Page 3 of The Secret

“You can. You don’t have to say it. You can do what Owen Buck did. Write it down. He gave me six names. You only need to give me one.”

She pulled a pen from her coat pocket and held it out. Bridgeman stared at it for a moment. Then he took it and addedOwen Buckto the top of the list.

He said, “That’s the only name I know. I swear.”

The woman said, “Have you ever seen a child’s coffin, Keith? Because if you haven’t I don’t think anything can really prepare you for how tiny it will seem. Especially when it’s next to the full-sized one your daughter will be in.”

Bridgeman’s knees started to shake. He looked like he was ready to collapse.

The woman’s voice softened. “Come on. One name. Two lives saved. What are you waiting for?”

Bridgeman’s body sagged. “Buck was wrong. There isn’t another name. Not that I know of. I was there three years. I never heard of anyone else getting brought on board.”

The woman stared at Bridgeman for ten long seconds, then shrugged. She took the pen and the paper and slid them back into her pocket. “I guess we’re done here.” She stretched out and touched Bridgeman’s forehead. “Wait a minute. You feel awful. Let me open the window. Fresh air will perk you up. I don’t want to leave you like this.”

Bridgeman said, “You can’t. The windows don’t open in this hospital.”

“This one does.” The woman leaned past Bridgeman, pushed down on the handle, and the window swung out on a broad arc. Then she scrabbled under the collar of her scrubs and pulled a fine chain up and over her head. The key to the window was hanging from it. “Here.” She dropped the chain into the breast pocket of Bridgeman’s pajama top. “A present. Something to remember us by, because you’re never going to see us again. As promised. There’s just one last thing before we go. You asked who we are.” The woman stood a little straighter. “My name is Roberta Sanson.”

The woman with the finger clip climbed out of her chair. “And I’m her sister. Veronica Sanson. Our father was Morgan Sanson. It’s important you know that.”

Morgan Sanson. The name was an echo from the past. An unwelcome one. Four syllables he had hoped to never hear again. It took a fraction of a second for the significance to hit him, then Bridgeman pushed off from the wall. He tried to dodge around Roberta Sanson but he never stood a chance. He was too frail. The space was too cramped. And the sisters were too highly motivated. Roberta shifted sideways and blocked his path. Then she grabbed his shoulders with both hands and drove him back until he was pressed against the sill. She checked that he was lined up with the open window. Veronica bent down and took hold of his legs, just above the ankles. She straightened and Roberta pushed. Bridgeman kicked. He twisted and thrashed. Roberta and Veronica pushed one more time. Two more times, to make sure there was no room for error. Then they let gravity do the rest.

Chapter2

Jack Reacher had never beento the Rock Island Arsenal in Illinois before, but he was the second Military Police investigator to be sent there within a fortnight. The first visit was in response to a report of missing M16s, which proved to be false. Reacher was the last to join his unit, following his demotion from major to captain, so he had been allocated a less interesting allegation. Inventory tampering.

The sergeant who had filed the complaint met Reacher at the main entrance. There were maybe ten years between them. They were about the same height, six foot five, but where Reacher was heavy and broad, the older man was skinny and pinched with pale skin and thin, delicate features. He couldn’t have been more than 180 pounds. That would be sixty pounds lighter. His uniform hung off his shoulders a little, causing Reacher to worry about the guy’s health.

Once the usual courtesies were taken care of, the sergeant led the way to Firing Range E, near the base’s western perimeter. He lockedthe heavy steel door behind them and continued to a loading bench that jutted out from the rear wall. Six M16s were lying on it, neatly lined up, muzzles facing away, grips to the right. The weapons weren’t new. They had spent plenty of time in the field. That was clear. But they were well maintained. Recently cleaned. Not neglected or damaged. There were no obvious red flags. No visible indication that anything was wrong with them.

Reacher picked up the second rifle from the left. He checked that the chamber was empty, inspected it for defects, then slid a magazine into place. He stepped across to the mouth of the range. Selected single-fire mode. Took a breath. Held it. Waited for the next beat of his heart to subside and pulled the trigger. A hundred yards down range, the red star on the target figure’s helmet imploded. Reacher lowered the gun and glanced at the sergeant. The guy’s face betrayed nothing. No surprise. No disappointment. Reacher fired five more times. Rapidly. Sharpcracks rebounded off the walls. Spent cartridges rattled onto the cement floor. A neat T shape was hammered into the figure’s chest. It was textbook shooting. There was no sign of any problem with the gun. And still no response from the sergeant.

Reacher pointed to the magazine. “How many?”

The sergeant said, “Sixteen.”

“Vietnam?”

“Three tours. No misfires. If it’s not broke…”

Reacher slid the fire selector to its lowest position. Full auto. The model was old, from before the switch to three-shot bursts. He aimed at the target’s center mass and increased the pressure on the trigger. The green plastic torso should have been shredded. The ten remaining bullets should have torn through it in less than a second. But nothing happened. Because the trigger wouldn’t move. Reacher changed back to single-shot mode and lined up on the target’s face.The crude contour representing its nose split in half under the impact. Reacher toggled to full auto. Again, nothing happened. Which left no doubt. The trigger would not move in that position.

He said, “They all like this?”

The sergeant nodded. “All of them. The whole case.”

Reacher crossed to the bench and set the gun down. He removed the magazine, cleared the chamber, pushed out the takedown pins, separated the lower receiver, and examined its interior contours. Then he held it out toward the sergeant and said, “The trigger pocket’s the wrong size. It won’t accept the auto-sear. And there are only two trigger pinholes. There should be three.”

The sergeant said, “Correct.”

“This isn’t military spec. Someone’s switched out the original with a civilian version. It makes the gun semi-auto only.”

“Can’t see any other explanation.”

“Where did these come from?”

The sergeant shrugged. “Admin error. They were supposed to be sent for destruction but two crates got mixed up and these wound up here by mistake.”

---