The Sentinel

TWELVE

Rutherford’s text arrived after five minutes. It contained two words. In. Safe. Reacher read it, waited another five minutes, then took the truck-stop bag from the back seat, climbed out of the car, and headed into Rutherford’s lobby.

The doorman’s booth jutted out from the side wall, opposite the elevators, equally spaced between the front entrance and a door which Reacher assumed led to the stairs to the garage. It had mahogany sides which matched the panels on the walls and its green-veined marble top was the same pattern as the floor. As far as Reacher could tell. At least eighty per cent of its surface was covered. There were ring binders full of directories and procedures and regulations. A computer monitor. A phone, bristling with all kinds of buttons and displays. And a cell phone with a large screen. The space behind the counter was probably the regular size but the doorman seemed to completely fill it. He looked like he was in his late twenties, with a shaved head, a doughy face, small eyes and a heavy build. Very heavy. The kind of guy who had done well on the high-school football team, Reacher figured, but whose life had been all downhill from there.

‘Help you?’ the guy said.

The years Reacher spent in the military police had taught him that most investigations go with the numbers. A wife turns up dead, it’s usually the husband who killed her. Something goes missing from the stores, it’s usually a quartermaster who stole it. Someone shares secrets, it’s usually for the money. Unless they’re being blackmailed, which is less common. Or tricked. Or acting on principle, which is the rarest thing of all.

‘Name your price,’ Reacher said.

The guy stared back, blankly. ‘For what?’

‘You just made a call. Or sent a text. Or an email. Name your price to message me instead in future.’

The guy stretched out and covered his phone. It completely disappeared beneath his giant paw. ‘I didn’t send a text. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Sure you do,’ Reacher said. ‘You just had a conversation with Mr Rutherford. Then you told someone what time he’s leaving for the airport. Just like you told them he asked for a cab this morning.’

The guy was suddenly on his feet. He was as tall as Reacher. As wide as Reacher. Maybe faster than Reacher. ‘You want to hurt Mr Rutherford? Try it. See what happens.’

Reacher paused. Investigations go with the numbers. If the guy wasn’t motivated by money, then what? Blackmail was next in line, statistically, but Reacher couldn’t see it. And principle is the rarest thing of all.

‘Outstanding.’ Reacher held out his hand. ‘I knew you’d pass. But we can’t be too careful. Not when Mr Rutherford’s safety is at stake. I’m glad you’re on the team.’

‘We’re on a team?’

‘Of course. Keeping Mr Rutherford safe. You heard he got attacked on the street yesterday?’

The guy nodded.

‘I was the one who saved him,’ Reacher said.

‘That was you?’ The guy shook Reacher’s hand. ‘Thank you. I like Mr Rutherford. He’s always nice to the building staff. Not like some of the assholes who live here. I could tell you some stories …’

‘I bet you could,’ Reacher said. ‘But after yesterday we have to be extra careful. There might be a leak. That’s why they sent me here. To see if anyone changed sides.’

‘Not me.’

‘Clearly. What about the other doormen? Can we trust them?’

‘I think so. The day guys, anyway. The others I don’t know so well. But Mr Rutherford doesn’t go out much at night anyway. Unless he’s working. Then he’s out all night, sometimes, if he’s upgrading the systems or whatever those computer guys do.’

‘OK, good.’ Reacher leaned forward and gestured for the guy to move in closer. ‘Now here’s the thing. I’m going to level with you. We think whoever tried to hurt Mr Rutherford yesterday is going to try again today. I’m here to stop them, but I need your help. I need you to do two things. Are you with me?’

‘What two things?’

‘First, show me how I can see the pictures from the garage security cameras. Then I need to take your place for a while.’

‘You can watch the cameras on here,’ the guy said. He pressed the space bar on the computer keyboard and the screen lit up. It was divided into nine rectangles. The one at the top left showed the street outside the garage entrance. Each of the others gave a different view of the inside in clear, crisp colour. ‘It records so I don’t have to watch all the time, but I do when I’m bored.’

‘Sounds good,’ Reacher said. ‘Now, is there a closet anywhere?’

‘Sure.’ The guy pointed to a door disguised amongst the panels to the side of the booth. ‘Right there. Why?’

‘This is the part where I really need you to trust me.’ Reacher set the bag from the truck stop down on the countertop. ‘I need to make it look like I overpowered you, in case anything goes wrong. We need to safeguard your cover. I need you to lie low in there for a while and I have to warn you, it could be a couple of hours. I don’t know exactly what kind of schedule these guys are on. And I have to make it look convincing. These are animals we’re dealing with here. So I’m going to use a little tape. Just a bit around your wrists. And your ankles. I better put a piece over your mouth, too. I’m sorry. I know it’s not pleasant. But it’s the only way to keep Mr Rutherford safe.’

