The Sentinel (Jack Reacher)

TWENTY-FIVE

Reacher was feeling pretty good when he hung up the phone and started back to the motel. He figured the server was where it needed to be. The Russian technicians would get to work on it and everything would fall into place from there. The beginning of the end was surely under way. But the further he drove, the more unsettled he became. He could feel a scratch at the back of his brain. It was nagging at him. Telling him something was wrong. Two things, in fact. The first he couldn’t put his finger on. Yet. It had to do with something he’d seen at Klostermann’s house. Wallwork had triggered a connection when they spoke. It was there, but not in focus yet. Like a photograph from an old Polaroid camera. Vague and indistinct at first, but definitely something. All Reacher could do was wait. The image would sharpen up. His brain just needed time to join all the dots.

The second thing was already clear. It reminded him of a French legend his mother used to tell. About an ancient soothsayer who could catch a person’s words and scatter them on the surface of a magic lake. At first the words would all look the same. They would all float and bob around. Then the true ones would soak up the water and sink, leaving only the lies at the top for all to see. In this case the false words belonged to Klostermann. He’d spoken them the first time they’d met and they were still there, afloat in Reacher’s memory. My father fled to the States from Germany in the 1930s. But Wallwork had checked the immigration records. Heinrich Klostermann arrived in the United States in 1946. After World War II. Not before. Not the kind of detail a person would forget. So either Henry Klostermann misspoke or misremembered. Or he had something entirely different to hide.

Reacher was almost at the truck stop when his phone rang. It was Wallwork again.

‘News?’ Reacher said.

‘Nothing from Fisher,’ Wallwork said. ‘I’m calling back about those licence plates. That was an interesting group Klostermann met with. The guy in the S-Class is a neighbour. He owns a bunch of buildings in town, plus a heap of land outside it. One of the other guys is a lighting designer. One does sound systems. And the generator guy speaks for himself. If you ask me, Klostermann is putting together some kind of outdoor concert. Maybe it’s a new venture for him. Maybe it’s a hobby. Or a one-off thing, to celebrate some kind of event or anniversary.’

‘What about the guy on the bike?’

‘He’s an all-round disaster zone. His jacket’s two inches thick. I can’t imagine him doing anything useful. Directing traffic at the event, maybe? Or sticking up posters?’

Reacher was quiet for a moment. ‘Have you got an address for him?’

‘Sure. Why?’

‘It looked like they kicked him to the kerb. He’ll likely have the loosest lips of the bunch. I have nothing to do until we hear from Fisher. I was thinking I could have a conversation with the guy. See what comes out if we look at Klostermann from a different angle.’

‘Could be useful, I guess. Obviously I shouldn’t tell you. So you didn’t hear it from me.’

Reacher thanked him then hung up, called Sands back, and told her what he was planning to do. She didn’t respond right away.

‘Everything OK?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Sands said. ‘It’s just Rusty.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘Gone down with a migraine. I knew he would. This always happens when he works too hard. He won’t take breaks. He won’t eat. Won’t drink. And then, bang. He’s face down on the floor.’

‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

‘No. Go and lean on this guy. One thing I learned in the Bureau – never leave a lead unfollowed. Those are the ones that bite you in the ass.’

The address Wallwork gave Reacher for the guy on the bike was in the same subdivision as Holly’s place. Reacher cut roughly southwest from the truck stop to avoid driving back through town and threaded his way through the rows of rectangular houses on their rectangular lots until he arrived outside the final one on the final street. The last one to be built, Reacher figured. Maybe a couple of years younger than the first. Which could be an advantage, if all the kinks in the design had been ironed out. Or a disadvantage if the contractor’s enthusiasm had worn off by then and the pick of the crew had left for fresh projects. But whichever way the scale had leaned originally, the point was no longer relevant. It looked like the house had been beamed in from a scrapyard. Shingles were slipping off the roof. The windows were opaque with dirt. Paint was peeling off every flat surface. The yard seemed to be filled with spoil from a chemical plant. And in the centre, shiny and incongruous, sat a bike. Flames on the fuel tank. Tall wide handlebars. Foot pegs way out in front.

Like Holly’s, the house had a front door with no window. Reacher was even less inclined to knock on this one so he drove past and stopped in the fishtail. Made his way down the far side where there were no neighbours to worry about. And found he wouldn’t have to climb over the fence. He wouldn’t be able to. Because it had already fallen down. Reacher stepped over the remains and surveyed the yard. If any attempt at horticulture had ever been made, the signs were long gone. Nothing was growing. The soil was dull brown. It looked utterly desolate. Reacher wouldn’t have been surprised to find scientists there in hazmat suits collecting samples. He cut across to the rear of the house. It also had a sliding glass door. This one had a diagonal crack running across it. Some kind of clear tape had been applied. It was yellow with age and the peeling edges were encrusted with ancient bugs. Reacher looked inside, into the kitchen. The cupboard doors were shabby. Several weren’t lined up straight and a couple weren’t closed. There were pots on the stove. The sink was stacked high with dirty plates and mugs and glasses. Cans and bottles were overflowing from the trash. There was a full ashtray on the small round table. But no sign of the biker. Or anyone else.

