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There are things that happen to people. And there are things that don’t happen to people.
Jack Reacher — army veteran and ex-military police investigator for homicides — knows that the first category contains a much greater variety of experiences than most people might want to acknowledge. Terrible things. But real.
Things that don’t happen are thinner on the ground. More in the realm of science fiction movies, philosophical imaginings, the kind of things academics turn over like touchstones. But if something fundamental was different, they would argue, then what other changes might we observe?
Reacher wasn’t much of a philosopher. None, he’d probably say, we wouldn’t know it was different.
But he knows this is different.
He was on a bus, heading from Macron to California. It was Monday. About the time Joe would have been debriefing in Washington DC, his big, important, planned-ahead-of-time debrief if he’d lived to see it.
Then he wasn’t. Not on a bus, not in Macron, not on Monday.
Now Reacher is in Tampa. Again. It’s Thursday. Again. The front page of the newspaper is all about the president cutting funding to the Coast Guard. Again.
Like the last five days never happened at all.
This isn’t a thing that happens to people. This should be impossible.
And maybe, if Reacher were someone else, someone a little more concerned about should and shouldn’t, he would think hard about that. His worldview would shake, just a little. He’d ask why. Why here. Why this. Why now.
Instead, he shifts ‘time travel’ from the mental category of ‘things that don’t happen’ to ‘things that do happen’ and gets up. He brushes his teeth. He pays for his motel room and sets out on foot.
He’s about to have a really busy day. He’s got a lot of things to do.
He stops by the bus station first. Checks the departure times of the greyhounds to Atlanta. He hadn’t cared last time. Had just taken the midnight bus, because that was the time he’d been here, looking, and that had been the bus that had been departing.
That's how Reacher has done things in the last three months, aimless wandering without a goal or a deadline or a destination.
But now that’s too late. By midnight, Joe is dead. That fact had been Reacher’s alibi, the reason the police had let him go, the incontrovertible reason he couldn’t have done it.
Or the reason he couldn’t have stopped it.
So, obviously midnight is no good. There’s a bus leaving soon — an eight am bus, due to arrive in Atlanta at five pm. Cut an hour off for Margrave and that’s four. A four hour walk down the fourteen miles from the highway to the town takes him to eight pm. Plenty of time before midnight.
But that’s no good. He doesn’t know where Joe went in town. If he even went to town. No one recognised him. Not Eno at the diner, not the barber guys. Maybe Hubble, but Hubble had been surprised, hadn’t expected to be questioned about the investigator. Maybe hadn’t known he was there on that night. Reacher could make it all the way to town and still miss him.
Maybe he could take the bus all the way to Atlanta. That puts them back to five pm. He knows the hotel where Joe was staying, the room number. Plenty of time to catch him, to fill him in on the details of his case. Plenty of time to save his life.
But maybe Joe wouldn’t be there. Maybe he’d already be out investigating. Maybe talking to Sherman Stoller. Headed to Margrave and his death already.
Reacher would miss him, like two ships passing in the night.
Too uncertain. Too risky.
Not when Reacher knows exactly where he’s going to be, and when. He’s going to be at the Kliner warehouse, at midnight, where he’s going to get shot twice in the back of the head and die.
So the three pm bus. Arrive in Atlanta at midnight. Cut an hour off for Margrave and that’s eleven. That gives Reacher an hour at the Kliner Warehouse, right next to the highway, to prepare.
He nods. Buys a ticket. Turns back towards Tampa. It’s a big city and he’s got seven hours to find what he needs. Maybe take a nap.
It’s going to be a long day.
At eleven, the bus pulls over to the side of the highway. A special stop, just for him. The driver thinks he’s a little crazy, but has probably dealt with worse. Reacher tips him, anyway, as thanks. Money doesn’t feel quite real, around Margrave.
There’s forty million dollars in one dollar bills, just sitting in a warehouse maybe two hundred yards away.
