Page 3 of Exit Strategy
The woman’s hand kept moving.
‘Think you can outrun me? Maybe you’re right. But can you outrun a car?’ Reacher held up the key he’d taken from the ignition a minute earlier.
The woman pulled her hand away and scooted slowly to Reacher’s side of the back seat. She didn’t lower the briefcase. She said, ‘What do you want?’
Reacher said, ‘The old couple you took money from in the coffee shop. Who are they?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Just some dumbass losers.’
‘How much did they give you?’
‘Ten grand.’
‘When did you promise to hand over their profit?’
‘Tomorrow. Same time. Same place.’
‘Only you won’t be there. There won’t be a profit. And the old folks will lose their life savings.’
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
‘Give me the briefcase.’
The woman pulled the case tight to her chest. ‘No.’
Reacher gestured to the two men lying immobile on the ground. ‘Want to join them?’
The woman didn’t answer.
‘Does conning seniors come with health insurance? I hear that a long stay in the hospital is expensive.’
‘Fine.’ The woman tossed the briefcase onto the ground. ‘But if anyone’s looking at a hospital stay, it’s you. The guy we work for, you can’t just rip him off. There’ll be consequences.’
‘The guy you work for? Who is that?’
The woman was silent for a moment. ‘I’m not saying his name.’
‘No matter. Because I’m not ripping him off. The money’s not his. It belongs to those old folks. I’m going to return it to them.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘Watch me.’
‘Why would you do that when you could keep it?’
‘If you need to ask, you won’t understand. Now go. Tell your boss what happened here. Then make sure I never see any of you again.’
The same time Reacher was leaving the alley, Harvey Jones was climbing out of a cab. He was moving slowly,and that was not just because of his size. Jones was six feet seven and weighed three hundred pounds. He was feeling demoralized by the phone call he’d received a half hour earlier. The call offering him the job he was on his way to now. Jones was an actor. At least he wanted to be an actor. But whether it was his height or his weight – actors are mostly tiny, for some reason he could never understand – or a lack of good scripts, he could never land a decent role. The only work he could get was playing an enforcer and putting the fear of God into assorted lowlifes for a localbusinessman. A guy he’d met through another resting actor after his latest agent dumped him. He told himself he was doing a good deed. The threat of a beating is better than the real thing, morally speaking. Making the performance believable took skill. And at least it paid well. He did have to eat after all.
The old couple was still at the same table when Reacher got back to the coffee shop, but they were looking a lot less gray. They were sitting straighter in their seats, laughing and giggling and holding hands, and there were two drinks in front of them. Tall conical glasses full of foamy milk with horizontal stripes of espresso shot through them.
Reacher walked up to their table, settled into one of the empty chairs, and balanced the briefcase on his lap. No one spoke for a moment, then the older guy said, ‘This table’s taken. Find your own.’
Reacher said, ‘I’m here to deliver a message. I’m not staying.’
‘What message? Who are you?’
The woman nudged her husband and gestured to thebriefcase on Reacher’s lap. Confusion had replaced all the happiness on her face.
