Bad Luck and Trouble

75

Reacher crawled south through the grass, looking for Neagley in the dark. He made it through fifty fast yards and found a corpse instead. He blundered right into it, hands and then knees. It was a man, cooling fast. Blue suit, white shirt. Broken neck.

“Neagley?” he whispered.

“Here,” she whispered back.

She was twenty feet away, lying on her side, propped up on one elbow.

“You OK?” he asked.

“Feeling good.”

“Was there another one?”

“Behind you,” she said. “To your right.”

Reacher turned. Same kind of guy, same kind of suit, same kind of shirt.

Same kind of injury.

“Any problems?” he asked.

“Easy,” she said. “And quieter than you. I heard that head butt all the way over here.”

They bumped fists in the dark, the old ritual, about as much physical contact as she liked to permit.

“Lamaison thinks we’re on the outside looking in,” Reacher said. “He’s trying to scam us with a deal. If we surrender they’ll lock us all up for a week and then let us go when the heat dies down.”

“Like we’d believe that.”

“One of my guys had Dave’s knuckleduster.”

“That’s not a good sign.”

“They’re OK so far. I asked for a proof of life. Personal questions. Dixon says she was with the 53rd MP and O’Donnell says he was with the 131st.”

“That’s bullshit. There was no 53rd MP. And Dave was posted to the 110th straight out of Officer Candidate School.”

“They’re talking to us,” Reacher said. “Fifty-three is a prime number. Karla knew I’d pick up on that.”

“So?”

“Five and three make eight. She’s telling us there are eight hostiles.”

“Four left, then. Lennox, Parker, and Lamaison. Plus one. Who’s the fourth?”

“That’s Dave’s message. He’s a words guy. One-three-one. Thirteenth letter of the alphabet, first letter of the alphabet.”

“M and A,” Neagley said.

“Mauney,” Reacher said. “Curtis Mauney is here.”

“Excellent,” Neagley said. “Saves hunting him down later.”

They bumped fists again. Then cell phones started to ring. Loud and piercing and insistent. Two of them, different tones, unsynchronized. One each in the dead guys’ pockets. Reacher had no doubt at all the same thing was happening fifty yards away. Two more dead guys, two more pockets, two more ringing phones. A conference call. Lamaison was touching base with his foot patrol.

Something unpredictable.

The phones rang six times each and stopped. Silence came back.

“What would you do now?” Reacher asked. “If you were Lamaison?”

Neagley said, “I’d get guys in those Chryslers and turn the head-lights on bright and fix myself a little motor patrol. I’d run us down in less than a minute.”

Reacher nodded. Against a man on foot, the lot felt big. Against a car, it would feel small. Against more than one car it would feel tiny. In the dark it felt safe. With xenon beams blazing away it would feel like a goldfish bowl. He pictured cars bouncing over the rough ground, pictured himself trapped in their lights, darting left, darting right, shading his eyes, one car chasing, two cars converging.

He glanced at the fence.

“Correct,” Neagley said. “The fence keeps us in just as well as it kept us out. We’re two balls on a pool table and someone’s about to turn on the lights and pick up a cue.”

“What are they going to do if they don’t find us?”

“How are they not going to find us?”

“Suppose.”

Neagley shrugged and said, “They’re going to assume we got out somehow.”

“And then?”

“They’re going to panic.”

“How?”

“They’re going to kill Karla and Dave and hunker down.”

Reacher nodded.

“That’s my guess, too,” he said.

He got up and ran. Neagley followed.