Reacher shrugs his newly purchased canvas kit bag — full and heavy — up onto his shoulder and strides towards the overpass. The darkness makes it harder to scout, but he knows the layout now. Four warehouses. Double fences, with razor wire. Two gate guards.
The guards had been a potential variable. There had been two, during the day, that first day when Reacher had hidden beneath the overpass and watched them. Only one guard, when he and Finlay and Hubble had stormed the place — but that had been down to lack of manpower at that point. Reacher was betting that, at this critical junction, Kliner would have two guards on duty, day and night.
There's one point of light, moving slowly down the side of the shed. A flashlight, being held loosely, swinging back and forth in a steady arc. That’s one. Maybe another man inside. Maybe not.
Reacher waits for it to circle around the shed. He moves towards the fence. Pulls bolt cutters out of his canvas bag. Makes himself a nice neat entrance. The clock in his head is counting down now, a steady metronome to a terminal destination.
He doesn’t let it rush him. Walks calmly towards the warehouse and tucks himself against the side. Not right on the corner, not enough to let his shadow creep around the edges, but close. Then he waits.
Waits for the guard to make a circuit. The flashlight announces him, swinging out in front. Reacher has the bolt cutters still in one hand — a solid chunk of metal. In his other, he draws a knife. He has a gun too. A glock. Not the best, not the worst. But he wants to save the bullets. Might need them more later and he doesn’t have many. He’s not used to acquiring guns in a civilian context, not when he needs to keep it off the grid. Something to look into, maybe.
The guard steps around the corner. The flashlight swings away, checks the fence line. Swings back.
Reacher steps into the space, right up close. Like a horror movie monster, appearing out of the shadows, taking the situation from safe to nightmare in a heartbeat. He sees the whites of the guy's eyes as he reels backwards, an instinctual reaction. Reacher is a big guy. 6’5. 200 pounds. People always jerk back, if he gets too close. And he’s swinging the bolt cutters around, gives them a big wind-up and lots of power. They hit the guys skull like a sledgehammer into an egg shell.
He drops. Reacher drags the body around the back of the warehouse, nominally out of sight. Reacher takes the flashlight, uses it to check the body. It’s the same guy that attacked him at Hubble’s house. Died exactly like this then too. Maybe a little faster this time, a little neater.
Let it never be said that Reacher doesn’t learn.
One down. Out of ten.
Maybe it should bother him, to be striking back for something that never happened. It doesn’t. It’s a preemptive strike. A surgical removal of a problem before it becomes a problem. The Army had been a big fan of those, and Reacher a bigger one.
They’d tried to kill him. They’d tried to kill him with skill that spoke of experience. At least eight guys worth of experience in New Orleans, according to Spirenza's investigation. Probably more. Hardly innocent.
Reacher pockets the flashlight. Makes his way to the fire escape stairs and climbs. Slowly, carefully, without jarring or juddering. At the top— a problem.
The door is locked.
Last time: he’d had Hubble. And Hubble had had keys. The door had been a non-issue.
This time: no Hubble. No keys.
Reacher could leave. Go back down the fire escape. Live with having maybe one gate guard at his back. Leave the warehouse alone. Joe will be here to see it, to get evidence, to finish his investigation. As he'd probably planned to do, all along.
Instead, Reacher sets his canvas bag down and wedges the edge of the bolt cutters into the door. Uses it as a lever, like a crowbar, until the metal of the door crumples and folds away. The lock bows, bends. The tongue drags loose with a shriek of metal.
It’s not quiet. Reacher drops the bolt cutters. Draws his gun. Hurls himself inside and sideways, into the office area. Keeps low, away from the windows. It’s dark but lights are flicking on. Slowly, like it takes them a minute to wake up. Big, powerful industrial lights. Bright.
Reacher’s eyes water but he holds steady. Waits. Doesn’t see movement just yet. The guard is probably checking the ground floor first — easier points of access. The warehouse is large, sound echoes, it makes it hard to triangulate where they came from.
