Page 67 of Exit Strategy
The guard from the opposite post had also drawn his weapon. He took a step into the road, then raised it and moved into a two-handed marksman’s stance. Reacher started moving toward him.
The guard said, ‘Stop. No closer.’
Reacher raised his arms and took another step. He said, ‘Hold on. We just want to talk.’
The guard lined the gun up on Reacher’s chest. ‘No closer.’
Reacher slowed a little, but kept moving. He said, ‘You don’t understand. There’s a riot outside, and—’ Reacher sprang forward. He covered the last six feet with one step and grabbed the guard’s right wrist. He shook it, hard, breaking the guy’s double grip, then he pushed up so that the gun was pointed at the ceiling. He spun the guy around, clamped his right forearm across the guy’s throat, and began to apply pressure. The guy’s windpipe started to collapse. He couldn’t breathe. He started to panic. He dropped the gun and clawed at Reacher’s forearm with both his hands. He tried to stamp on Reacher’s feet. Kick backwards into his knees. He wriggled and twisted and writhed. Reacher pushed his left arm out then bent it up at the elbow. He trapped his own right wrist and pulled back, adding to the pressure on the guy’s throat. The guy thrashed harder for a moment, like a fish on a line as it neared the shore, then his bodywent limp. His head nodded forward and his lips began to turn blue.
Reacher relaxed the pressure and after a second the guy’s breathing came back, rough and ragged. His body stiffened and right away he started to struggle again. Reacher pulled his forearm back, hard, but just for a second. Then he said, ‘Listen carefully. You have a decision to make. Do you want to live or die? Nod your head once if you want to live.’
The guy nodded one time.
Reacher said, ‘I need some information. A woman arrived today. Violeta Vardanyan. Is she still here?’
Reacher eased the pressure on the guy’s throat a little more to allow him to talk.
The guy’s voice was harsh and raspy. He said, ‘Don’t know.’
‘You saw her arrive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see her leave?’
‘No.’
‘Where are special visitors usually taken?’
‘Conference room.’ The guy gestured vaguely toward the other side of the road. ‘Then they get the tour.’
Reacher said, ‘Where are they taken if they’re here for a meeting? Not a tour.’
‘Don’t know. That’s above my pay grade.’
‘Guess.’
‘Mr Strickland’s office, probably.’
The guy turned his head to the side and dropped like a dead weight, trying to slide out from under Reacher’s forearm. But he was too slow. Reacher saw it coming. Heclamped down, trapping the guy, then increased the pressure on his throat. He kept his grip firm and steady. The guy struggled for a moment, weakly now, then his head pitched forward again and his lips turned a darker shade of blue.
Reacher carried the guy he’d incapacitated across the road and bundled him into the guard post. It was a cramped, rectangular space with a solid door and a chest-high sliding window. Inside, there was a shallow counter made of unfinished plywood, a fabric-covered office chair with no arms, and a file cabinet with two drawers. There was a clock on the wall, which Reacher noticed was a minute slow, and next to that was an old-school whereabouts board. It was divided vertically into two halves. The left side had a list of names embossed in gold on a black background. A token in a horizontal slot next to each name could slide back and forth. It was moved to the left to show that the person was in, and to the right to show they were out. The other half was just a regular whiteboard. Seven names were scrawled on it in fading blue marker, along with one pair of initials in the top right-hand corner.
Reacher leaned his head out of the guard post door and said, ‘Guys. Come see this.’
Of the permanent names on the left of the board only one was markedIn. Morgan Strickland.
‘The senior staff are thin on the ground,’ Gilmour said.
‘They’ll all be deployed,’ Kasselwood said. ‘Waiting to slip the leash and rake in more cash for Strickland Security.’
‘Seven handwritten guys,’ Gilmour said. ‘These two sleeping beauties, and the five mixing it with the mob outside?’
Reacher said, ‘Makes sense. Then there are the initials. VV.’
Kasselwood said, ‘Violeta. It has to be. Too much of a coincidence otherwise. I guess whoever wrote it was being discreet. Or mysterious.’
‘Or maybe he’s bad at spelling,’ Gilmour said.