Reacher knocked on the glass. He heard a scraping sound above him. A window opening. He moved closer to the wall.

‘Whoever you are, they’re not here.’ It was a woman’s voice, raspy from cigarette smoke. ‘Now get out of my yard.’

‘I need to talk to Zach,’ Reacher said.

‘I told you, he’s not here.’

‘His bike’s out front.’

‘So talk to the bike. Zach’s not here. None of them are. Come in and look if you don’t believe me. If your shots are up to date.’

‘So where are they?’

‘At the workshop, obviously. Trying to fix up that dumbass car.’

‘Got an address on the workshop?’

‘If you don’t know that, you don’t know Zach. What do you want him for?’

‘To talk about a job.’

The woman let out a little shriek. ‘You really don’t know Zach if you think he wants a job.’

‘He wants this one. Trust me.’

The woman paused. ‘Is there money involved? As in actual cash you can spend at the store?’

‘There’s plenty.’

‘OK. Here’s the deal. I’ll tell you where Zach’s at. You tell Zach half of what he earns comes to me. Or I’ll kick his ass out. Again.’

Reacher followed the woman’s directions. They took him due west on a straight road, wide in places, narrow in others, flanked by telephone poles, with fields on either side. Some had drainage ditches, some a hazy covering of green. None had any sign of purpose. Maybe they’d once been cultivated. Maybe they’d been earmarked for development into more houses. But whatever had been planned was long forgotten and they’d descended into a state of permanent disuse.

Reacher continued for nineteen miles, until he came to a crossroads. The woman had said twenty, but he figured that was close enough. Most people work in round numbers. He saw a single building on the far side of the intersection, on the right. The workshop. Positioned to be convenient for traffic approaching from the east or north. Maybe a random choice. Maybe the result of some in-depth study of traffic patterns and emerging demographics. Either way, not enough to guarantee a long-term future.

The structure was about as simple as you could get. There were columns at the corners and in the centre of each wall. Steel, presumably, encased in concrete. The sides and back were solid. The roof was flat. And the front had two vehicle-width doors, both rolled up. Originally they would have led to two bays. The right-hand one was still in commission. It had a lift, banks of tools, pneumatic lines, the whole nine yards. A car was raised up with its wheels at head height. A two-door coupé with a long hood, maybe from the late sixties or early seventies. It was bright orange. A guy was standing under it, fiddling with something. Four others were next to it, giving advice. To the side of them the other bay had been converted into some kind of clubhouse. There were three leather couches. None of them matched. A fridge. A table made out of three tyres stacked on their sides with a circle of glass on top. And there were posters on the walls. Some of cars. Some of women. Some of cars and women.

Outside, five trucks were lined up on the forecourt. They were all American brands. All were black with chrome wheels and knobbly tyres. And all had versions of orange flames painted down the sides. Reacher pulled up at the end of the row. He got out and looked at the guys in the vehicle bay. Their ages ranged from late twenties to early forties, he guessed. Two were wearing black leather pants and vests. Two, jeans and T-shirts. One – the guy under the car – was wearing black coveralls. All were pale. All were blond. All were broad and stocky. Reacher could imagine them working out together. Maybe with some kind of improvised equipment. Maybe at one time in a prison yard. Maybe more than one time.

Another thing they had in common was that none of them was Zach.

‘Problem with your car, friend?’ The coveralls guy took a step forward. ‘Can’t help you here. Sorry. Private club. Not a commercial operation.’

‘I’m here for Zach,’ Reacher said.

The guy glanced at his buddies. ‘Don’t know any Zach. Sorry.’

A door opened at the back of the clubhouse area. Maybe from a storeroom. Maybe from a bathroom. Zach stepped out. He was still wearing his bandana and shades.

‘You don’t?’ Reacher said. ‘Here he is now. Want me to introduce you?’

‘Funny guy,’ Zach said. He made his way to the threshold. ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk.’

‘About what?’

‘Henry Klostermann.’

‘Don’t know any Henry Klostermann, do we, boys?’

The others shook their heads and grunted.

‘Sure you do,’ Reacher said. ‘He has some business up for grabs. There was a misunderstanding. You wound up on the back foot, I get that. But Mr Klostermann doesn’t like quitters. You should give it another shot. And here’s the good news. I can help you. If you help me first.’

‘Bullshit,’ Zach said.