Speranski was poring over a large-scale map, thinking about parking and power supplies for his next project, when his secure phone rang.

‘Two things,’ the voice at the other end of the line said. ‘First, the team found your man. Trussed up with his own handcuffs at the place he was supposed to deliver the drifter. He’s no longer on the payroll, as requested.’

Speranski didn’t reply.

‘Second, Rutherford has been located.’

‘Where?’ Speranski said.

‘At his building.’

‘Damn. If he’s holed up again he could be in there for weeks.’

‘No. He’s leaving this afternoon. Going back to the airport. In his own car. Because he’s taking something with him.’

‘This is via the doorman?’

‘Correct. The poor sap thinks he’s helping to keep Rutherford safe.’

‘Where’s the drifter?’

‘Unknown.’

‘Where’s Rutherford’s car?’

‘In the building’s garage. We have the make, model, and licence plate.’

‘I know the garage for that building. It’s underground. Enclosed. I don’t like it.’

‘Ambush?’

‘That’s what I’m thinking.’

‘Struck me that way too.’

‘Tell the team to be extra careful. We can’t afford another spectacle.’

Reacher sat in the doorman’s chair for forty minutes, then his eye was drawn to the monitor. To the rectangle at the top left. The one fed by the camera above the garage door. The image was slightly fish-eyed to give a wide field of view, but a black Suburban was still an unmistakable vehicle. It pulled to the side of the street ten yards short of the entrance, close enough for Reacher to make out the blond splashes of the driver’s and the passenger’s hair. A blue Toyota passed it and pulled up in front of the garage. A mark in the demerit column, Reacher thought. Time had no doubt been tight but they still should have replaced their vehicles.

Reacher watched as a woman got out of the Toyota’s rear seat. It was the red-haired woman from the alleyway the day before. Reacher saw her work the keypad. 1, 2, 3, 4. The same code ever since Rutherford moved there. The car pulled forward and the woman got back in. It momentarily disappeared then showed up on the next segment of the screen, emerging from the bottom of the ramp and swinging into the middle of three vacant spaces in the central bank. The driver got out. It was the woman he’d seen behind the wheel the day before. The second woman joined her. Then the guy Reacher had knocked out. Then the one he’d thrown through the window.

The four fanned out through the space. They checked both regular entrances and looked for alternative ways in or out. Then they located Rutherford’s car. An off-white 1970s VW Beetle, parked more or less at the centre of the left-hand wall. There was an empty space on each side of it. Beyond that to the left was a Jeep Grand Cherokee. To the right a Ford F150. A good set-up from an ambusher’s point of view. Both were tall vehicles. They offered plenty of concealment. The guy Reacher had knocked out pointed to each of them in turn, then to another empty space perpendicular against the far wall. Reacher could tell what the guy was thinking. The plan practically made itself. The driver could tuck the Toyota into the space by the far wall. One guy could hide behind the Jeep. One could hide behind the Ford. The other woman could conceal herself near the pedestrian door in case Rutherford got spooked and tried to run back into the building. Otherwise they would wait for him to reach his car. Then the Toyota would pull forward. In electric mode, like yesterday, so there’d be no sound. No warning. The two guys would emerge. One would open the door. The other would grab Rutherford and push him inside. A piece of cake.

The garage was a good set-up in a broader sense, too. It was a known location. There was no uncertainty over which route Rutherford might take if they tried to tail him to the airport. No concerns over traffic, or parking. A lower chance of any passers-by becoming involved than if they mounted an operation on the street. And no need to worry about the security cameras, as they had an ally covering the monitoring station. Or so they believed.

The garage was a good set-up, but it wasn’t perfect. The chance of members of the public entering the scene was reduced, but not eliminated. That left the possibility of witnesses. And of collateral damage. Too high a possibility, in Reacher’s judgement. But he wasn’t planning the ambush. The ones who were remained huddled for a minute. Pointing. Waving their arms. Arguing.

Reacher would have liked the image to be bigger, but from what he could make out, the guy he had knocked out was at odds with the driver. The other two had eased back, staying out of the argument. Finally the driver shook her head and pointed towards Rutherford’s Beetle. She put her hands on her hips and waited until the knocked-out guy returned to the Toyota. He opened its trunk, took something out, and carried it to the VW. Around to its rear. He knelt down and stuck one hand beneath the car. Reacher’s first thought was: Bomb. Then he reconsidered. The box was too small to hold much explosive. It had to be something else. The guy gave up on the underneath and slipped the device into the hollow in the centre of the Beetle’s chunky rear fender. The driver pulled out her phone. She checked the screen and nodded. A tracker, Reacher realized. A smart tactic. A mark in the merit column.

