Page 4 of Exit Strategy
Reacher said, ‘You dodged a bullet.’ He wrenched both locks, took the manilla envelope out of the briefcase, and set it on the table.
‘Is that …?’ Deep lines ate into the older guy’s forehead.
‘It’s your money. Take it.’
‘I don’t understand. Why so soon?’ The guy picked up the envelope and looked inside. His hands started to shake. ‘Wait. Where’s our profit? We were promised—’
‘You were conned. There is no profit.’
‘There is. There will be. Those other people – they tripled their money. We need … What have you done? How …? Who are you? You’ve ruined everything!’
Reacher slid his hand into the briefcase and pulled out a random bundle. He dropped it on the table.
‘What’s this?’
‘The other couple’sprofit. There are fourteen more, exactly the same. Go ahead. Count it.’
The old guy looked at the bundle for a long moment, like he was expecting it to grow legs and move on its own, then cautiously picked it up. There were three elastic bands holding it together. One in the center and one at either end. The guy hooked a fingernail around the band on the left and tugged it free. He fanned the bundle out. There was a twenty-dollar bill at the top. A twenty at the bottom. And between them, nothing but pieces of cut-up newspaper.
Harvey Jones caught his breath, pulled out his phone, and started to walk the final block toward the venue. Hecouldn’t risk being seen getting out of a taxi – a black town car with a chauffeur would be a different story – and it gave him a final chance to run through the brief from his employer. Reading in a moving vehicle always made him sick. The instructions said that he was to find a guy named Gilmour, who had asked for an urgent meeting. Why he wanted to meet was unknown. Two possibilities had been surmised. Gilmour was losing his nerve and wanted to bail on whatever job he was supposed to be doing. Or Gilmour was losing his mind and wanted to renegotiate terms. Either way, the answer was the same. Not a snowball’s chance in hell. Gilmour was to stay the course. He was to stick to the terms of their deal, or bad things would happen. What those bad things would supposedly be was left up to Jones. He would get to improvise. To showcase his talent, albeit to an audience of one.
Jones put his phone away and allowed himself a moment to daydream. He was heading to the Lyric Theatre in Manhattan, not some yuppified coffee place in downtown Baltimore. He was Sir Ian McKellen’s understudy about to step in and save the day with the most inspired performance of the decade, not … Wait. There was something wrong with his left arm. A jolt of pain surged from his shoulder to his wrist. His fingers tingled. He felt like a steel belt had been thrown around his chest. Someone was tightening it. Clamping it down. His legs gave way. He fell face down on the sidewalk. Managed to wriggle and roll onto his back. Then wished he hadn’t, because a safe fell onto his chest. Followed by a truck. And that was the last thing he ever felt.
THREE
The older couple stumbled out of the coffee shop shell-shocked, despondent, but with their money tucked safely back in the husband’s jacket pocket. Reacher was left at their table with their barely touched foamy drinks. He pushed them away, set the briefcase on the floor, waited a minute to give the couple the chance to get clear, then stood up to leave. But instead of heading to the exit, he joined the line at the counter. He’d only had two cups when he was there earlier. He’d cut his consumption short in order to follow the guy who’d first had the briefcase. It was not quite noon. He had plenty of time. So he ordered another coffee and took it to his original table, which was still free, complete with its abandoned newspaper.
Two single customers and the group of six left while he was drinking his coffee, but no one new came in. Noone paid any undue attention to anyone at another table. No other scams were unfolding, as far as he could see. The only slightly weird thing was that a couple of times he spotted a guy peering in through one of the windows without ever coming inside.
Reacher finished his cup then picked up the paper and glanced at the story on the front page. It was a rabble-rousing piece about a crisis that was brewing on the border between Turkey and Armenia. The gist was that a separatist faction from a small region in Armenia was helping Iran to refine weapons-grade uranium in return for support with their territorial claims. A whistleblower had defected from the group and had smuggled out video footage of the nuclear centrifuges in action. Clips had been posted online. Experts had chimed in. Condemnation was growing throughout the West. Diplomats were pressuring the separatists to quit, forthwith. The separatists were denying any involvement. Negotiations had hit a brick wall so talk was turning to the likelihood of a US-led invasion. No troops had yet been committed, but there were reports of a private contractor stationing its operators on the Turkish side of the Armenian border, primed for a rapid response if an intervention became necessary.
Reacher turned the page. He didn’t like private military contractors. The idea of war for profit didn’t sit well with him. The next story his eye fell on was about the evils of social media. Reacher had no experience in the field, and even less interest, so he put the paper down and fetched a refill of coffee.
