No Plan B

Chapter 4

The bus came to rest at an angle from the curb like it had been stolen by a drunk and then abandoned when the prank lost its gloss. The front end was partly blocking the intersection. Reacher saw the route number on the electronic panel above its entry door switch to a written message: CALL POLICE. He also saw the dead woman’s legs. They were jutting out from under the bus, about halfway between its front and rear wheels. One of her sneakers had fallen off. The guy who had pushed her took a black trash bag from the back pocket of his jeans. He shook it open. Crouched down next to her bare foot. Stretched an arm under the bus. Snagged something and pulled it out. Reacher realized it was the woman’s purse. The guy slipped it into the trash bag. Stood up. Adjusted his hood. And strolled away, heading south, disappearing from sight.

Reacher ran across the street, diagonally, toward the bus. The sidewalk was starting to fill up. People were spilling out of the shops and cafés and offices to gawp at the body. A man in a suit had stopped his car and climbed out to get a better look. But no one was paying any attention to the guy in the hoodie. He was melting away through the fringe of the crowd. Reacher barreled through the spectators, shoving people aside, knocking one of them on his ass. The guy in the hoodie cleared the last of the onlookers. He picked up his pace. Reacher kept going, pushing harder. He barged between one final couple and broke back into a run. The guy was sixty feet ahead now. Reacher closed the gap to fifty feet. Forty-five. Then the guy heard the footsteps chasing him. He glanced over his shoulder. Saw Reacher bearing down on him. He started to run, still clutching the trash bag in one hand. He slipped his other hand up inside his hood. Jabbed at a device that was jammed into his right ear. Barked out a couple of sentences. Then veered off into an alleyway that stretched away to his left.

Reacher kept running until he was a couple of feet from the mouth of the alley. Then he stopped. He listened. He heard nothing so he knelt down, crept forward, and peered around the corner. He figured if the guy had a gun he’d be looking for a target at head height. If he had a knife he’d be winding up for a lunge to the gut. But Reacher didn’t encounter any threat. There was no response at all. So he got back to his feet and took a step forward.

The alley was the cleanest he had ever been in. The walls of the adjoining buildings were pale brick. They looked neat and even. There was no graffiti. None of the second-floor windows were broken. The fire escapes looked freshly painted. There were dumpsters lined up on both sides. They were evenly spaced out. Some were green. Some were blue. All had lids. None was overflowing, and there was no trash blowing around on the ground.

The guy was thirty feet away. His back was against the left-hand wall. He was standing completely still and the trash bag was on the ground at his feet. Reacher moved toward him. He closed the gap to twenty feet. Then the guy lifted the hem of his hoodie. A black, boxy pistol was sticking out of his waistband.

The guy said, “Hold it. That’s close enough.”

Reacher kept moving. He closed the gap to ten feet.

The guy’s hand hovered over the grip of his pistol. He said, “Stop. Keep your hands where I can see them. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt. We just need to talk.”

Reacher closed the gap to four feet. Then he said, “Anyone else.”

“What?” the guy said.

“Someone already got hurt. The woman you pushed. Was there a need for that?”

The guy’s mouth opened and closed but no words came out.

Reacher said, “Down on the ground. Fingers laced behind your head.”

The guy didn’t respond.

“Maybe there is no need for anyone else to get hurt,” Reacher said. “And by anyone, I mean you. It all depends on what you do next.”

The guy went for his gun. He was fast. But not fast enough. Reacher grabbed the guy’s wrist and whipped it away to his right, spinning him around so he was facing the wall.

“Stop.” The guy’s voice was suddenly shrill. “Wait. What are you doing?”

“I’m going to see how you like it,” Reacher said. “There’s no bus. But there are bricks. They’ll have to do.”

Reacher let go of the guy’s wrist. Moved his hand up. Planted it between the guy’s shoulder blades. And pushed. It was a huge motion. Savage. Wild. Way more than sufficient. The guy tried to save himself but he had no chance. The force was overwhelming. He smashed into the wall, face-first, and flopped onto the ground like the bones in his legs had dissolved. Blood was sluicing down from the gashes in his forehead. His nose was broken. There was a serious chance he could suffocate. Or drown.

Neither of those outcomes would have worried Reacher too much.