Reacher watched the Toyota leave the garage, then turned his attention to the Suburban. It was fifty-fifty in his mind whether it was there as backup, in which case it would leave, or if it would wait and tail Rutherford anyway in case there was a problem with the tracker. Ten minutes passed. There was no sign of movement. Reacher had conceived the exercise as a way to observe his enemies in action. To gauge their competence and decision-making. Now their caution offered him another opportunity. The chance to shake things up a little.

A sign which read Back in Five Minutes was peeping out of the heap of clutter next to the monitor. Reacher fished it out, set it on the countertop, then picked up his bag and headed for the main door. He walked down the street, past Marty’s car, took the alley Rutherford had cut through, and turned to approach the Suburban head on. He was thirty yards away when the guys inside it spotted him. The driver was the first to notice. He nudged the passenger in the ribs. Reacher saw them both stiffen. He kept on walking. Slow and easy. Arms loose and well away from his sides. He didn’t want any misunderstandings. He drew level with the passenger window then stopped and pulled what he hoped was a friendly, non-threatening smile. The passenger looked at him for a long second then lowered the window.

‘What do you want?’ the guy said.

‘First, I want to apologize for yesterday,’ Reacher said. ‘I stumbled into something I didn’t understand. I had no idea what was going on and just acted on instinct. I hope your buddies are OK. Anyway, since then I had a long talk with a very interesting guy. He set me straight on a few things. Like what I need to do if I want to leave this town in one piece. So here’s the deal. I know where Rutherford is and I’m willing to hand him to you on a plate. But you’ll have to move fast. There’s not much time. He set up his doorman to pass on a story about him driving to the airport, but the truth is he’s got a guy lined up to smuggle him out of the country. A private plane. False papers. Disguises. The whole nine yards. Meet me in the coffee shop in five minutes and I’ll explain everything. Just don’t be late. This is a one-time thing. Dawdle and he’ll slip through your fingers for good. Only it won’t be my fault this time.’

Reacher strolled to the next cross street and as soon as he was out of sight of the Suburban he broke into a run. He looped around towards the main entrance to Rutherford’s building and then ducked back into the alley. He eased the pair of dumpsters apart and settled into the gap he had created to wait. He figured the Suburban guys wouldn’t tell anyone what they’d heard right away. It was too crazy. They’d want to debate it between themselves first. For at least a minute. They probably wouldn’t believe what Reacher had said, but could they afford to ignore it? Probably not. They’d decide they had to follow up. But they’d have to report in first. To whoever was pulling their strings. Then it would be crunch time. If Reacher had oversold the story they might abandon the garage. Drive around and park near the coffee shop. He hoped he hadn’t been that convincing. In which case a more sensible response would be for the guys to split up. For one of them to stay on station in the Suburban on the grounds that Reacher’s tale was most likely a ploy. And for the second guy to head for the coffee shop on foot just in case Reacher was telling the truth. Time would be tight after all the deliberations. Getting there before the deadline would be tough. So the second guy would take the quickest possible route. Which would be the shortest. Which would be through the alley.

The clock in Reacher’s head showed four minutes since he had walked away from the Suburban. No one entered the alley. Four and a half minutes. No one entered. Four and three quarters. Then Reacher heard footsteps. Someone running. Light. Efficient. Purposeful. Coming his way. Reacher waited a beat then stepped out from between the dumpsters. The passenger from the Suburban was in the alley, ten feet away. He stopped himself after another step and dropped into the same kind of weird stance he’d used the day before. Then he had a change of heart. Maybe it was the size difference. Maybe it was the expression on Reacher’s face. Maybe it was the recollection of what had happened to his two comrades. But whatever the reason, he straightened up, reached behind his back, and produced a gun. A Beretta M9.

‘You’re not going to give Rutherford up, are you?’ he said.

‘I might,’ Reacher said. ‘On one condition.’

‘Which is?’

‘Tell me why you’re after him.’

The guy paused. ‘He has something we want.’

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Reacher said. ‘Be more specific.’

‘I don’t think so. And I don’t need to. Because very soon you’ll be begging to tell us where Rutherford is.’

‘Us?’ Reacher said. ‘Who’s us?’

‘All will be revealed when the time is right.’ The guy made a rotating motion with the gun. ‘Now turn around. Hands on the wall. Feet wide apart. I’m sure you’re familiar with the routine.’

The guy was standing seven feet away. Reacher was out of his range. But Reacher was almost a foot taller than him.