Which is a problem for Reacher, just as much as it’s an advantage. He creeps towards the inner door of the office. Nudges it open a fraction. Just a sliver. Keeps himself low to the ground, flat along the wall, the hardest place in the room to see. The balcony and stairs are too exposed, overlooking the rest of the warehouse. If he steps out there, he’s an easy target. He'll be dead before he reaches the ground, almost guaranteed.
But the second guard is coming up. He’s got a gun out, carefully held in front of him. But it’s a handgun, not one of the Ithaca Mag-10’s. Could be worse.
The guy comes closer.
Reacher waits. As patient as a snake. Coiled. Ready to strike.
The guy slams the door open, fast. Gun out, ready, swinging through the room. But it’s chest height, the unconscious expectation of seeing a person standing, ready to aim for centre mass.
Reacher, lying on the floor, shoots upwards. The angle is shit, so he propels himself upwards afterwards, crashing into the extended arm and forcing the guard’s gun wide, just in case.
Unnecessary. The angle had been steep, but the bullet had gone in under the guards cheekbone, through the eye socket, turned a quarter of his skull into paste. Dead as anything.
Two down.
Reacher drops him. Listens. No other noise in the warehouse. No follow up to a clear gunshot. Unlikely to be more men here. Ten people in the whole operation, give or take a few outsiders like the Hispanic guys. Not enough for more guards — one to patrol, one to rest, then swap. The Hispanic guys had been from out of town, unlikely to be here when Kliner has no warning that he’s made an enemy, not until he panics.
So Reacher collects the guns. Picks up his canvas bag. Cautiously goes through the inner door, descends the stairs and approaches the pile of cash.
Then he takes a can of petrol out of his bag and starts to pour it around.
It had worked perfectly fine last time. The ultimate distraction.
The clock in Reacher’s head reaches midnight.
He drops a match into the gasoline, sees it catch with blue flame and tear towards the pile of money like a hungry beast. Then he books it out of the warehouse, out through the fence, back up along the road. Behind him, the fire is already growing with terrifying speed.
The air is heavy and damp and it’ll rain tonight. But not yet; it didn't rain until after Joe died. Maybe that’ll put the fire out. Maybe it won’t.
Reacher backtracks along the road, and then splits off, hiding himself along the shoulder. Not a lot of cover, but the warehouse will be drawing the eye. All the cars will have to stop to get through the fence gates, which will be the best time for him to make a move.
Now he just has to wait for the rest of the party to arrive.
The old homeless guy that lived beneath the overpass had been pretty confident in his rendition of events. An enemy starship, disguised like a shiny black truck. Two aliens disguised like regular earth guys in it. Spaceship comes down, turns into a big car, starfleet commander comes out dressed as a cop. Then a white car comes off the highway, but it’s really a starfighter landing, two guys in it, earth guys, pilot and copilot.
Kliner and his son in their black pickup truck. Then Morrison in his car.
Then Joe and Sherman, thinking they were going to investigate a warehouse but really just walking straight into an ambush.
But not this time. This time Reacher is the one laying the ambush. He sets himself up. Waits. The fire in the warehouse is really roaring by the time the black pickup arrives. It screeches to a halt by the gate. Two doors slam. Aggressively, like the owners aren’t having a good day.
Two silhouettes on the road, by the gate. Having a bit of back-and-forth, trying to work out what to do. Can’t call the fire brigade; the warehouse is full of illegal money. Have to call the fire brigade; that’s forty million dollars going up in smoke right now. Four billion dollars, once Kliner turned all those ones into hundreds.
A big loss of profit.
Reacher hauls himself forward, knees and elbows, and army crawls his way onto the tarmac. Closer to the car. Closer to the targets. It’d be easier with a rifle but he doesn’t have a rifle. So he needs to be closer. Needs to get a good angle.
Morrison’s car arrives. Swoops in with an unfortunate haste. Morrison spills out before it’s fully stopped. Joins the huddle. Too focused on the warehouse, on the Kliners, to even scan the surroundings for Reacher. A mistake.
