“？’Course. Those are easy. No technical terms. Not too long. Not often, anyway.”
The east wing was full of sculptors and jewelers. Three guys were chipping away at blocks of marble. One had clay up to his elbows. One was welding giant girders together. One was hollowing out a tree trunk. Five were melting yellow and white metals in dented crucibles and adding stones of all kinds of colors to make rings and bracelets and pendants. There were posters on the wall showing enlarged versions of signature pieces by Tiffany and Cartier and Bvlgari. Some of the trinkets on the guys’ workbenches were pretty much indistinguishable to Reacher’s eye.
The south wing was home to six guys with computers. They were sitting on threadbare office chairs, staring at screens perched on beat-up, rickety desks and rattling away at cordless keyboards. Three of them were virtually inert, like robots, with just their fingers and eyes showing signs of life. The others were almost dancing in their seats like concert pianists or seventies rock musicians.
Reacher tapped one of the animated guys on the shoulder. He said, “Would you have a problem hacking into someone’s email?”
The guy stopped fidgeting and said, “Yeah. Huge problem. I only do it like fifty times a day.”
“You could read someone’s messages?”
“Read them. Alter them. Delete them. Copy them. Whatever you want.”
Chapter 46
The clock in Reacher’s head told him it was time to leave. He grabbed Begovic and led the way out of Unit C. He was still convinced they would cross paths with a guard. Or a squad of guards called back on duty to deal with the ruckus that had resulted from the fire alarm. But again the unrest served their purpose. They made it to Unit S1 undetected.
The two guys who had been backing Riverdale’s play were still on the floor. They were still unconscious. Reacher dragged them through the door he had disabled and shoved them into the preparation cell. He gave each another kick in the head to make sure they wouldn’t make an unwelcome appearance any time soon. He did the same to the pair of medics he’d left there earlier. He removed the magazine and dumped one of the rifles on the operating table. Checked the tan SIG. Then he went back out into the hub.
Reacher unslung the other rifle from his shoulder and said to Begovic, “Put your hands behind your back like they’re tied. Look at the floor. Play along with whatever I say.”
A minute later the door to the unit’s south wing swung open. Two guys came through. They had a heavy-duty gurney. One was pushing. One was pulling. The guy in the lead said, “What’s the story here? Why—”
The guy stopped talking. He was looking at Reacher. He couldn’t understand why someone he didn’t recognize was there. Apparently in authority. Who wasn’t part of the program. He glanced across to Begovic. He couldn’t understand why the prisoner was standing upright. Why he was still conscious. Why he wasn’t boxed up, ready for transport. The guy’s brain struggled for a second. It was trying to fit all the pieces together. Then it quit the puzzle. It didn’t matter what the exact picture was. Because whatever shape it took, something was wrong. That was obvious. So he let go of the gurney and his hand darted toward his pocket.
Reacher didn’t know if the guy was going for a gun or a phone. He didn’t wait to find out. He stepped forward and spun the rifle around as he moved. Then he drove the flat end of its stock into the bridge of the guy’s nose. The guy collapsed onto the gurney then rolled off its side. He crashed down onto the floor and lay still, facedown, with blood pooling steadily around his head.
“Don’t move.” Reacher reversed the rifle and pointed it at the guy who’d been pushing the gurney. “You can show us the way out. Or I can take you to one of the exercise yards. There are about a hundred guys there who would make you very welcome. That’s for sure. OK. You have five seconds to decide.”
* * *
—
Self-preservation won the day. Reacher and Begovic followed the guy through the unit’s south wing. The cell doors were all open. There was no sound from inside any of them. Just the squeaking of three pairs of shoes on the concrete floor. A door was set into the wall at the far end. It was made of steel. Painted gray. It looked new. Shiny. The guy who was in the lead held his ID card up to a white plastic square set into the frame. The lock clicked and the guy pushed the door open. It led to a covered walkway. It was narrower than the other ones Reacher had been through. There were no lines painted on the ground. It had solid corrugated metal in place of open mesh. The air was hot and stale. It ran straight for thirty yards. There was a dogleg to the left. Then it ran straight for another forty yards. There was another gray steel door at the end, which opened into a kind of large shed. There were floor-to-ceiling shelves on two sides. They were full of janitorial supplies and prison uniforms and cans of dried food. A van was parked in the center. It was dark blue and shiny, like the one Reacher had seen outside the Riverside Lodge. It had been backed into the space. In front of it, in the middle of the opposite wall, there was a roll-up vehicle door. No other people were in sight. Reacher looked through the driver’s window. The keys were in the ignition.