Page 3 of In Too Deep

“That’s your idea ofstraight?”

“Listen. I found something out about Gibson. Earlier today.”

“Found out what?”

“I can’t say. Not on the phone. But it has implications.”

“What kind of implications?”

“First and foremost, we need to shift up our timetable.”

“By how much?”

“We have forty-eight hours, maximum. Then we need to be gone. Like we never existed.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It is. Grab what you need from the house. Just the essentials. Not so much as to be suspicious. We have the one physical job to take care of. Then we can cash in on the report later.”

“The job’s not happening for five days. It can’t. We have to wait for the final delivery.”

“No. We have to take what’s there now. Eighty percent of something is better than a hundred percent of nothing. I’ll talk to Fletcher. Get him to move up the schedule.”

“And if he won’t?”

“We’ll walk.”

“I don’t want to walk. I set the job up. Found the opportunity. I’m invested.”

“I get that. But, end of the day, that job’s a luxury. It’s not make or break. We have to stay focused. Think about the future. Our new lives. Not what we’re leaving behind.”

Paris didn’t reply.

“That just leaves one loose end.” Vidic glanced down at the wrecked Lincoln. He thought about the two men he’d dragged out of it. Gibson. And the giant stranger. One dead. One alive. For now, anyway. He raised the phone back to his ear and said, “I’mgoing to need a bunch of phosphorus. Can you bring some to the house?”

“I can try. How much?”

“Enough to burn a body. Completely. Prints. Teeth. DNA. The full nine yards.”

Chapter3

Reacher was again woken bya sound. A door opening, this time. His eyes were closed but he could sense light. Fairly dim. Then much brighter. He heard footsteps approaching. One set. They came close, then stopped. Reacher opened his eyes, slowly, against the glare. The dizziness had receded a little but everything looked pale and washed-out, like a watercolor made by a beginner who didn’t throw enough paint into the mix. A man was standing by Reacher’s side. He was wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt. He was slim, like a runner, and maybe six feet four. His fists were clenched and Reacher thought he looked angry, maybe even scared, but was trying to hide it.

The man said, “I’m Darren Fletcher. Who are you?”

Reacher ignored him. If they’d searched him, Fletcher would already know his name. And if Fletcher hadn’t searched him, he wasn’t worth wasting breath on. Reacher concentrated on his surroundings instead. He saw that the restraints on his wrists and ankles were handcuffs, and that he was secured to a rectangular steel table. Thefloor was covered with white tiles and the walls were lined with steel shelves. The place was some kind of food storage or preparation area, Reacher figured. Then he turned back to Fletcher because the thought of food was making him feel sick.

“This silent act? It isn’t helping you,” Fletcher said. “You need to understand how serious this situation is. A man is dead. He was my friend. So you need to tell me who you are. You need to explain why you were in his car. And what made him go crazy and smash into a tree.”

Reacher couldn’t remember anything about a car or a crash or a dead man but he figured that wouldn’t make for a strong negotiating position, so he said, “Release these cuffs. Then I’ll tell you.”

Fletcher shook his head. “Convince me you had nothing to do with my friend’s death. Then I’ll unlock the cuffs.”

Reacher said nothing.

“Not smart. I can make you tell me, if you don’t start talking.”

Reacher said, “Can you? Because I can only see one of you.”

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