No Plan B

Chapter 23

The only promise Lev Emerson had to make was that he wouldn’t burn the building down.

That was the opposite of the kind of condition Emerson usually signed up to but in the circumstances it made sense. He needed access to some premises. Something secluded. Where no one would hear anything. Or see anything. Or smell anything. Somewhere that was robust. Industrial. He was in a strange city. And he was in a hurry. So he had called the client he had just done the job for in Savannah. The guy owned a vintage warehouse in St. Louis. It was vacant, near the river, with no active businesses close by. Emerson already knew about the place. He remembered it because the guy had once hired him to torch a neighbor’s property.

When Emerson’s contact came around from the chloroform he was lying flat on his back. He was naked. And he was in the middle of a cold concrete floor. He could smell a slight hint of gasoline. He could see walls in the distance. Made of brick. They looked ancient. A pale, chalky coating was flaking off them. The ceiling was high above him. It was stained from water leaks, and it was supported by rusty metal beams.

The guy’s arms and legs were stretched out to his sides. He tried to move them but he couldn’t. Because his wrists and ankles were cable-tied to six-inch stubs of steel that were sprouting from the ground. There were rows and rows of them. They were all that was left of the giant sets of shelves that had been removed and melted down when the storage business which had inhabited the building had been abandoned. The guy pulled with all his might. The plastic strips dug into his skin but the metal stubs didn’t even flex.

Emerson was standing on one side of the guy. Graeber was on the other. Near the guy’s feet there was a large plastic barrel. And lying on the barrel there was a ladle. The kind they use in restaurants to serve out bowls of soup.

Emerson crouched down and waited for the guy to turn his head and look at him. Then he said, “Let’s not beat around the bush. I know about you. I obviously know about your ship. So the purpose of today is for you to fill in the remaining blank.”

The guy’s throat was dry. He managed to say, “What blank?”

Emerson said, “I want to know who your supplier is.”

The guy’s eyes stretched wide. “I don’t know. I can’t tell you.”

Emerson straightened up and crossed to the barrel. He took the ladle in one hand. Removed the lid with the other. Scooped out a big dollop of thick, cream-colored gel. Crossed back to the guy. And poured the gel all over the guy’s genitals.

The guy screamed and bucked and thrashed around. “Stop! What are you doing? What is that stuff?”

Emerson said, “I could tell you its chemical name but it wouldn’t mean anything to you. Have you seen Apocalypse Now?”

“What? Why?”

“Because the name you’ll know it by is napalm.”

“No. Seriously? What the…”

“It’s my own version. Better than the military kind. The key is not skimping on the benzene. The original formula only burns for a few seconds. Mine stays alight for ten minutes. Think about that. Do you feel how it’s sticking to your skin?”

The guy wriggled and bounced and tried to fling the gel away from his body. It was heavy, like glue. A little came off but the bulk remained stubbornly attached.

Emerson took a box of matches from his pocket. “So. Tell me. Where does your organization get its inventory from?”

The guy stopped moving. He was struggling for breath. “We have a few sources. We get different things from different places.”

“Start with what you got for my son. Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know. Honestly. I only have a contact. I tell him what we need. If he can get it, he does. I don’t know who he works for. That’s the way the system is set up. For security. Just like he doesn’t know who I work for.”

“His name?”

“Carpenter. That’s what he told me. It might not be his real name.”

“Contact information?”

“It’s in my phone. I’ll give it to you. But listen. This is the truth. Four weeks ago Carpenter dropped out of sight. He might have quit. The FBI might have gotten to him. I don’t know. But if you can’t reach him, don’t think I was lying to you.”

Graeber picked the guy’s pants up off the floor and pulled a phone out of one of the pockets. He said, “Passcode?”

The guy reeled off a series of numbers.

Graeber hit a few keys then said, “Carpenter? You have a picture of him. Is this a joke?”

The guy said, “He didn’t know. It was in case I ever needed leverage. It’s redundant now, anyway.”

Emerson said, “Who cares about a picture if the guy’s disappeared? How do we get around him?”

The guy said, “You can’t. He was my only contact.”

“So how are you placing your orders?”

“We’re not. We can’t. Not until a replacement gets in touch. We’re using alternative suppliers right now.”

“How did you pay Carpenter?”

“Cash, at first. Recently, bitcoin. It’s untraceable.”

“Who collects the merchandise? Where from?”

The guy missed a beat. “I don’t know where from.”

“So you do know who.”

The guy didn’t answer.

Emerson took a match out of the box.

“OK! We use a transport guy. Out of Vicksburg, Mississippi. His name’s Lafferty. He’s a one-man band. A specialist.”

“Address?”

