Page 74 of No Plan B

Reacher switched targets. He stamped down on the side of Harold’s knee. Then he drove the heel of his hand into Harold’s captive arm, just above the elbow. The joint bent the wrong way. Bone dislocated. Tendons stretched. Ligaments tore. Harold roared with pain. And anger. He grabbed his trapped forearm with his free hand and twisted and heaved with all his might. The wooden strips gave way. Their jagged ends tore his wrist and palm and the back of his hand. His arm flailed around. It was floppy and out of control. And it was spraying rivers of blood. His nails brushed Reacher’s cheek. One broke his skin.

Harold took a step forward then stopped and howled with pain. His knee was too damaged. It couldn’t take his weight. His right arm was hanging, useless. So he reached around with his left hand and pulled a gun from his waistband.

He started to raise it.

Reacher was already moving. He was running at Harold. Accelerating as fast as he could. But space was restricted. There was little room for maneuver. Reacher figured he had one chance. He needed momentum. He needed focus. So he charged in, leaned forward, and plowed into Harold. His right shoulder drilled into the exact spot Hannah’s bullet had hit. Where he knew Harold’s ribs would be bruised. Where he hoped they would be broken.

Harold crashed down, flat on his back. He dropped the gun. He howled. He thrashed his legs. Flailed his arms. Reacher moved in, looking for a part of Harold to punch. Or kick. Or stomp. Harold kept on squirming and wriggling. He denied Reacher a target. Then he sat up, fast, like he was exercising at the gym. He lunged and wrapped his good arm around Reacher’s thighs. Slid his hand lowerand clamped his forearm across the back of Reacher’s knees. He flung himself back down, straining and tugging with all his might.

Reacher’s knees jackknifed. There was nothing he could do to avoid getting pulled down. He knew that. So he didn’t fight gravity. He didn’t resist. Instead he aimed, and planted both knees square in the center of Harold’s chest.

Maybe Harold’s rib cage had been damaged by the gunshot. Maybe it had been weakened by Reacher’s shoulder charge. Maybe he just had porous bones. But whatever the reason, Harold’s sternum collapsed. His lungs were crushed flat. So was his heart. His liver. And a bunch of other organs. His body gave one last spasmodic twitch. His head lolled to the side. And then he was still.

—

Bruno Hix wasstill awake. He had done everything he could think of to get to sleep. Herbal tea. Whiskey. Meditation. Nothing had worked. He felt the anger building inside himself. His big speech was hours away. He didn’t want black circles under his eyes because he was short of rest. He didn’t want to fluff his lines because he was too tired to concentrate.

Hix stared at the ceiling and pictured himself at the beach on a tropical island. He’d read somewhere about relaxation techniques and this one was supposed to help. He took it a step further. Imagined what kind of drink he would have in his hand. Maybe a piña colada. Maybe a daiquiri. He was still trying to decide when his peace was shattered by his phone. It was a text. From Brockman.

“Friends” located. H & co on scene. Only a matter of time…

That was it. Everything was going to be OK after all. Harold would take care of Reacher. The guy’s luck had to run out sometime. And if this wasn’t the time, if Harold failed, it wouldn’t matter. Not now that contact had been made. They could fall back on theinsurance. Hix had arranged it himself, therefore he didn’t have to worry. He was confident it would work if it was needed.

—

Hix was confident.In the insurance itself. The note was completely credible. He had put a lot of thought into it. He wasn’t worried about whether Reacher would believe it. But for Reacher to believe it he would have to read it. And for him to read it he would have to find it. If he defeated Harold. And Brockman had hinted that Harold might refuse to take it due to some ridiculous sense of pride. Hix pictured the envelope abandoned at Harold’s house. Left in the vehicle. Tossed in the trash. Then he got hold of himself. Forced nice images of the beach back into his head. There was no need to borrow trouble. His plan was elegant. Sophisticated. There was no way the universe would let it get torpedoed by some petulant meathead.

Chapter37

Reacher was worried about thegunshot. The noise it had made. Someone was certain to have heard. The night clerk. Or the other guests, in the south wing. One of them was bound to call 911. Maybe they all would. Maybe they already had. One way or another the police would soon be showing up. And Reacher did not want to be around when they got there. The stealthy approach hadn’t worked. Now whoever was pulling the strings would have an emergency call and a dead body to work with. A perfect excuse to send in a couple more goons, guns blazing, no questions asked.

