The Sentinel

TWO

Rusty Rutherford was not normally the type of guy who dawdled in his local coffee shop. He used to go to the same one every day. Always on his way to work. And purely for the caffeine. He didn’t go in search of conversation. He wasn’t interested in finding new company. His routine was always the same. He stood quietly in line and used the time to contemplate whatever problems were in store for him that day. He placed his order. Collected his drink as soon as it was ready. And left. The process was transactional, not social. Even after the week he spent isolated in his apartment it proved a difficult habit to break.

The adjustment process wasn’t made any easier by the response he received from the other patrons. Normally his was a pretty neutral presence. People weren’t pleased to see him. They weren’t displeased. They displayed no curiosity. No animosity. He could have been a store mannequin for all the effect he had on the social interactions that occurred in the place. That Monday, though, he felt like a magnet with the wrong polarity. He seemed to repel everyone around him. The surrounding customers left a bigger space than usual on either side. In the rare moments he was able to make eye contact the other person turned away before he could think of a way to start a conversation. By the time he reached the counter he still hadn’t exchanged a single word with a fellow human being. But he had seen how the barista interacted with the two men in front of him when they stepped up to order. She smiled at them. And asked if they wanted their regular. She didn’t smile at him. And she didn’t say a word.

‘My regular, please,’ Rusty said.

‘Which would be what?’ she asked.

Rusty heard someone sniggering behind him in the line. He felt the urge to run. But no, he was there on principle. To fight for his rights. A little ridicule was not going to break his resolve. ‘House blend, medium, no room for milk.’

‘Two dollars even.’ The barista turned, grabbed a to-go cup, and slammed it on the counter.

‘No.’ Rusty shook his head. ‘I want to drink it here.’

The barista shot him a look that said Really? I’d rather you didn’t.

‘Oh, that’s right,’ she said out loud. ‘I forgot. You lost your job. You don’t have any place to go.’ She tossed the to-go cup in the trash, took out a china one, poured, slopping coffee into the saucer, and slid it towards him, spilling even more.

The same time Rusty Rutherford was going into the coffee shop, a telephone was starting to ring. In a house a mile outside of town. In a room containing two people. A man and a woman. The woman recognized the ringtone the moment the phone began to chirp. She knew what it meant. Her boss was going to require privacy, so she stood up without waiting to be dismissed. Closed her notebook. Slid it into the pocket at the front of her apron. And made her way to the door.

The man checked that the secure icon on the phone’s screen was green, then hit the answer key. ‘This is Speranski.’

Speranski wasn’t his real name, of course, but it might as well have been. He’d been using it professionally for more than five decades.

The voice at the other end of the line said one word: ‘Contact.’

Speranski closed his eyes for a moment and ran the fingers of his free hand through his wild white hair. It was about time. He had made plenty of plans over the years. Been involved in plenty of operations. Survived plenty of crises. But never had the stakes been so high.

For him. Personally. And for the only person in the world he cared about.

The same time the telephone was being answered, Jack Reacher was getting into a car. He had solved his physics/biology conundrum to his satisfaction – and the bar owner’s extreme discomfort – and begun walking back to the bus station. He had been planning to follow his time-honoured principle of taking the first bus to leave, regardless of its destination, when he heard a vehicle approaching slowly from behind. He stuck out his thumb on the off chance and to his surprise the car stopped. It was new and shiny and bland. A rental. Probably picked up at the airport. The driver was a tidy-looking guy in his early twenties. He was wearing a plain dark suit and the speed of his breathing and the pallor of his face suggested he wasn’t far from a full-blown panic attack. A business guy, Reacher thought. Let out alone for the first time. Desperate not to screw anything up. And therefore screwing up everything he touched.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ The guy sounded even more nervous than he looked. ‘Do you know the way to I40? I need to go west.’ He gestured at a screen on his dashboard. ‘The GPS in this thing hates me. It keeps trying to send me down streets that don’t exist.’

‘Sure,’ Reacher said. ‘But it’s hard to explain. It would be easier to show you.’

The guy hesitated and looked Reacher up and down as if only just taking in his height. The breadth of his chest. His unwashed hair. His unshaved face. The web of scars around the knuckles of his enormous hands.

‘Unless you’d prefer to keep driving aimlessly around?’ Reacher attempted a concerned expression.

The guy swallowed. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Anywhere. I40 is as good a place to start as any.’

‘Well, OK.’ The guy paused. ‘I’ll take you to the highway. But I’m not going far after that. No place you’d want to go, I’m sure.’