‘No. It’s the truth. But I guess if you don’t want to work with Mr Klostermann …’

‘If you know Mr Klostermann you must be in the Brotherhood. So why haven’t I seen you at any meetings?’

Reacher shrugged. ‘I spend a lot of time on the road.’

‘So you are in the Brotherhood? Prove it.’

‘I don’t need to prove anything. I’m Mr Klostermann’s business associate. We just closed a deal today, as a matter of fact. At his house. I’ve been there more than once. That’s where I saw you. I overheard what happened. Just confirm a couple of details for me, and I can get you back on the books in no time.’

‘You can take your business deals and stick them in your ass. The Brotherhood. Are you a member? Yes or no? Because we all are. Show him, boys.’

As one, the guys with T-shirts lifted them. The guys with vests opened them. And the guy with the coveralls undid the tunic buttons. They all had the same tattoo. On the left side of their chests. A bald eagle. Holding arrows in both talons, not just one. And across the centre of the bird’s body, in place of the Stars and Stripes, there was a round shield containing a black swastika on a red background.

The blurry image that had been in Reacher’s head since talking to Wallwork snapped into focus. The white flowers in Klostermann’s living room. They were edelweiss. Adolf Hitler’s favourite. Which told him what Klostermann was hiding. His father had arrived from Germany in 1946. With at least one valuable painting to use as collateral to start a new life. He was a war criminal. A Nazi. And Henry was carrying on the family business.

‘Well, that simplifies things,’ Reacher said. ‘I had thought there were two ways this could go. Now I see there’s only one.’

‘Lift your shirt,’ Zach said. ‘Show us yours.’

Reacher didn’t move.

Zach closed his vest and turned to his buddies. ‘He must be Antifa. Mr Klostermann said they’d be on our trail. That’s why he needed our help.’

‘Help with what?’ Reacher said. ‘Tying his shoelaces? I guess if you all worked together you might be able to do it. If you had a couple of days. And a dark room to lie down in afterwards.’

The six guys stepped forward as one, drawn by the insult.

‘Fellers, slow down,’ Reacher said. ‘You’re failing to use the resources available to you. Look around. There are wrenches. Hammers. Tyre irons. All kinds of sharp heavy things.’

The guys looked at each other. They were confused. Why was their enemy helping them? Then frustration took over. Now that Reacher had suggested using the tools as weapons that was the last thing they could do. They would lose too much face.

Reacher looked at them. They were lined up, bubbling with aggression. Gripped by ideological fury. The pack versus the infidel. He was the infidel. And he’d found out what he needed to know. The core of it, anyway. He had a car. He could drive away. That would be the smart thing to do. But – Nazis. He thought of his mother. A child during World War II. In occupied France. Often hungry. Often cold. Sometimes in danger. This was no time to walk away.

The six guys were standing in a line about a foot apart, ten feet away from Reacher, advancing slowly. It was a straightforward problem. The goal was to reduce their numbers as quickly as possible. Reacher’s usual tactic was to goad his opponents when he was outnumbered. Make them come at him fast. He would wait until they were five feet away then burst forward and smash through the centre of the line, elbowing the guy to his right as he went. The enemy force would instantly be depleted. And turned around. Literally. Reacher would be behind them. Out of sight. So they’d process the surprise, and turn. Only Reacher would already have turned. He would have launched himself back the other way. Elbow still up. Still swinging. Flattening the guy who had been on his left, but was now on his right. If Reacher timed it right, the guy would rush into the blow like a drunk heading the wrong direction on the highway. Timing came with experience. Reacher had plenty of experience. But on this occasion, he also had a problem. Zach was in the spot to the right of centre. And he didn’t want Zach to go down first. He wanted to save him for last.

Reacher waited and watched. The guy at the end to his left was creeping wide. Moving away on a diagonal. Aiming to sneak around him while he was occupied with the others. Which gave Reacher an idea. He pretended to look to his right, to encourage the flanking guy. Waited until the line was seven feet away. Six. Then he took a half step to his right. But he didn’t follow through. He planted his foot and used it to propel himself left, aiming for the gap between the end two guys. He found it. Raised both elbows as he moved. Swung them forward. Caught one guy below the chin. The other full in the face. Both went down like planks. Reacher spun back clockwise, leading with his right elbow. The blow missed the next guy in line, but its momentum fuelled the roundhouse punch Reacher was aiming with his left. His fist connected with the side of the guy’s head. Three down.

Half his opponents were out of the game. And the remainder were no longer facing him broadside, where their numbers could be brought to bear. They were lined up single file, as if asking to be knocked down one at a time. A single solid punch to the first guy’s face might even account for all of them. More than likely two of them. Reacher was tempted to try it. But there was a problem. The next guy in line was Zach, so a different approach was called for. Reacher feinted a jab towards Zach’s face, and when his guard was raised kicked him in the knee. Zach flopped down and Reacher kicked him again, in the solar plexus, driving the air out of his body and leaving him curled up on the ground, gasping.

