luck. I’m hoping IT hasn’t deactivated it yet. I don’t want to have to use my own.’
Gilmour went to type, but before he could, he froze. His hands hovered over the keyboard, fingers outstretched, immobile. He had caught his reflection in the monitor. Just his silhouette – the glass wasn’t shiny like a mirror – but for a second he thought he’d seen the outline of his coworker’s face floating there. He closed his eyes and felt a shiver dance down his spine.
Reacher said, ‘What’s wrong? Did you forget the password?’
Gilmour shook the image away. ‘Of course not. I was just thinking, do you ever wish you could go back in time? Change something you did?’
‘No.’
‘Never?’
‘Why? It would be a waste of time.’
‘Even if you did something that had a bad outcome? Even if you hadn’t meant for it to?’
‘If you made a mistake, learn from it. Sure. But at the right time. After the action. Not during. Otherwise you lose focus. One mistake becomes two. Two becomes four. And then what will you want to do? Go back to before you were born?’
‘Right now I’d take that deal.’ Gilmour laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. ‘But there are no do-overs in life, I guess.’ He lowered his hands and his fingers began to dance across the keys. He checkedthe screen, then nodded. ‘Good. I’m in. The day’s the same for the shipment. The time’s the same. The holding zone is the same. We’re all good. Now let’s get out before anyone … Unless …’ He grabbed the mouse and started to click and scroll. ‘Wait a minute. This could … Hold on.’ He clicked again and a small square printer that was balanced between the two desks coughed into life. A single sheet of paper crawled out into its tray. ‘Right. Now I’m done.’
Reacher retrieved the paper. It was an image of the screen before Gilmour had shut it down. Nothing spectacular. Just a form with about eighty percent of its fields filled in. He said, ‘What am I missing? What are you seeing here?’
Gilmour said, ‘I’ll have to check. But if I’m right, I’m seeing a whole heap of trouble.’
EIGHTEEN
Dominic Kelleher didn’t consider himself to be a flashy kind of guy. He had money and he appreciated the finer things in life, but he didn’t draw attention to those facts. His choice of car was a case in point. He drove a Mercedes S560, which was a regular model, not the sportier AMG. It was five years old, in sober Lunar Blue, and he’d had the model designation badge deleted the first time the car went to the shop for an oil change. He didn’t have vanity plates, either. He didn’t feel the need to advertise that the car was his. Everyone in the neighborhood knew whose it was and therefore wouldn’t mess with it. But he did worry about strangers and dumb kids who were off their heads on drugs. People like that didn’t necessarily make wise choices, so he always parked in a reserved spot around the back of his bar. That provided security.And it was convenient. It was close to where he lived and worked, so he didn’t have to walk to whatever curbside spot he’d been forced to use. He could be certain he’d get in and out without delay whenever he had an appointment to get to.
Except for that day. He stepped out of the rear entrance to the Butcher’s Dog after a late breakfast and saw that his driveway was blocked by a line of cabs. Three of them, all from Rides-R-Us. They weren’t parked. All had drivers on board, and the one at the front – the newest and shiniest – was also carrying a passenger. Kelleher approached, ready to read the riot act, and the cab’s rear door opened. A man climbed out. Fyodor Gorbolevski. The owner of the cab company. Kelleher knew him. He was in his mid-fifties, six feet tall, and he looked to be about the same size across the chest. His head was shaved, and a jet-black goatee added some straight lines to his otherwise pudgy face.
Gorbolevski stepped up close to Kelleher and said, ‘Dominic, what the hell is going on?’
Kelleher forced a smile and said, ‘Top of the morning to you, too.’
‘Last night I did you a favor. I did you two favors. I put my drivers on alert for that Neanderthal you were looking for. And when they found him, I gave four of your guys a ride so they could settle whatever kind of score you two have.’
Kelleher nodded. ‘I appreciate that. I thanked you.’
‘Maybe you do appreciate it. But do you know what I do not appreciate? I now have one cab off the road. One handgun missing. And four of my drivers have quit.’
Kelleher was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘I didn’t know that. I’ll replace the gun, of course. And I’ll pay for the damage to the cab.’
‘Damn straight you will.’
‘And the drivers? Don’t worry about them. Guys are lining up to work for you. They always have been, since you first got here.’
‘They won’t be for long if word gets out that I hang with losers who can’t protect their own operations.’
Kelleher didn’t reply.
