Page 51 of No Plan B

“If something sounds too good to be true, then it isn’t true. That’s what he always said. Like with their wages. They pay twenty-five percent above the industry average, across the board. They made sure everyone knows about it. Then they make sure no one gets any overtime.”

“Where did—”

“Wait! I have an idea. What if this Begovic guy isn’t really innocent? What if he paid Minerva to help fix the appeal? Or his family did? Minerva could have tried to wash the money through the books. Not very well. And Angela could have smelled the rat.”

“If there is dirty money, why would they let it anywhere near the business? Why not take it in cash?”

Hannah shook her head. “See, that’s the kind of question you only ask if you’ve never bought a house. Or a car. Or a spare pair of pants. A big heap of cash is the biggest red flag there is. You’d have the IRS so far up your ass you’d see them when you brush your teeth. No. I think I’m on to something. And you clearly shouldn’t be let out on your own. So here’s the deal. I’m coming with you. But while you’re busydegrading the enemyor whatever, I’ll hang back at the hotel. I’ll dig into Begovic’s background. Find out all about his conviction. His appeal. What it was based on. Why it took so long. I’ll maybe talk to some of Sam’s contacts. Tap into the industry scuttlebutt. Find the real story.”

Chapter27

Five words were ringing inJed Starmer’s ears as he crouched between a pair of dumpsters in an alley on the other side of the Greyhound station:I’m a law enforcement officer.

The guy’s voice had been a little muffled from where he lay on the floor of the car but Jed was sure about what he heard. Although he wasn’t sure what kind of officer the guy was. He hadn’t been wearing a uniform. Neither had his partner. So Jed figured they must be detectives. Or FBI agents. Something high up. Important. But he wasn’t too concerned about which organization they belonged to. Or what rank they held. He was just glad they had shown up when they did. He had no idea what the scruffy guys had wanted with him but it didn’t take a clairvoyant to see it wasn’t going to be anything good.

Jed was glad the officers had shown up, but at the same time he was horrified. Because it meant they must have been looking for him. That was certainly what it sounded like from the exchanges he overheard. The guy from his first bus must have called them. After they finished their breakfast in Dallas. He’d kept nagging Jed about goingto the police. When Jed refused the guy must have taken matters into his own hands. Which meant Jed would have to change his plans. He had been intending to sleep on the seats in the Greyhound station that night and then make his way to Winson the next morning. He couldn’t risk staying in town now. Not in a public place. Not somewhere out in the open. He had no option. He had to leave. Immediately.

—

Reacher left theatlas, one of the captured Berettas, and the last dregs of his coffee in the truck with Hannah and walked back to the main building to change his clothes. After that his plan was simple. He was going to find the next pair of Minerva guys at the nearby intersection and give them exactly what they wanted.

For a moment, at least.

He figured that the guys would be looking for him in a car, or at the side of the road as he tried to hitch a ride. If they spotted him in a car, things could get complicated. They wouldn’t be able to stop him right away because of the whole identification rigmarole. They would have to take his photograph, send it off to the guys who had seen him in Colorado, and wait for their response. So they would have two choices. They could follow his car and intercept it if his ID was confirmed. Or they could stay put and send the intel to the guys who would be stationed at the outskirts of Winson. Neither of those options appealed to Reacher. Forcing a car off a highway at speed in heavy traffic is dangerous. There’s plenty of scope for injuries. Maybe fatalities. Maybe involving other vehicles with innocent drivers and passengers. And if the guys passed the information along the chain, that would be no immediate help, either. Reacher would be miles away by then, out of contact, and it would only make his life more difficult when he arrived in the town. So the smart move was tostand where the guys would be hoping to see him, stick out his thumb, and hope no regular motorists were on the lookout for company.

From above, the intersection looked like a capital A, rotated by forty-five degrees, with a curved crossbar. One side was I-20, which swung a little north of east after clearing the river. The other side was US 61, which branched off and ran to the south. The crossbar was made up of the ramps joining I-20 east to US 61 south, and US 61 north to I-20 west. The other significant part of the picture was the space beneath the crossbar. It was taken up by a giant store. Reacher couldn’t tell from the map which chain it belonged to or what sort of products it sold. And he didn’t much care. The only thing that mattered to him was that it had a convenient parking lot.

The plan was simple. Hannah would pull over on the shoulder just before the east/south ramp. Reacher would get out of the truck. Hannah would continue on I-20 toward Jackson, in case anyone was already watching. She would leave the highway at the next intersection and loop around to the giant store. She would wait in the parking lot. The Minerva guys would spot Reacher. They would try to photograph him and detain him, either on the shoulder or in a vehicle. They would have the same kind of success as their buddies at the truck stop had. And when they were unconscious and immobilized, Reacher would climb down the side of the ramp, make his way to the store, and rendezvous with Hannah.

The plan was simple. But it went off the rails before it even got started.

—

Reacher dumped hisold clothes in the trash and walked back to the truck. He opened the passenger door but he didn’t get in. Because someone was in his seat. A guy, late twenties, wearing somekind of European soccer jersey, jeans, and motorcycle boots. His hair was buzzed at the sides and a little longer at the top. He had a goatee. And he was holding a gun. In his left hand. A desert tan–colored SIG P320. His grip was steady and he was aiming at the center of Reacher’s chest.

Reacher grabbed the guy’s wrist and pulled until his forearm was clear of the truck’s doorframe. He forced it back against the pillar between the windows. Twisted, so the gun was pointing at the ground. Then he slammed the door. He threw all his weight behind it. The guy screamed. The gun fell. It clattered against the truck’s running board and skittered away under the next parked car. Reacher felt the guy’s wrist go limp. He’d heard the bones crack and splinter. Then he snatched the door open again. The guy’s head was lolling back against the seat. Beads of sweat had sprung out all over his face. His skin looked almost green. Reacher pulled back his right arm. Closed his fist. The guy’s throat was exposed. One punch was all it would take.

A voice said, “Stop.” It was coming from the backseat. Another guy was there. The same kind of age and build as the one with the broken arm. He had a plain black T-shirt on. His head was completely shaved. He was behind Hannah. Leaning forward. And pressing the muzzle of a revolver into the base of her skull.

Hannah was sitting up so straight it was like she was trying to levitate. Her arms were stretched out in front. She was gripping the steering wheel with both hands. Her knuckles were bone white. She was staring straight ahead and her face was twisted into the kind of scowl you’d expect from a parent who found her teenage kids hosting an orgy in her living room.

The gun looked tiny in the guy’s hand. It was a Ruger LCR. A .22. Probably the guy’s ankle piece, Reacher thought. It wouldn’t be much use at distance. You wouldn’t choose it as a primary weapon.But at close quarters it would be more than adequate. And in that situation it would be ideal. If the guy got his angle right, there was a good chance the round wouldn’t break out through the top of Hannah’s skull. It would just bounce around inside her head, pulping her brain, until its energy was dissipated and it came to rest in the resulting mush. Which meant her blood and cerebral jelly wouldn’t be sprayed across the windshield for anyone to see. And if the bullet did emerge it certainly wouldn’t have enough force left to pierce the truck’s steel roof. It was as discreet an option as the guy could hope for. Although with his buddy’s life on the line he might not care too much about attracting attention.

Reacher opened his hand and lowered his arm.

“Good decision,” the guy said. “Now, we’re looking for two of our friends. This young lady told me you could help us find them.”

Reacher said, “You have friends?”

“This is no time for jokes.”

“Who’s joking?”

“Tell me where they are.”

“How would I know?”

The guy pulled something out from under his left thigh. He held it up for Reacher to see. It was the Beretta he had left in the truck when he went to change.

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