Reacher drained his second cup, took another refill,then made his way to the door. As he went out the guy who’d been at the window finally decided to come in. He made it over the threshold right as Reacher got there. The other guy raised both hands, palms out, and leaned back like he was trying to get out of the way. One hand grazed Reacher’s shoulder just as their torsos brushed together. A classic pickpocket maneuver. An innocent contact to distract from a sinister one. Reacher kept an eye on the guy in case he bolted for some hidden rear exit and at the same time took a rapid inventory of the contents of his pockets. He felt his toothbrush. His expired passport. His ATM card. And a modest bundle of cash. Nothing was missing. It was a false alarm. Reacher continued on his way.
Reacher had one task to accomplish – buying a coat – and all afternoon to do it, so he took his time. He saw that a gaggle of pedestrians had gathered on the sidewalk a half block to the west. No one had been there when he returned from the alleyway, not long before, so he paused to see what had caught their interest. An ambulance had stopped in the middle of the street. A cop car was angled on either side, keeping the traffic at bay. A pair of paramedics were wrestling with a loaded gurney. Trying to heave it into the back of their vehicle. They were struggling, but not hurrying. A figure was strapped to it, covered with a blanket. Mostly covered. A giant pair of shoes protruded from one end and Reacher could see a shock of carefully styled brown hair at the other. A man’s arm in a wide black sleeve dangled down from the side. The fingertips almost grazed the pavement. Reacher watcheduntil the gurney was finally secured and the ambulance’s doors were closed. Then the paramedics made their way to the cab, climbed on board, and pulled away. Gently. There were no lights. And no siren. Which meant there was no chance for the guy in the back, Reacher thought. He wondered what had happened. He hadn’t heard any gunshots while he was in the coffee shop. No screeching of tires to suggest the guy had been run down. Nothing that pointed to a car wreck. And the cops on the scene looked pretty relaxed, so he figured it must have been some kind of innocuous accident. The random hand of fate, striking when it was least expected.
Reacher melted away with the rest of the crowd and began to wander the streets, heading generally toward the center of the city but zigzagging here and there to pass an interesting building or avoid waiting at a busy intersection. He didn’t want to spend too much on the coat, partly because he had no interest in fashion, but mainly because he never kept clothes of any kind for very long. Shirts, pants, and underwear he bought, wore for two or three days, junked, and replaced. A coat could theoretically last longer, but he didn’t know how long he would need it. He could be on a beach the next day. Or in a desert. So he avoided streets with any hint of high-end boutiques and eventually wound up at a mom-and-pop hardware store. Inside, he saw a selection of work jackets. Beige or brown. Faux-fur linings or plaid. He found one with sleeves that were just about long enough and took it to the register. He figured the tax and pulled out his cash so he’d be ready when he got to the front of the line, then stopped and stepped aside. He saw that he’dbeen correct about one thing back at the coffee shop: Nothing was missing from his pocket. But now a whole other kind of issue had come to light. Something extra was in there. Something that shouldn’t have been. That hadn’t been when he paid for his second round of coffee. A quarter of a sheet of letter paper, roughly torn on two sides and folded into a compact square. Reacher opened it. A message had been written in the center in bold capitals. It said:
MUST DISAPPEAR
LIFE IN DANGER
NEED HELP!
VACANT WAREHOUSE, ARGYLE & HORSEFERRY, MIDNIGHT TONIGHT
COME ALONE
BRING WHAT I’M OWED
And at the bottom of the sheet, in paler, shakier letters, like it was added as an afterthought:
PLEASE.
FOUR
Nathan Gilmour stayed in the coffee shop for half an hour after Reacher left. He stood in line, constantly glancing over his shoulder, bought a cappuccino, and took it to the table that Reacher had been using. Not because he was stalking Reacher. He still had no idea who Reacher was. But because that was the table with the best view of the entrance. Gilmour was pretty sure he hadn’t been followed, but the circumstances called for caution. He needed to be certain. He kept an eye on the door as he sipped his drink. He took his time. He emptied a quarter of the cup. Half. Then when he was confident that no one was paying him any attention he took out his phone – the one he’d used for texting – and switched it off. He held it under the table, out of sight, slipped off its back cover, and removed the battery. He had made contact with the person he’d been told to find.The biggest guy in the place. He had no doubt about that. So he wouldn’t need to send any further messages. Or to receive any. And even though Gilmour had no reason to believe that the man he’d been communicating with had the means to track his phone, he saw no reason to take the risk.