‘You win,’ Reacher said. He began to turn. Moving clockwise. Pivoting on his right foot. Bringing his left foot closer to the guy with the gun. Halving the distance between them. He kept rotating until his left shoulder was facing the guy. Then he planted his foot, shot out his hand, and grabbed the underside of the barrel. He twisted the gun viciously away from his body, breaking the guy’s finger with the trigger guard and messing up the ligaments in his wrist. The guy howled and pulled back. The Beretta clattered to the ground. He glanced down at his hand. Blood was starting to flow from a break in the skin above his knuckle. He sucked the wound. Then he returned his focus to Reacher. He took half a step back and feinted a kick to the body with his front foot, but instead of following through he used the momentum to rise on his toes and swing a punch around towards Reacher’s temple. Reacher leaned back and deflected the blow with his forearm. The force of the block spun the guy around, leaving his left side exposed. Reacher jabbed him in the kidney. He shaped up for a kick but dialled it back at the last moment and more or less pushed the guy’s hip with his foot. The guy staggered back and sideways and his legs tangled and he tripped himself, landing in a heap at the base of the far wall.

Reacher stepped closer and waited for the guy to make eye contact. ‘What does Rutherford have that you want?’

The guy pulled himself on to all fours then slowly hauled himself to his feet and stood there for a moment, hunched and sagging, like a man thoroughly defeated. Then he exploded forward and threw two quick sharp jabs to try to push Reacher back. He threw two more then spun around, whipping up his right foot and aiming for the side of Reacher’s head. It would have been a problem if the kick had landed. It may not have had the weight behind it to knock Reacher out, but it could have slowed him down. Disoriented him. Given the guy a way back into the fight. Only Reacher didn’t back off. He did what he always did. Moved closer to the danger. He saw the guy’s body begin to twist so stepped in and met his foot when it was only at waist height. He trapped the guy’s shin between his arm and his body and slid his hand back to grab the ankle. Then he lifted the guy’s foot, leaving him hopping back and forth, fighting for balance with an expression of pure outrage on his face.

‘You should save moves like that for gym class,’ Reacher said. ‘Where there are rules. Out here there are only decisions and consequences. Well, one decision. And you have to make it. Whether to tell me what I want to know. If you decide not to, you’ll never walk again. Not without a limp.’

The guy didn’t respond.

‘Take a moment to think,’ Reacher said. ‘Have you ever seen an X-ray of a knee? It’s not the bones you need to worry about. They heal up easily. It’s all the other parts you need to keep in mind. Ligaments. Tendons. Cartilage. But mainly ligaments. If they get damaged, not too severely, and you’re a famous sports player with limitless money and immediate access to a hospital, there’s a chance of a decent repair. Only you’re not a top sports guy. I’m guessing you don’t have limitless money. And I can assure you that if my foot crashes down on your knee with all my weight behind it, the damage is going to be way beyond severe. That’s for damn sure.’

The guy heaved back, trying to free his foot. He flailed with his left hand, trying to land a blow or gouge Reacher’s eyes, but he was stymied by his own locked leg. ‘OK,’ he said, panting, when he finally gave up. ‘Fine. Do what you have to do. I’m not saying a word.’

Reacher didn’t move.

‘Come on. What are you waiting for? Just do it.’

‘This is your last chance,’ Reacher said. ‘What does Rutherford have that you want?’

‘It doesn’t matter what you do to me. I’ll never tell you anything.’

‘If that’s the way you want it,’ Reacher said. He lifted his right foot, held it still, and looked the guy in the eyes. Then stamped down hard towards the knee of the guy’s standing leg. The guy threw his head back and closed his eyes and whimpered, but he didn’t say a word. Reacher’s shoe was solid and heavy. He stopped his foot with the sole an inch from the guy’s knee. He paused, then lowered his foot to the ground. He released the guy’s leg and simultaneously punched him just below the ear. The guy went down sideways, his right leg still extended like he’d just kicked a ball, and didn’t move again.

Reacher checked that the guy was breathing then retrieved his weapon. It was well maintained and, unlike Marty’s, loaded. Reacher searched the guy’s clothes. He had a wallet with some cash which Reacher took as spoils of war, but no credit cards or ID or anything indicating a name or an address. Or any kind of temporary accommodation. He had no spare ammunition. And nothing else in his pockets except for a phone. Reacher pressed the button below its screen and a message appeared saying that his print wasn’t recognized so to try again or enter a keycode. He held the button against the unconscious guy’s thumb and the screen lit up. Reacher touched a picture of a phone and a list of calls appeared. There was nothing since yesterday. There were no voicemails. No text messages. And the picture of an address book only revealed five entries. All were numbers. No names. Reacher put the phone in his pocket, slipped the gun into his waistband, and fetched his bag from the gap between the dumpsters. He took out the duct tape. Fastened the guy’s ankles together. Taped his hands behind his back. Stuck a strip over his mouth. Then hoisted the guy over his shoulder and heaved him into one of the dumpsters.