‘How much further?’

‘Seventy-five miles, maybe. Some small town near a place named Pleasantville. Sounds inspiring, huh?’

‘Do they have a coffee shop in this town?’

The guy shrugged. ‘Probably. I can’t say for sure. I’ve never been there before.’

‘Probably’s good enough for me,’ Reacher said. ‘Let’s go.’

Rutherford picked up the cup and realized he had another unfamiliar dilemma to face. Where should he sit? Deciding wasn’t a problem, normally. He didn’t stay. And he didn’t have a dozen angry eyes probing him while he searched for an answer. He fought the urge to skulk at the back of the store. That would be the least uncomfortable option, for sure, but it would hardly serve his purpose. He didn’t want a window seat either – he wasn’t ready to put himself on display quite so prominently – so he opted for a small, square table in the centre. It had two chairs covered in red vinyl and its top had writing scrawled across every square inch of its surface. By previous customers, he guessed. There were song lyrics. Poems. Uplifting sayings. He scanned the words, found none he felt any connection to, then forced himself to look up. He attempted to make eye contact with the people at the other tables. And failed. Except with a toddler, whose parents got up and left when they realized what was going on. Rusty sipped at his coffee. He wanted to make it last at least an hour. He worked his way down to the dregs. And still achieved no interaction with anyone but the barista, who missed no opportunity to shoot him hostile glares. He refilled his cup and changed tables. Neither thing brought a change of luck. He stuck it out for another forty minutes, and then the barista approached and told him to either order some food or leave.

‘I won’t order any food,’ Rusty told her. ‘I’ll leave. But I’ll come back tomorrow. And the next day. And every day after that until everyone believes I’m innocent.’

The barista gave him a blank look and retreated to the counter.

Rusty stood up. ‘Listen to me,’ he said.

No one paid any attention.

‘Listen to me!’ Rusty raised his voice. ‘What happened to the town totally sucks. I get that. But it was not my fault. None of it. The truth is I tried to stop it from happening. And I was the only one who did.’

No one paid any attention.

The barista leaned across the counter with a to-go cup in her hand. ‘Take this and leave, Mr Rutherford. No one believes you. And no one ever will.’

The same time Rusty Rutherford was leaving the coffee shop, Jack Reacher was arriving in his town. Getting out of Nashville hadn’t been a problem. Reacher had navigated using his instinct plus the landmarks he remembered from Saturday night’s bus ride and had found the highway without getting them lost. Not so lost that the driver noticed, anyway. Once they were out of the city Reacher persuaded him to tune the radio to a local blues channel, then reclined his seat and closed his eyes. The music was half decent but despite that the guy wouldn’t stop talking. About New York. The insurance company he worked for. How this was his first case after getting a promotion to Negotiator. Flying out that morning for a meeting at their field office. Getting lost on his way to whichever town had whatever kind of problem he was supposed to help solve. Something to do with computers. And foreign governments. And keys and portals and all kinds of other things Reacher had no interest in. He let the words wash over him and settled into a comfortable doze, only opening his eyes when he felt the car slow and they turned on to a state highway heading south. The half mile beyond the cloverleaf was teeming with restaurants and drive-throughs and car dealers and chain hotels. After that the terrain opened out. There were farmers’ fields where the land was flat, stretched and warped into all kinds of irregular shapes by the sweeping contours, and groves of tall mature trees where the land was steep. After ten minutes they swung west again and continued along a steeper, twistier road for the best part of an hour until they entered the outskirts of the town. The guy kept driving until they found what Reacher guessed was the main street, then pulled over.

Reacher climbed out and took stock of his new surroundings. The place was unobjectionable, he thought. A late nineteenth-century core supplemented by an influx of cash in the fifties, judging by the buildings. Some old ones weeded out. Some newer ones to fill the gaps, now showing their own age. The overall layout unchanged. A standard grid. Compact enough to require traffic signals at one intersection only. They were out that day, which was causing consternation among some of the passing drivers. But aside from that things were fine. Good enough for a pit stop, anyway. Reacher figured he could pass a half hour there. There was no ancestral connection. No intriguing name. No military significance. No interesting signs or structures. No link to any of his musical heroes. No reason to stay. No longer than it took to get coffee, anyway. Priorities were priorities.

Reacher was half a block from the intersection with the broken signals at the west end of what he figured was the town’s main drag. There was a coffee shop diagonally opposite. There may have been others elsewhere in the town but Reacher saw no reason to check. He wasn’t fussy. So he took advantage of the traffic chaos and started out across the street.

