Page 56 of Exit Strategy
Gilmour dumped the car behind the penultimate stack of freestanding containers. He took out his gun and swung his pack onto his back. Reacher led the rest of the way on foot. He approached the gap between the angled containers and the fence. He stepped into it, moved forward, and saw that the enclosure wasn’t empty. A container was already there. It was sitting toward one side, on its own. It was painted a deep red color and the security tags on its door seals were missing.
Gilmour stepped up to Reacher. He said, ‘Is that it? Are we too late?’
Reacher said, ‘One way to find out. I’ll look inside. You keep watch in case this isn’t it.’
Gilmour turned and started to move away, but Reacher grabbed his arm and pointed to a ladder set into the side of the nearest container. He said, ‘Up there.’
Gilmour said, ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. No one ever looks up. It’s a thing. Trust me.’
Gilmour looked at Reacher like he’d told him he had a bridge for sale, but he tucked his gun into his waistband and started to climb, anyway. Reacher waited until he had disappeared onto the top of the stack, then crept toward the red container. He closed to within ten feet. Five. He felt in his pocket. He still had the flashlight he’d used at the warehouse two nights ago. He pulled it out. Took another step. He stretched for the handle that operated the locking mechanism. Then he heard Gilmour’s voice from above and behind him.
Gilmour whispered, ‘Stop. Incoming. Thirty seconds.’
Reacher dropped the flashlight back in his pocket and ran across to the long stack of containers. He went to the far end with the ladders, which was by the fence. He started to climb. The stack was three high. That gave him ten seconds per level. Say nine, to be safe, allowing for crossing the open ground. Gilmour had gotten up in less time than that. But Reacher was slower than Gilmour. He was heavier. The rungs were small and fiddly for his hands to grip and the gap to the container wall was almost too shallow for his feet. His right foot slipped once. It slipped again. He had to consciously slow himself down. Move steadily. Deliberately. He made it to the top of the first container. The clock in his head told him he was three seconds off the pace. He climbed a little faster and realized he could hear something. A vehicle engine. It was rough and heavy, and it was coming closer.
Reacher ignored the sound and focused on the ladder. He got to the top of the second level one second behind schedule. Then his left foot slipped. That cost him another second. He kept going. Pushed harder. Moved faster. His hands found the top of the final container. He pulled himself up and over and rolled onto his front. Gilmour was at the opposite end of the row, also on his stomach. He’d taken off his backpack and set it down at his side. Ahead of him two things were moving. Slowly. Two pieces of metal. They were held parallel, like vertical rails or girders, and their tips were as high again as the stack of containers Reacher was lying on. They were traveling in unison, like they were floating in the air, but obviously they had to be connected to somethingon the ground. A vehicle. Presumably the one Reacher could hear approaching. But he couldn’t see what kind it was. He was too far back. The containers were blocking his view. Which meant the driver wouldn’t be able to see him, either.
Reacher pulled himself into a crouch and ran along the top of the containers, staying to the center, then dropped back down next to Gilmour. He wriggled a few inches farther and the vehicle came into view. It was a giant forklift. Its body was painted bright orange. It was the size of a semi cab. It had four wheels with huge fat tires. Each one was the height of a regular family car. A pair of thick forks jutted out from the tall rails he had first seen and attached to them, broad side on, six feet clear of the ground, was another container. This one was blue.
The forklift slowed then pulled a tight left turn to line itself up with the gap at the end of the stack of containers that Reacher and Gilmour were lying on. It crept forward. There were only inches to spare on either side. It kept going, all the way through to the enclosed space. It twisted left again and stopped. It was still for a moment, then its engine note changed. The blue container it was carrying began to move. It crept down until it hit the ground. A hollowboomreached their ears a moment later and the container was left resting on the ground, roughly parallel with the existing red one.
The red container’s right-hand door swung open and a woman stepped out. She was dressed all in black. Boots, jeans, hoodie, and gloves. Her hood was hanging down around her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. It was dark. And it was streaked with gray. Gilmourpulled a small pair of binoculars out of his backpack and focused them on her.