Reacher gets to the back of the pickup truck. Eases himself to a crouch, uses the vehicle as a shield. Peers over it. Draws his gun. Takes careful aim. Rehearses it in his head.
Old man Kliner first. He's the most dangerous with his .22 automatic. The gun that had killed Joe. Then Morrison, with his service weapon. Kliner junior was the wildcard. His shotgun would have been the game changer. Game ender. But Reacher was betting that he wasn’t carrying it.
The Kliner kid wasn’t big on self-control. If he’d had his shotgun, he would have used it. They’d have been picking pieces of Joe out of the tarmac for weeks. But he hadn’t. The Kliner kid had kicked Joe's body around instead. Had beat him for the sake of it.
Had activated that little part of Reacher that would always, always come to his brother's defence in a fight.
Reacher breathes out. Steadies himself. Morrison has twisted away, headed back to his car — to radio in, call for backup, for the fire brigade, maybe, or for the rest of the group.
Reacher shoots. Once into old man Kliner. Straight into the back of the skull, perfect hit. Swings his arm through the arc and takes Morrison in the temple with the second bullet. Keeps going, to line up the third and—
The Kliner kid is moving, down and back. Using the truck as cover just like Reacher is.
Reacher doesn’t want to give him time to regroup. Time to find a weapon, time to get his head around what’s happening. The Kliner kid is dangerous and wild and unpredictable and, right now, has nothing to lose. That’s a bad opponent to be facing. A desperate enemy is a dangerous one.
Reacher goes left around the back end of the truck. If there are any other weapons, they’ll probably be in the tray, and he doesn’t want the Kliner kid getting his hands on them. He expects to run into Kliner junior there, has his gun up and ready.
Only Reacher chose wrong. There’s no one there. The Kliner kid hasn’t gone for the tray, for weapons.
He’s cut across the front of the truck. Gone for the drivers door.
Reacher hurls himself along the side of the truck, wrenches the passengers door open and shoots across the seats. It hits nothing. The door is open but there’s no one there.
And then something heavy slams into Reacher’s side, pinning him against the truck. His head rings against the metal door frame. It’s a bad position. Hard to fight when you're pinned flat. That's fatal if he can't get free. But the open passenger door gives him a little free space to work with and Reacher twists, grapples back, ducking his chin to his chest to avoid the fingers scrabbling for his throat to strangle him.
Reacher drops the gun; useless in such tight quarters. As likely to shoot himself as Kliner. Kicks out furiously. The thick sole of his shoe connects with a knee, something gives. Nothing neat about it. Nothing considered — just two men ungainly wrestling for a hint of an advantage.
The Kliner kid screams, wordless. The pain has to be immense, but he's wild with rage. He slams Reacher back against the truck. Reacher's head collides again, painful. The world is a blur of light and noise, like strobe lights going off.
Then the Kliner kid is being dragged away and Reacher realises it’s not starbursts behind his eyes. It’s headlights. There’s another car there now, door swinging open. Another person has entered the fight, has pulled the Kliner kid off of him. A strong arm flat across his trachea, yanking backwards and off balance.
The starfighter landing.
Reacher looks up. Looks past the Kliner kid and meets Joe’s eyes.
There’s surprise there. Total shock. Yet the arm he has across Kliner junior’s throat doesn’t let up, crushing and suffocating. No hesitation. The same instinct Reacher has, all fired up in the back of his lizard brain.
Protect your brother.
“You in trouble, Reacher?” Joe asks, voice mild even as the Kliner kid chokes and dies in his grip. His hands are balled into fists, professional. He’s been out of the service for ten years, yet he hadn’t lost the skill.
Reacher doesn’t know for sure what his brother had done during his years in Military Intelligence. If he’d had to do this, often or ever. Looking at it now, he’d put more money on often than never.
“No,” Reacher says, rolling his neck. He's going to be feeling it, for sure. But it could have been worse. “But you were.”
Without conferring, they hoist the Kliner kid's corpse into the tray of the pickup truck.
