No Plan B

Chapter 28

Bruno Hix started his speech three times.

He started. But he couldn’t finish. He couldn’t get beyond the first couple of lines. He was too distracted. All he could think about was the truck stop. He couldn’t help wondering what was happening up there. He’d sent four guys to take care of one drifter. That should have been a walk in the park. But there’d been no confirmation. No status reports. No news of any kind. And the drifter had already made fools out of the men he’d sent to Colorado.

Hix jumped down from the stage. He left the room and hurried along the corridor to the far end of the building’s other wing. To Brockman’s office. The door was closed. Hix didn’t knock. He just opened it and walked in. For a moment he thought Brockman wasn’t there. The desk chair was empty. The armchair was empty. Then he saw that Brockman was stretched out on the couch by the window. An abandoned coffee mug was on the floor by his side.

Hix folded his arms. “Busy, huh?”

Brockman opened his eyes. He sat up. “Very. I’m strategizing.”

“No news?”

“Actually, yes. There is. Good news. One of my previous strategies has borne fruit, big-time. We know how Reacher got to Mississippi so fast. He took a pickup belonging to Sam Roth. The guy Angela St. Vrain was on her way to see. He’s dead, obviously, so no one reported it stolen. The guys we moved over from the intersection located it in the truck stop parking lot.”

“They found a truck?”

“Correct.”

“Who cares about a truck? Where’s Reacher?”

“He must still be there.”

“Must be? You don’t know?”

“The truck’s still there. So Reacher must be, too. What’s he going to do – walk the rest of the way? So, Bruno, chill. Our guys are there. They’re staking it out. We’ll hear the moment they have him.”

“Call them. Right now. Put them on speaker.”

“You need to take a valium.” Brockman took out his phone and dialed a number. It rang. And rang. And rang. Until it tripped through to voicemail. Brockman hung up without leaving a message. He dialed another number. That call ended up with voicemail, too. Brockman forced a smile. “There’s nothing to worry about. They must have their phones on silent. To avoid giving their positions away. They’re being professional. That’s a good thing.”

“Try the other two.”

Brockman dialed again. This time there was no ring tone. The call went straight to voicemail. The same thing happened with the fourth number he tried. “Their batteries are probably flat. They’ve been there since 3:00 a.m., remember.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Everything’s fine. Give it time. Be patient.”

“Did you order the guys back from Jackson?”

“Yes. Right after I left your office.”

“Call them again. Divert them to the truck stop as well.”

“Really? We need seven guys there?”

“We have four there already. Maybe five by now. Have they got the job done?”

Brockman called the guys who’d been at the Greyhound station and passed on Hix’s instructions. He hung up. Put his phone away. Waited for Hix to leave. Then pulled his phone back out and dialed another number. He’d forgotten about the guys he had sent to watch the local bus stop. There was no reason to leave them in Jackson any longer. Which was a shame. Brockman could claim some kudos from connecting Reacher with Roth’s truck. But he could have claimed a whole lot more if he’d caught Reacher in a trap that Hix hadn’t even thought to set.

Reacher backed the Mercury into the space next to Sam Roth’s truck. He was hoping that Pep would recognize it and think his buddy was coming to relieve him. Or that it was just some random person’s car, on their way to use the facilities in the main building. Anything really, as long as he didn’t take it as a threat. As long he didn’t start strangling Hannah with the belt.

As long as he hadn’t already strangled her.

Reacher jumped out of the car. He pulled the handle on the truck’s rear door. It was locked. He couldn’t see inside because of the tint on the window. He couldn’t see what state Pep was in. Or what state Hannah was in. He tried the driver’s door. It was locked as well. He banged on the glass. Nothing happened. Hannah didn’t release the lock.

She didn’t. Or she couldn’t.

Reacher took the Beretta from his waistband. He flipped it around so he was holding it by the barrel. Then he smashed the butt against the glass in the rear door like it was a hammer. He hit the window hard, low down in the corner at its weakest spot. The glass instantly formed into an opaque mesh of crystals. Reacher gave it a shove. It sagged. But it didn’t give all the way. The film that caused the tint was too tough. And it extended too far. It went all the way up and sideways into the frame, and all the way down into the body of the door. Reacher slammed it with the heel of his hand. One side came free. He hit it again. The top and the other side loosened up. Then he hit it again and the whole sheet bent back. It curled and drooped like it was moving in slow motion. It bowed and crept down until it covered the inside surface of the door.

Pep glared out at Reacher through the empty window frame. His skin was even greener than before. His face was sweatier. And he was pulling on the belt with all his strength. Hannah was trying to claw it away from her throat. Her head was thrashing from side to side but she was making no noise. She was getting no air. Reacher stretched his arm into the truck and punched Pep in the side of the head. Hard. He flopped over sideways and rolled into the footwell. He didn’t move. He was out cold. He could no longer deliberately pull the belt. But it was still tied to his wrist. His weight was still keeping it taut.

Hannah still couldn’t breathe.

Reacher scrabbled for the handle on the inside of the door but he couldn’t get to it. The sheet of glass and tinting film was in the way. It was hanging down too far, like a shield. He tried to tear it off. But he couldn’t. The film was too strong. So he grabbed the edge and pulled it up. He took hold of the opposite edge with his other hand. Forced the sides together until the sheet and his hands would fit through the frame. He wrestled it down, out of the way. Stretched his arm back in. Released the lock and opened the door.

