Page 14 of The Secret

There wasn’t an inch that hadn’t escaped observation when the cameras were installed. But two of those cameras had been moved. Very gradually, over the course of ten weeks. The pair nearest the center, either side of an alcove formed by a fire escape that provided a convenient marker. They had been moved by Sergeant Hall, far enough to leave a blind spot twenty-three feet long. That was enough space for an M35 truck to stop with five inches to spare, front and rear.

Hall watched for the alcove, made sure there would be room for the truck to pull up alongside her, then stopped and climbed out. She hustled around to the rear of the Humvee and lifted out a crate. A plastic one. Olive green, but not army issue. She carried it into the gap between the vehicles. Waited for Chapellier to open his door then heaved the crate up higher so he could pull it into his cab. The guy balanced it on his knees and loosened the lid. He looked inside. Pulled out a metal object. An M16 lower receiver. He checked its holes and contours. Smiled. Dropped it back into the crate and reattached the lid. Placed it on the cab floor to the side of the gear lever and passed Hall an identical crate from the passenger side footwell. She wedged it against the top step and examined its contents. A wad of cash, which she counted, as she always did. And another stack of gun parts. Civilian spec.

She looked up and said, “You need more? Already?”

Chapellier frowned. “Is there a problem?” Then he heard a sound, behind him and to the side. A metallic screech. Primitive hinges that were starved of oil after a long stint in the desert. He spun around in his seat and saw the passenger door opening. A head appeared. And a torso. Belonging to a man he didn’trecognize. A huge, broad man with a ferocious scowl on his face and a gun in his hand.

“Problem?” Reacher said, leaning farther into the cab. “Guess you could put it that way. If you’re big on understatement.”

—

Roberta and VeronicaSanson’s night had not gone as planned.

It had started out OK. They completed the drive from New Orleans airport to Geoff Brown’s house without incident. But when they slowed to look for a suitable spot to stop and keep watch, they saw another car parked at the side of the road. A Ford Crown Victoria. Plain blue. Poverty spec. An extra antenna on the roof. Another on the trunk lid. And two men inside. Neither one was making a move to get out. This wasn’t a worn-out detective’s car repurposed as a cab. It wasn’t someone getting home late after too many beers and fumbling with his wallet so he could pay his fare. The car was positioned deliberately. The guys inside were waiting, perfectly relaxed and still, like they knew they were there for the long haul. Like that was something they were used to.

Roberta figured they could afford one pass-by. They needed at least some idea of what they were dealing with—and in any case, continuing in the same direction was less suspicious than abruptly turning around and slinking away. Brown’s house was set back about fifty feet from the road. The area around it was somewhere between rustic and overgrown, like the owner had once been on top of his yard work but in recent years had started to let it slide. Nature was gaining the upper hand. That was clear. The house itself was long and low. It had a deep porch running along the front and the white paintwork was neat and crisp. Brown was keeping up with his property maintenance, at least.

Veronica gestured toward the house and said, “Windows.”

All of Brown’s shades were drawn. Maybe against the heat that would start building the moment the sun came up. Maybe for privacy. But either way, it meant no one could see in. Not from any of the neighbors’ houses. Not from a car parked on the street. And not by anyone prowling around the grounds.

Roberta nodded. “We can work with this.”

—

Roberta had keptup a slow, steady speed until she reached the next intersection, where she took a left and made her way back toward the southeast side of the city. She remembered seeing some kind of abandoned industrial site there. It looked like the place was being set for demolition. A security fence had been thrown up around the perimeter and a handful of portable offices had been dumped in a cluster outside. No vehicles had been parked nearby. No lights were on. There was nothing to suggest it was a twenty-four-hour operation. But there was plenty of scope to conceal their stolen minivan until the morning.

They took turns sleeping and when Veronica woke for the second time she nudged her sister. “The guys watching Brown’s house? Could mean he’s the one. He could have the name we need.”

Roberta shook her head. “Buck said one guy on his list knew the name. The security doesn’t mean anything. Someone’s connecting the dots. That’s all. Former CIA assets start dropping like flies, someone at Langley’s going to notice. They’ll be watching all the survivors from ’69.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“You know I am.” Roberta clambered back into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. “Come on. I’m starving. We need breakfast. And supplies. And then you have a call to make.”

—

Reacher climbed upinto the truck’s cab and settled into the right-hand seat. He said, “OK. There are two ways we can play this.”

Sergeant Chapellier sat for a moment with both hands on the wheel. Then he lunged to his left. He grabbed Hall by the front of her tunic and dragged her up and into the truck and kept on pulling until she was sprawled across his lap. He said, “No. Only one way. Get out.”

Hall thrashed and struggled. She twisted around onto her back and stretched up and tried to gouge Chapellier’s eyes out. Reacher didn’t move.

Chapellier pinned both of Hall’s arms with one of his and slid his other hand up to her throat. He turned to Reacher and said, “Get out. Now.”

Reacher said, “Get out? Is that it?”

“Get out or I’ll break her neck.”

Reacher checked the guy’s name tape. “You’re not one of the world’s deep thinkers, are you, Chapellier? She already gave you up. I don’t need her anymore. Kill her and I can nail you for murder. Much easier than rolling up whatever kind of a racket you’ve got going on.”

Chapellier tightened his fingers around Hall’s throat. She wriggled her arms free and grabbed his wrist with both hands. She strained to pull it clear but she couldn’t get the leverage. Her legs were hanging out of the open door and her weight was pulling her harder into Chapellier’s grip. She was also kicking and squirming like crazy. It was an instinctive response. There was nothing she could do to stop it, but it only made her problem worse.

Reacher stretched out his left hand and flicked the truck’s master switch to Off. Its engine rattled to a stop. He waited for the lastraucous echo to fade away then said, “First you’re going to let her go. Then you’re going to tell me who you’re selling those gun parts to. Or we’re going to step out of the vehicle, pieces of you are going to get broken, and then you’re going to tell me.”

Chapellier was still for three seconds then he hauled Hall up so that she was sitting. He shoved her in the back with his right hand, launching her out of the truck, then he sprang across toward Reacher. His arms were stretched out. He was trying to grab Reacher’s gun. Reacher leaned to his left and raised his elbow. Chapellier plowed into it, hard, face-first. Reacher didn’t wait to assess the damage. Instead he heaved his door open and jumped down. He slid the gun into its holster. Then he leaned in and grabbed Chapellier by his right arm. He dragged him sideways. All the way to the door. He kept going until Chapellier slithered off the edge of the truck’s seat and bounced down its metal steps and slammed onto the ground. Reacher rolled him over onto his back. Stepped on his neck. And twisted his arm until his shoulder and elbow and wrist were all a hair’s breadth away from breaking.

Reacher said, “This is the end of the road, Chapellier. Give it up.”

---