“Holy shit,” says a voice that can only be Sherman Stoller. He’s looking at the cars in total horror. Pale. Sweating. “They knew we were coming. This was an ambush.”
Reacher nods. “It was an ambush,” he agrees. He meets Joe’s eyes again. Tries to convey they were coming for you, so I came for them.
Instinct. Duty. But he doesn’t know how to say that. He hasn’t seen Joe in seven years. Had barely thought about him. Joe was just a fact of his universe, something that had been there since birth, a foundational bedrock that never needed examining. Until he was gone.
He spoke of you often, Kelstein had said. He was very fond of you. He was sorry your job kept you so far away.
Reacher has him back now. And has no idea what to do with it.
Take care of business first, maybe. Then work on the rest. “Five down,” Reacher says. "Five of them left. And I know where you can get all the records to prove it."
“Did you at least get to see inside the warehouse before it caught fire?” Joe asks. He doesn’t sound disappointed, despite working so hard, coming so far to see it. Disappointment serves nothing — he’s an army boy too. Things are what they are. Deal. Adapt.
“Forty million dollars in one dollar bills,” Reacher answers easily. He moves around the truck. Hoists old man Kliner up and into the cab of the truck. Joe helps him throw Morrison in as well. They collect the guns, the bullet shells. Drop them in the tray. Reacher turns the key and jams the accelerator to the floor until it’s revving like a beast. Wedges it there with something heavy.
Reacher releases the break and rolls away from the truck. It takes off down the road, crashes through the gate and tears it off its hinges, and continues straight for the burning warehouses.
The fire will burn it all to nothing. As hot as it’s burning, there’ll be little enough left of them to identify cause of death.
Joe confers with Sherman, sends him on his way in the white car. Reacher folds himself into Morrison’s car, racks the seat back as far as it will go. Joe folds himself into the passenger seat and does the same.
The fire won’t go unnoticed. But it’s better they’re not here when people start arriving. This time, Reacher has no alibi for murder.
“What brings you to Georgia?” Joe asks. As if they’re just chatting. As if it's any kind of regular day. “Where were you?”
“Around,” Reacher answers, which sounds like a dodge even to himself. Like someone trying to avoid answering a question, rather than it being the answer. He makes himself continue. “Tampa, Fort Meyers, Orlando. Before that Jacksonville. Charleston. Greensboro.”
“All over,” Joe says, thoughtfully. Like maybe he understands what Roscoe couldn’t, at the end there. That the house and voting and community and responsibilities aren’t what Reacher wants out of life. He likes to travel, wants to keep moving.
“Came to Margrave to find out about Blind Blake,” Reacher offers into the silence. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “He was beaten to death by the previous Mayor Teale. The current Mayor Teale is dirty. Part of your counterfeiting ring.”
“Blind Blake,” Joe echoes. “I wrote to you about him. You got my letters? I wasn’t sure where to send them. You left no forwarding address.”
Reacher nods. It feels like an out, somehow. Like Joe is offering him something. “They get forwarded to me with my pay. Best place to keep sending them.” He taps his fingers again. It sounds like the beat of a song. Johnny Cash singing Where the miles are marked in the blood and gold, I'll meet you further on up the road
“Got an address I should send them back?” Reacher asks abruptly. He doesn’t think he’s ever sent Joe a letter. Isn’t sure he’s ever sent anyone a letter, anything that wasn’t official correspondence. It feels right to ask, even if he never uses it.
Joe takes a second to answer, then rattles off a Washington DC address. Then a number. “Or you could call,” he says, wryly, like he doesn’t think Reacher will ever do so.
Reacher isn’t sure he will, either.
But. The world without Joe had been a strange place. Learning about his brother from the shapes left behind had been stranger still. Joe has always just been Joe. Reacher’s brother. But he’s someone important in Washington, someone smart and skilled and with his own full life that Reacher isn't part of, that Reacher knows nothing about.
Reacher could maybe stand to hear about it, sometime.
“I could do that,” he says. “Someone has to remind you to watch your back.”