Winson was not a New York or a Chicago. It wasn’t even a Jackson. Reacher doubted the cops would be on patrol twenty-four/seven. Any presence was likely to be confined to the station house at that time of night. The best case would be one guy. Low down the pecking order. Alone with a pot of stewed coffee and a box of stale donuts. Someone who would have to call for assistance and wait for another officer to arrive before responding. The worst case would bethat a pair of old hands were on duty. Trusted guys. Ready to roll at a moment’s notice. Ready to do whatever their boss told them to.

Reacher always planned for the worst. The town wasn’t far away. There would be no traffic. The cops would be local. They would know the road, and they would drive fast. He figured he and Hannah had nine minutes to get clear of the hotel.

—

Hannah was kneelingdown near Harold’s head. She had checked his neck for a pulse after Reacher climbed off him. She hadn’t found one. But she had discovered her legs would no longer work. She was unable to stand up. When the week began she had never seen a dead body. Now she had been up close and personal with two. And this one she felt partially responsible for. Blood was leaking from its crushed chest and oozing toward her knees. She was starting to get mesmerized by it.

Reacher helped Hannah to her feet and guided her back to room 121. He asked her to get her things together. Quickly. And while she packed he went out to the corridor. He took a pillowcase from the bed and filled it with the contents of the Minerva guys’ pockets. Their guns. Phones. Wallets. Keys.

Reacher and Hannah made it down the corridor and into reception. They had six minutes left to get clear. Plenty of time. Then Reacher noticed a pair of bare feet. Someone was on the floor, behind the counter. He detoured to investigate. It was the kid who had checked them in. He was in his pajamas. Alive, but unconscious.

Reacher crossed back to Hannah and they continued to the parking lot. The three rental cars were still lined up on the south side of the porte cochere. The VW bus had moved closer on the north side. Two other vehicles had arrived and were parked next to it. A DodgeNeon and a Ram panel van. The Dodge had lived a hard life. That was clear. It had dents in its front wings, mud sprayed around its wheel arches, a crack running the whole width of its windshield, and a couple of deep gouges in its front fender. The van was dark blue. It was spotless. It had no livery or logo, but it looked like the kind of thing a company would use to ferry stock and supplies between different sites.

They had five minutes left to get clear.

Reacher pointed at the vehicles and said, “See how they’re lined up? One guy came here directly in the van. The others went to the clerk’s house. Roused him. And made him drive back in his VW because there would be no room in the car. Which could help us. Wait here a minute.”

Reacher went back inside and crossed to the counter. He checked the kid’s pajamas. Found a key on a rabbit’s foot fob. He fished a wallet out of the pillowcase. Took out all the cash and slipped it into the kid’s pocket. Then he tore a page out of the ledger, grabbed a pen off the shelf, and wrote:Will return the bus. Don’t report it stolen. More $ to come. Ambrose Burnside.

They had three minutes left.

Reacher hurried outside and tossed the key to Hannah. He said, “The cops will be looking for Sam’s truck. See if you can get the VW to start. Better to use it instead.” Then he looped around to the rear of the van. Its door was unlocked. The walls and floor of the cargo area had been boarded up with plywood to protect the paint. Two gurneys were stacked on each other at the right-hand side. They were folded down and secured with elastic straps. Next to them was a black plastic trash bag. Reacher looked inside. It was full of medics’ uniforms. There was nothing he could use, so Reacher moved on to the front of the vehicle. He went to the passenger side and opened the glove box. There were two pieces of paper inside. The insuranceand registration documents. Reacher checked the details. He was hoping for a corporate name he hadn’t seen before. A new thread to pull in whatever illegitimate financial tapestry Angela St. Vrain had been talking to Sam Roth about. But Reacher was out of luck. The papers listed the vehicle’s owner as the Minerva Correctional Corporation, with an address in Delaware. Reacher immediately thought,Tax avoidance,but he couldn’t see a connection to murder.

Two minutes left.

Reacher heard the VW rattle into life. He scanned the rest of the van’s cab. It was clean and empty. Then he stepped back to slam the door and spotted something white peeking out from under the passenger seat. It was the corner of an envelope. It must have slipped off the dashboard while the van was moving and slid back there. Reacher fished it out. It was standard letter size. Thin, like it only had a single piece of paper inside. And it was addressed to Danny Peel. The same name that had been on the envelope in Angela St. Vrain’s purse. The same address. But different handwriting. Reacher was confident about that.

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