Reacher was heading for the coffee shop. Rutherford was leaving it. Reacher didn’t pay him much attention at first. He was just a guy, small and unremarkable, holding his to-go cup, going about his business. Whatever that may be. But a moment later Reacher’s interest ratcheted all the way up. He felt a chill at the base of his neck. A signal from some ancient warning system hardwired into the back of his brain. An instinctive recognition. Pattern and movement. Predators circling. Moving in on their prey. Two men and a woman. Spread out. Carefully positioned. Coordinated. Ready to spring their trap.

Three against one. Not the kind of odds to worry Reacher. But Reacher was not their target. That was clear.

The men were positioned at each end of the block. One was pretending to look in a store window at the west end, right before the intersection with the broken signals. The other was at the east end, where the block ended at an alleyway, pretending to do something with his phone. An envelope of maybe 130 feet. The woman was stationed on the other side of the alleyway, at the start of the next block. Another ten feet away. There was a solid row of buildings to the north of the sidewalk. The street to the south. Store entrances to bolt into, if the timing was right. Asphalt to run across, if no traffic was coming.

Rutherford was heading east. Not hurrying. Not dawdling. Just drifting along in his own little bubble. Not aimless, Reacher thought. More like preoccupied. Following a familiar route. Comfortable with his surroundings. Not paying attention. Not looking for store entrances. Not checking the traffic.

The west-end guy was around five feet ten. He was wearing a plain black T-shirt and cargo pants. His hair was buzzed short and he had an earpiece like the kind Reacher had seen business people use. The east-end guy was the same kind of size. He had the same clothes. The same hair. The same earpiece. The woman on the other side of the alley was also wearing black but her clothes were more fitted and her hair wasn’t buzzed. It was long and red and she had it tied back in a ponytail.

The west-end guy peeled away from his window and started walking. Heading east. Fifteen feet behind Rutherford. Moving with loose, rangy ease. He was clearly having to shorten his stride to avoid overtaking his mark. Ahead of them a woman had stopped at the edge of the sidewalk to tend to a child in a stroller. Beyond her a couple stood, talking. They were dressed for the gym. Just regular folks. Not part of the pattern. Unaware of what was happening.

The envelope was down to a hundred feet.

The east-end guy touched his earpiece. A moment later a car appeared in the mouth of the alley. It had rolled forward from somewhere deep in the shadows. An anonymous sedan. A Toyota. Dark blue. Reacher saw it move rather than heard it. A hybrid in fully electric mode, he thought. A smart choice of vehicle. Too bad the 110th hadn’t had them back in the day.

The envelope was down to eighty feet. Reacher stepped on to the sidewalk.

Rutherford approached the woman with the stroller. She stood up as he drew level. Her kid threw his teddy bear on to the ground. Rutherford leaned down and retrieved it. Maybe Rutherford wasn’t as clueless as he appeared. It was a perfect manoeuvre to check the sidewalk behind him. Maybe Rutherford knew he was being followed, after all. Then Reacher’s optimism evaporated. Rutherford’s eyes were only on the kid. He held out the toy. The woman snatched it away, glaring furiously. Rutherford continued walking.

The envelope was down to sixty feet. Reacher changed course. Started heading east. Thirty feet behind the western guy.

The couple in gym clothes moved away from the wall. Their body language had hardened. Their conversation must have turned sour. The man strode forward, leading with his shoulder. He slammed into Rutherford, spilling his coffee. His partner caught up. She grabbed his arm and pulled him away, shaking her head and scowling.

‘Hey!’ Rutherford said. He didn’t get a response.

Turn around, Reacher thought. Ignore the gym rats. Notice the guy who’s pursuing you.

Rutherford didn’t turn around. He carried on walking.

The envelope was down to forty feet. Another twenty feet between Reacher and the western guy.

It was obvious what was going to happen next. Reacher could see it as clearly as if a skywriter had spelled it out with white smoke. The car would roll a little further forward so that its rear door was level with the sidewalk. The eastern guy would open it. The western guy would push Rutherford inside and jump in himself. The woman would get in on the other side. The eastern guy would take the passenger seat. And they’d drive away. Less than five seconds for the whole operation, if they did it right. And it would be silent. No muss, no fuss. No one would see a thing.

The envelope was twenty feet. Ten feet between Reacher and the western guy. Decision time.

It was four against one, now. Maybe five or six against one if they had a mobile backup. Not the kind of odds to bother Reacher. But Reacher was not their target.

