The Sentinel

SEVEN

Reacher set out walking and after twenty yards he came to the entrance to a field on the right-hand side of the road. There wasn’t much growing. He guessed that tobacco had once been cultivated there, but that was more from half-remembered lessons in schools in distant parts of the world than from any familiarity with the stubby brown plants straggling across the surface of the crumbly red soil. He picked his way to the opposite side, which was bordered by a stand of thin trees, squeezed through a gap, and continued parallel to the road.

After a quarter of a mile Reacher saw the rear of a pair of buildings. The nearer one was wider and taller. Foot-square patches of white paint were flaking off its pitted concrete surface. A pillar maybe a yard square sprouted from the far side, more than doubling the height of the roof. A set of large red capital letters was still attached and the backs of the S, T, U, D and E were visible before the rest of the name was obscured by the wall. The second structure was smaller. It was little more than a kiosk at the side of a roofed-in forecourt. There were no gas pumps any more. Reacher guessed they’d been removed and gussied up and sold in arty stores in affluent towns. He’d seen one in a gallery window one time, on sale for more money than a car could cost. A sign of the times, he thought. Like the shuttered gas station itself. Once booming, nurtured by its car-dealer neighbour. Then a lonely fight for survival, clinging on as the flow of people ebbed and weakened and slowed and finally dried up altogether. The road would be a hopeless place to do business now. That was for sure. No vehicles had passed by since Reacher entered the field. There were only two others in sight anywhere. Tucked in behind the larger building. A Suburban and a Toyota. Black and blue. The same as the previous day. The question was, had they carried the same number of people?

Reacher figured they’d put one person on the roof to spot Marty’s car approaching and give the word to the others. The car would swing on to the forecourt, and if Reacher was calling the shots he’d have it continue between the buildings and stop when it was halfway out at the other side. One person would break cover, open the rear door on the driver’s side, then drop back. Another would follow with a tranquillizer gun and shoot the target before he had a chance to scramble out of the tight space. So three people, minimum. Enough to handle the job easily. But if they were cautious they could use two people to open both rear doors, and have two with dart guns. That would require a higher level of skill and training to ensure that the guys with the guns didn’t shoot each other across the back seat of the car, but it would avoid any problems if the target gambled and threw himself at the opening door or managed to grab the gun before it fired. So more likely five people. And if they were more cautious still, they would have someone mobile to sweep up if anything went wrong. Six people. Two pairs, two singles. The same complement as yesterday.

Reacher decided to leave the lookout on the roof until last. They were too physically removed to pose a threat, and even if they were armed they wouldn’t risk shooting in case they hit their own people. The pairs were likely to be concealed somewhere near the adjacent rear corners of the buildings. The sweeper was the unknown factor. He or she would be the one to take off the board first.

If one existed.

Reacher settled in to observe. He could wait all day. Meanwhile his opponents would be getting jumpy. They’d no doubt been informed that Marty had left the courthouse. Concern would be creeping in by now. They’d be worrying that something had gone wrong. The longer the delay, the more stress they’d be under. The greater the stress, the greater the chance they’d make a mistake.

Twelve minutes passed. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Then Reacher heard a vehicle. It was approaching from the north. Reacher caught movement on the roof. Near the pillar with the letters. A head appeared, rising slowly. It was a woman. Dressed in black. With red hair. He’d seen her before. Yesterday. On the opposite side of the alley before she helped get her unconscious buddy into the back of the Toyota. She stayed still for five or six seconds then sank back down, raising her hand to her ear as she went. A car appeared. Moving fast. An ink-blue Mustang convertible with its roof down. A man was driving. There was a woman smiling in the passenger seat. It flashed past, engine howling, scattering gravel in its wake.

The next vehicle Reacher heard was heading the wrong way so he stayed still, pressed into the ground, invisible. The engine note was the same so he guessed it was the Mustang coming back. The guy showing off, hoping for action that night. Or hurrying home after an earlier indiscretion. Five more minutes passed. Ten. Then he heard a vehicle coming the right way. Something slower and softer. Reacher pulled up into a crouch, ready to race forward.

There was movement on the roof. The woman’s head appeared again. She was rising faster this time. She stood all the way up, touching her ear, and started running towards the centre of the building. She would have been looking right at Reacher if she wasn’t so focused on the rooftop beneath her feet. When the southbound vehicle rolled by she didn’t even turn her head. Then she was gone. Reacher guessed she’d jumped down through a hatch. He dropped down too, nestling into the ground. Ninety seconds later the woman wriggled out through a gap at the end of a length of plywood hoarding near the midpoint of the rear wall. The guy Reacher had knocked out squeezed through after her and they ran to the Toyota. The two shorter guys Reacher had exchanged words with emerged from the kiosk and sprinted to the Suburban. Then both vehicles fired up and sped away, wheels spinning on the loose surface, heading away from town.