Page 32 of Exit Strategy
Gilmour read a follow-up message, then nodded. ‘He says first, it would be pointless. Ops like this are untraceable by design. There’ll be no trail of breadcrumbs for any other agency to follow, even if they wanted to help. And they’re run by experienced guys with unlimited budgets. They’ll be expecting to be attacked by professionals. Nothing these amateurs can pull will get close to them.’
‘We don’t know they’re amateurs. We don’t know who the guy who set you up is working for. Or with.’
‘It doesn’t matter, honestly. You wouldn’t believe the kinds of things that have been tried in the past. Foreign operatives camping out on the docks in containers taken from maintenance depots and using them to launch their attacks. Or kidnapping refugees and throwing them overboard out at sea to get the host ship to slow down so it can be boarded. The point is, CIA or independents, they’ll be prepared. We don’t have to worry about them.’
‘Prepared is good. Forewarned is better.’
‘Maybe. But there’s a second reason to let it drop. My buddy says there’ve been times when foreign operatives have called in speculative reports as an attempt to verify if an operation was under way. They could think we were doing the same thing. We could wind up getting ourselves thrown in jail. Or worse.’
Reacher found nothing else interesting in the newspaper, so he set it down and began to run through some songs in his head. He had just finished ‘Waitin’ on the Night Train’ by Junior Wells when he felt a prickling sensation spreading up from the base of his neck. It was a product of his lizard brain. A remnant from thetimes when humans depended on their instincts to survive. An ancient warning that someone was watching him. He scanned the room and it only took a moment to identify who had his eyes on him. The kid behind the counter. Thebarista. Kevin, his name tag said. He had a gap in his stream of customers and was leaning on his elbows on the service counter staring at Reacher. Reacher stared right back. Kevin couldn’t handle the intensity for long. He looked away, then shuffled around the end of the counter and scurried toward Reacher and Gilmour’s table. He glanced around the room, then bent down and said to Reacher, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your coffee.’
Reacher said, ‘Then don’t.’
Kevin looked baffled. He said, ‘What?’
‘Interrupt my coffee. Why do something you don’t want to do?’
Kevin paused. He shook his head, then said, ‘It’s just that, I thought you should know, the guys you argued with yesterday? Who tried to rip off those old folks who were here? I saw them out back a minute ago. There’s another old couple with them. I think they’re going to steal their money, too.’
Reacher glanced around the room, then leaned forward and said, ‘You think they’re going to commit a crime?’
Kevin nodded. He said, ‘I think so. Yes.’
Reacher stood up, sending Kevin scuttling back. He said, ‘Then call 911. Me? Not my problem. I’m out of here.’
Gilmour looked up, surprised. Reacher gestured for him to stay put, then crossed to the door. He went outinto the street. Walked a block to the east. That was the opposite direction from the alley he’d followed the scam artists into the day before. He made a left, then cut back along the narrow street behind the building that housed the coffee shop. He identified its fence. It was made of wood, six feet high. Reacher crept toward it. He peered over and saw two guys. One was around six feet six, skinny, with long blond hair. The other had to be no more than five feet six, with broad swimmer’s shoulders and a shaved head. They had their backs to Reacher and were watching the building’s rear entrance. The one employees would use when they needed to take out the trash. A wheelchair was parked at the tall one’s side. It was a heavy-looking thing. Sturdy. Hard to break. Extra bars had been welded to it. Thick leather straps had been attached to the bars. One pair at thigh level. Another at ankle level. The guy shifted his position and Reacher saw he was holding something. It was like a handgun, but bright orange. A taser. There was a tool chest on the ground by the shorter guy’s feet. A black cube with drawers and wheels and a handle. A yellow cordless drill was sitting on top of it with a long, wide bit.
Reacher stepped back and examined the fence. He needed to know if it would be strong enough to take his weight if he climbed on it, or vaulted over it. He figured it wouldn’t be. Its panels were thin. The grain was coarse. It looked like it had been years since it had seen any maintenance. Its posts were slender and most were far from vertical. If he even leaned on it he figured there was a good chance it would collapse, so he backed away. He movedto the far side of the street. Planted his feet for maximum grip. Then hurled himself forward like a sprinter at the starting gun. He picked up speed. Closed in on the fence, aiming right at its center panel. He turned his shoulder a moment before impact. The wood shattered. Fragments flew all around. One post was pulled out of the ground. Another snapped a couple of inches above its base. Ahead of him, the two guys were just starting to turn as Reacher powered away from the gap he had made. He kept up his speed. He spread his arms wide like a preacher. The tall guy reacted faster, so Reacher’s right forearm caught him square in the chest. His left arm slammed into the short guy’s shoulder. They both went down like bowling pins. The tall guy scrambled onto his hands and knees, trying to stand. Reacher kicked him in the side of the head. He was aiming for the guy’s temple but misfired slightly and hit him in the jaw. The hinge shattered and his mouth sagged open. He howled like a dental patient with no anesthetic, then flopped onto his side. He rolled back and stopped, slack and silent and still.
The short guy was trying to heave himself upright, too, so Reacher said, ‘Stop, or I’ll kick your head clean off.’
He stopped.
Reacher said, ‘What’s wrong with you guys? Can’t you count?’
The guy grunted.
‘There are two of you and just one chair. What’s the story?’
The guy said, ‘The chair’s not for us, wiseass.’
‘Who’s it for?’
The guy was silent.
Reacher raised his voice. ‘Who’s it for?’
‘You.’
‘What makes you think I need it?’
The guy didn’t answer.
Reacher pointed at the drill. ‘What’s that for?’
‘Yard work. We were going to fix the fence.’
‘Why are there extra straps on the chair?’