‘It’s her,’ he whispered. ‘Kasselwood.’ He handed the binoculars to Reacher. ‘Check her scar.’
Reacher took a look. He nodded. ‘Confirmed.’
‘She’s beaten the CIA to the punch. Where the hell are those guys? Does she have backup? Should we stop her?’
‘No. Maybe this is part of the plan. Maybe the CIA guys want to catch her in the act. We just watch. For now.’
Kasselwood opened the second door, then hurried across to the blue container. She was limping slightly, and seemed to be favoring her left leg. She pulled a knife from her jeans pocket, sliced through the security tags, worked the locking mechanism, and pulled open both doors. She ran back to the red container and disappeared inside it. Another engine fired up. A forklift’s. It backed out. It looked more compact than a regular-sized one and its masts were lower. Kasselwood was driving it. She spun it around, lined it up, and drove it inside the blue container. Reacher and Gilmour heard a whirring sound, then a couple of bangs, then the forklift backed out again. It was carrying a wooden crate now, maybe four feet wide by five feet long and five feet high. Kasselwood looped around and drove the forklift into the red container. A moment later she ran across, closed the blue container’s doors, and handed an envelope to the other driver. He mimed a salute, cranked the blue container up a few feet, maneuvered the rig around, and squeezed out of the enclosed space.
Kasselwood ran to the red container, darted inside, and a couple of minutes later backed out again in the forklift.It was no longer holding the crate. She spun it around to the side of the container, killed the engine, ran back, and disappeared inside the container, pulling up her hood as she went. Another engine fired up. A pickup truck backed out. It was a Toyota, some kind of bronze color, sprayed with mud around the wheel arches, and the crate was strapped down in its load bed. The driver hopped out. Her hood was still up. She slammed the container doors, jumped into the truck, drove through the gap, and accelerated toward the terminal’s exit.
Reacher said, ‘Call James. Tell him to lock it down.’
Reacher crawled to the top of the ladder, swung his leg over the side, found a rung with his toe, and began to lower himself down. He forced himself to take it easy. Hold tight. Move steadily. His left foot slipped once, but he made it to the ground without any major problems. Gilmour caught up a moment later and started for the gap. Reacher grabbed his arm and pointed to the red container. He said, ‘I want to look in there first. Kasselwood may have thought she was playing to an audience.’
Reacher took out his flashlight, opened the container’s right-hand door, and stepped inside. A lingering smell of exhaust fumes was hanging in the air. There was a small pool of oil on the floor, presumably dropped by the forklift. A crowbar was lying near the left-hand wall. A pair of bolt cutters was tucked behind a reinforcing bar at the far end. A candy wrapper had been dropped in the corner nearest to it. But other than those things, the container was empty. Reacher strode across the floor, grabbed the crowbar, then hurried back outside.
Gilmour had been cautious on the way into the terminal, but returning to the gate, he didn’t hold back. A couple of dockworkers had to jump out of his way, and they were not shy about sharing their opinion of his driving. They didn’t meet any other vehicles, but Reacher did glimpse a black panel van going in the opposite direction, through the channel between the next parallel rows of containers to the north.
James had done his job. The Toyota was sitting just in front of the gate. Gilmour pulled up behind it and Reacher jumped out. The crate was still in the truck’s bed. Its engine wasn’t running. Reacher moved around to the side and saw the driver hunched over the wheel, hood still pulled up. James was standing by her door with his sidearm in hand.
He said, ‘She gave me a name. Kasselwood. But aside from that she won’t talk.’
Reacher crossed to the rear of the truck. He released the tailgate, jumped into the truck’s bed, loosened the straps that were holding the crate in place, removed them, then went to work with the crowbar. The lid came loose in a couple of seconds. He pushed it aside, looked in, then jumped down.
Gilmour climbed out and said, ‘Well?’
James moved closer. ‘What did she steal?’
Reacher said, ‘Nothing. The crate’s empty.’
Gilmour said, ‘How can it be? There wasn’t time for them to stop and unload it.’