“In my phone.”

“Good. Now, is there anything else you want to tell us?”

“No. Nothing. I’ve told you everything. More than I should have done. So please, let me go.”

“First things first. The shipment that went to my son. You arranged that? You were a link in that chain?”

The guy closed his eyes and nodded. Just a very slight motion.

Emerson said, “Let me hear it.”

The guy opened his eyes again and said, “Yes. I arranged it. Can I go now? If it’s a refund you want, I can make that happen. I’m the only one who can.”

Emerson took a ladleful of gel and poured it on the guy’s stomach. He took another and poured it on his chest. Graeber put the lid back on the barrel and rolled it to the exit. Then Emerson struck a match.

“A refund?” Emerson said. “No. But you can go. Like my son had to go when you were done with him. Only you get to go quicker. And with maybe a little more pain.”

The Greyhound bus Jed Starmer was riding reached the depot in Jackson, Mississippi, at a little after 1:15 p.m., Thursday. That was more than forty hours after he left L.A. Four people watched it arrive. Two of them were waiting for that bus, specifically. The other two were keeping an eye on everything that came in from the west.

The second pair normally worked at the Minerva facility in Winson. They had been at the station since 3:00 a.m. On a special assignment. They were bored. They were tired. And they were suspicious. Of the other two guys. Their attention had been drawn to them the moment they walked onto the covered concourse. They were young. Late teens, or early twenties at the most. They were wearing bright, short-sleeved shirts, unbuttoned, over dirty white undershirts. They had shorts on. No socks. One had sandals. The other had tennis shoes, old and creased, with no laces. Both had long, messed up, crusty hair. One was blond. The other, dark. Neither had shaved recently. Neither was a picture of respectability. That was for sure. But it was their body language that was the real red flag. Their constant fidgeting. The tension in their arms and legs and necks that they couldn’t quite suppress.

Corrections officers live or die by their instincts. Their ability to spot trouble before it happens. There’s no alternative given that there are times when they’re outnumbered two hundred to one. Things can go south fast. Once they start, there’s no stopping them. Not without blood getting spilled. So if the Minerva guys had been on duty at the prison and the scruffy kids had been inmates they would have moved on them immediately. No hesitation. They’d have tossed them back in their cells and kept them locked away until they uncovered whatever it was they were up to. However long it took. But out there, in the free world, there was nothing the Minerva guys could do.

Except watch.

Every couple of minutes the blond kid pulled out his phone and stared at its screen.

One of the Minerva guys nudged his partner. “See that?”

“He’s looking at a photo,” the other guy said. “I can’t see who it’s of. Can you?”

The first guy shook his head. “The angle’s wrong. I can make out a silhouette. That’s all. But you know what it means? They’re not here for anyone they know. They’re looking for a stranger.”

The second guy was silent for a moment. “We’re here. They’re here. What are the odds?”

“If they’re looking for the same guy we are, they’re not here to stop him. Look at the size of them. You heard what he did to Robert and Dave in Colorado?”

“So they’re here to help him. He’ll need a ride. Assuming they’re looking for the same guy.”

“Which is excellent news.”

“How so?”

“Brockman sends us for one guy. We give him three. There has to be a bonus for that.”

“And if they’re up to something else, these kids?”

The first guy shrugged. “Then it’s not our problem.”

Jed was the last passenger to get off the bus. He had thought the front of the station looked inviting. It was all curved canopies and neon signs like an old-time movie theater. It was a different story around back where the loading and unloading took place. The area was covered. It was dark and full of shadows. Jed had a bad feeling about the place. He didn’t want to set foot in it. He stayed where he was, pressed back in his seat, pretending he wasn’t there, until the driver stood up and glared at him. Then he had no choice. He accepted the inevitable. He slunk along the aisle and climbed slowly down the steps.

It was clear to the Minerva guys that Reacher wasn’t on the bus. Just like he hadn’t been on the previous forty-seven buses they had watched arrive. Which meant they were going to have to wait even longer. Watch at least one more. The only question was whether they would be doing that alone. Or whether the two kids they had their eyes on would hang around, too. The kids hadn’t shown any interest in any of the passengers who had streamed away.

Until Jed appeared.

Jed glanced around, got his bearings, and hurried toward the pair of swinging doors that led to the inside of the station. The blond kid checked his phone again. Then he started moving. He closed in on Jed. He came up behind him and grabbed his left arm. He stuck out his right index finger and jabbed it into Jed’s kidney. He leaned down and whispered something into Jed’s ear. Then they both veered away to the left. Toward the exit to the street. The dark-haired kid was already there. He checked both directions. He beckoned for them to keep moving. Then all three disappeared from view.