Reacher hauled Pep upright and pushed him forward. Hannah coughed and spluttered and wheezed as the tension on the belt finally eased. She wriggled her fingers between it and her skin. Loosened it a little further. She sucked in a desperate gasping breath. Reacher worked at the knot. It had been pulled tight by all the struggling. Pep’s arm was still a dead weight. It took another thirty seconds to get it free then Reacher slipped the loose end through the buckle. Hannah flopped forward against the steering wheel. She groped for the door handle. Found it. Slid out. Collapsed onto the Mercury’s trunk. She lay on her back. Stared at the sky. And breathed.

The atmosphere was foul. It was full of diesel and gasoline fumes from all the traffic in the parking lot and on the highway. Normally Hannah would be repulsed by it. She had grown up with the clear mountain air in Gerrardsville. But in that moment, she couldn’t imagine how anything could taste sweeter.

Something told Jed Starmer to stop.

He had spent ten minutes hiding in the alley after he was done running from the scruffy guys’ car. It had taken him that long to get his breath back. And to figure out what his next move should be. It was one thing to decide to leave town. But it was another to work out how. He had been hoping to get the rest of the way to Winson on a prison shuttle, but that was only because of the sign he’d seen in Texas. He didn’t know for sure they had them in Mississippi. The sign had been in the Greyhound station in Dallas. He hadn’t seen one in the station there, in Jackson. But he hadn’t had the chance to look, because of the scruffy guys. And he couldn’t go back now. The officers might have returned. They might be there, lying in wait for him. He didn’t have a phone with internet access so he couldn’t google the information. He couldn’t risk wandering about at random. He might be spotted. But he could go old school. He remembered running past a stand of payphones, two blocks back. And he still had a few coins in his pocket.

First Jed called directory assistance. Then he called the Minerva facility in Winson. He told the receptionist he was an inmate’s relative and he wanted to come visit but didn’t know how to get to the prison. He asked if there was a shuttle service from Jackson. The receptionist said there wasn’t. Not a dedicated one. Which was why most visitors used the local bus. She gave Jed the address of the stop. She even told him the departure times.

The bus was due to leave in four minutes. Jed had gotten close enough to hear the engine. It was rumbling steadily away, just around the corner. He’d had to run the last quarter mile to give himself a chance of catching it. The next one wasn’t due for another hour. He didn’t want to be exposed on the street for that long. But a sudden thought had struck him. Officers had been at the Greyhound station. On the lookout for him. Detectives, or agents, or whatever they were. Which meant there could be more of them at the bus stop. He could run right into them. There would be no way to avoid getting caught. It would be as bad as giving himself up.

Jed stopped. He was almost at the intersection. Then a guy on a bike ran straight into him. Some kind of a messenger. He had a satchel slung over his shoulder and he had been riding on the sidewalk. The impact sent Jed staggering forward. Past the end of the building. The force spun him around. The side of his foot caught in a gap between two paving slabs. He lost his balance. He fell. Rolled over. Came to a halt straddling the curb. Half on the sidewalk. Half in the gutter. And fully in view of everyone at the bus stop.

People were staring at Jed. Maybe half a dozen. He didn’t get a good look at them. And he didn’t lie sprawling on the ground long enough to count heads. He just scrambled to his feet and darted back into the lee of the building, out of their sight.

The messenger had propped his bike against the wall. He was standing next to it, watching and waiting. As soon as Jed was in range he shoved him in the chest. He said, “Idiot. Look where you’re going. You could have got me killed.” Then he shoved Jed again and disappeared through a revolving glass door and into the last building on the block.

Jed thought about the people he had seen on the next street. Maybe they were only waiting to get on the bus. Or maybe they were watching it. Or maybe just a pair of them were. A pair of detectives. Or agents. Jed turned to run. And stopped himself again. He had nowhere to go. No other means of transport. The bus was his only shot at leaving town. He’d be crazy not to take it if it was safe.

If.

Jed had to know for sure. So he crept back to the end of the building. He ducked down. Peered around the corner. And saw two guys. One was slipping a phone into his pocket. The guy gestured to his partner. To start moving. Which they did, straightaway. Straight toward Jed.

The guys were both around six feet tall. They were broad. Strong-looking. Their hair was buzzed short. They were wearing jeans and T-shirts and suit coats. Just like the officers at the Greyhound station. They were the same height. The same build. They had the same menacing aura. They were yards away. And they were closing fast.

Jed knew he was finished. He had seen what the other officers had done to the scruffy guys. One had been unconscious within a split second. The other had gotten a gun jammed in his chest. Jed didn’t want either of those things to happen to him. But he also knew he could never get away. Not on foot. The officers would be faster than him. And they would be trained to catch people. Plus they could call for backup. Maybe dogs. Maybe air support. Jed sagged against the wall. He had come so far. He had gotten so close. Then his hand brushed against something. The front wheel of the messenger’s bike.

The bike was right there. Next to him. It wasn’t locked. That seemed like a sign he should take it. Jed wasn’t a thief. He didn’t want to steal it. But he also didn’t want to get caught. And the messenger had behaved like a total asshole. So Jed decided it would be OK to just borrow the bike. Given the circumstances. Just for a little while. As short a time as possible. Then he could find a way to return it. Bike riding was not something Jed enjoyed. But it had to be better than anything those guys would do if they got their hands on him.