The last two guys pulled back and fanned out. Reacher could practically see the cogs spinning in their heads. What had just happened? What should they do now? Run? Fight? How? He used the momentary respite to stamp on Zach’s hands, in case he had a hidden gun or blade, then stepped forward.

‘I’ve got to tell you this, even though I’ll hate myself for it,’ he said. ‘The fight is over, guys. You lost. You should walk away. Spare yourselves the pain.’

The guys glanced at each other. Neither spoke. Then they spread wider, forming a triangle with Reacher at the tip. Reacher was calculating the angles. Assessing the geometry. Concluding that the next shape would be a straight line. With him in the centre. So that the guys could rush him simultaneously. Present two targets. Two threats. Making it hard to defend. If he allowed it to happen it was likely he would at least get hit. And Reacher was opposed to getting hit. Not out of vanity. Not out of an aversion to pain. But because it reduced efficiency. His normal response was to let a pair of attackers close in. Gain pace. Then he would lunge to his left. One would be driven back in surprise. The other would be pulled forward, a hunter pursuing its prey. Then Reacher would reverse. And reverse again, catching each attacker by surprise. But this time there was a problem. The guys were moving too slowly. They were creeping cautiously forward. Reacher’s plan required pace. Momentum. So he changed it. He sprang to the side and grabbed the larger guy by his right arm. He continued to turn, dragging the guy with him, then pivoted into a full 360-degree spin. Reacher planted his feet and used his weight like a hammer thrower so that when he was three quarters of the way around the other guy’s feet were off the ground. And when he was all the way around the guy’s feet were waist high. They slammed into his buddy like a double roundhouse kick, sending him sprawling. Reacher set his guy down. Waited a moment to make sure he was steady on his feet. Then punched him full in the face. It was a massive, savage blow, landing like a sledgehammer, smashing all kinds of bones and cartilage and teeth. The other guy was trying to crawl away so Reacher went after him and kicked him in the head. Normally he would have used his left foot in a situation like that, where the guy was already down. His weaker foot. But this guy was a Nazi. So he used his right. And he didn’t hold back.

Reacher crossed to where Zach was rolling and whimpering. He grabbed him by the hair, dragged him to the nearest truck, and propped him up against its wheel.

‘Man, you broke my leg.’ Zach’s voice was an octave higher than before. ‘You broke my hands.’

‘That’s possible,’ Reacher said. ‘A few of the smaller bones, anyway. But there are plenty left. So the question is, do you want me to break those too? Or are you ready to share a little information?’

‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know.’

‘The event Klostermann is organizing. What is it?’

‘Some kind of rally. Honestly, it’s stupid. I’m glad I got disinvited. He doesn’t even have a real venue. Just some half-assed idea to point a bunch of lights up in the air, like they would make pretend walls. It’s dumb.’

‘I don’t know. A little Austrian guy used to do that. I heard it was quite effective.’

‘Huh?’

‘Don’t worry about it. Where will this rally be?’

‘Some field. A friend of his owns a bunch. I don’t know which one.’

‘When?’

‘Not till next year. April twentieth. Ages away. But he was definite about the date. I don’t know why.’

‘You really are a moron, aren’t you, Zach?’

‘Huh?’

‘How do you get tickets for the rally?’

‘It’s invitation only. Two people from each state, plus a bunch of locals.’

‘How does Klostermann decide who to invite?’

‘I don’t know. But I heard each year it’s going to get bigger. Two from each state the first time. Then four. Then eight. Like that.’

‘OK. And what was your role going to be?’

‘Security. I was going to pick a team. Be on duty at all times, in case Antifa found out and tried to shut us down.’

‘I have some news for you, Zach. You’re getting shut down anyway. You can count on it. Only not by Antifa. I know some other people who will be happy to do it. People who work for Uncle Sam.’

Reacher left Zach for a moment and went to drag the unconscious bodies into a pile near the road. He picked up Zach and put him on top of the heap, writhing and screaming. He checked the trucks. The key was in each one so he moved them over to the building and parked them as close to the walls as possible. Then he went back to talk to Zach.

‘Have you got a phone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does it record video?’

‘Yes. Why? What are you going to do?’

Reacher tore the T-shirt off the nearest guy’s inert body.

‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Start filming. Because you’re officially resigning from your Brotherhood. Any time you think about rejoining, watch the movie. And remember. Next time it’ll be your house. With you in it. Tell your friends when they wake up. The same goes for them. And everyone else you know.’

Reacher went back to the workshop. He poked the T-shirt into the orange car’s fuel pipe. Pushed it further in with a screwdriver. Waited for some gas to be soaked up. Lit it. And walked away.