The car moved up, right on cue. Rutherford stopped, thinking nothing of it. Just an impatient driver taking a short cut through the alley. He took a sip of coffee, waiting for the car to pull away. It stayed put. The eastern guy opened the back door and held it. The other quickened his pace. He stretched out. His left hand cupped the top of Rutherford’s head. His right grabbed Rutherford’s elbow. He started to steer him towards the back seat. But he was too slow. All he wound up pushing was empty air.

The envelope was zero feet. Reacher was level with the western guy, on his left-hand side. He took hold of Rutherford’s collar. Stuck his right arm across the western guy’s chest like a steel barrier. Pivoted clockwise on his right foot. Pushed Rutherford back and to the side. And held him there, out of anyone else’s range.

‘Let’s keep things civil,’ Reacher said. ‘Show me some ID, or get in the car and drive away.’

‘Let him go,’ the western guy said.

‘If you have a legitimate reason to detain him, you’ll have some kind of official ID. If you do, show it to me. If you don’t, drive away. This is your last chance.’

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Given the situation, you should stick to the relevant issues.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I gave you two options. Asking irrelevant questions was not one of them.’

‘Let him go.’ The guy went to step around Reacher, his arm stretched out, trying to grab Rutherford. Reacher hit him in the temple and he bounced off the wall and dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Reacher turned to the other guy. ‘You’ve had your final chance. Pick up your trash and leave. Or don’t, and get added to the pile. Make your choice. Either way’s fine with me.’

Reacher caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The Toyota’s passenger window was rolling down. The driver was lifting her arm. She was looking directly at him. Raising a gun? Reacher didn’t wait to find out. He let go of Rutherford and spun the eastern guy around so that he was facing the car. Grabbed his collar and waistband. And launched him headfirst through the open window, jamming him in tight, his arms pinned and his legs kicking helplessly.

Reacher stepped back to avoid the flailing feet and checked that Rutherford was still there, frozen to the spot. Then he sensed rather than heard a heavy object racing towards them. He grabbed Rutherford and shoved him back and a moment later a black Chevy Suburban lurched on to the sidewalk, stopping right where Reacher had been standing. The driver’s door opened and a man jumped out. He was shorter than the others, and wirier. Another man jumped down from the passenger side and joined him. They stood side by side for a moment, both in a version of some strange martial arts stance, then relaxed. They stepped forward. They were comfortable together. They had clearly done this kind of thing before.

‘Step aside, mister,’ the driver said. ‘This isn’t your fight. The guy’s coming with us.’

Reacher shook his head. ‘You’re not taking him. That’s a given. He walks away. The only question is, will you? Or do you have some strong urge to join your buddies in the hospital?’

The driver didn’t reply and Reacher became aware of a scrabbling sound on the far side of the Suburban. The guy he’d thrown through the Toyota’s window had wriggled free and along with the woman from the alley was trying to manoeuvre their unconscious comrade into the back seat. A ring of onlookers had formed, starting on the sidewalk and spilling on to the street. It reminded Reacher of the crowds that would gather in the playgrounds on the first day of each new school he attended, growing up. Him and his brother, Joe. Back to back. Fighting them off. He looked at Rutherford. He wasn’t trying to run, which was something. But Reacher knew he’d be no help if the mob turned nasty.

The two guys exchanged glances. They were considering their next move. Stealth was out of the window so it was down to a choice between a frontal assault and a tactical withdrawal. Neither option seemed to appeal. Then a siren started up. The pedestrians scattered. The car pulled away, its gas engine kicking in as the driver buried the accelerator. The wiry guys jumped back into the Suburban and slammed it into reverse, clipping the front corner of the leading police cruiser before racing into the distance. Rutherford stayed still, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

The pair of police cars stopped at the side of the street and killed their sirens and light bars. Four officers jumped out. Three converged immediately on the sidewalk. One lingered to inspect the damage to his car. All had their guns drawn, but not raised. They expected their numbers to give them the advantage, Reacher guessed, but were taking no chances. Which seemed like a sensible attitude to take.

‘On the ground,’ the lead officer said. ‘Face down.’

‘You’re arresting us?’ Reacher said.

‘What were you expecting? A lollipop? Get on the ground.’

Reacher didn’t move.

The officer stepped closer. ‘On the ground. Do it now.’

Cops are the same the world over. Once they commit to a position in public they never back down. Trying to make them is a waste of time. Reacher knew that from personal experience. But still, there are standards to uphold.

‘All right,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ll let you arrest us. We’ll be released in five minutes, anyway. But we’re not getting on the ground.’