“It wasn’t food poisoning that killed this guy’s kid.” Reacher grabbed the door handle. “And the liver didn’t come from an animal. Not one with four legs.”
* * *
—
Reacher crossed the hallway, ran up the stairs, and went into the center room at the rear of the house. It was a bedroom. It had a polished wood floor. Sleek, pale furniture. And three tall windows covered by white curtains, all closed, which hung down to the floor. Reacher crossed to the center window and peered around the edge of the curtain. He was looking through a glass door, across the balcony, and down onto the big square of grass he had seen when he first broke into the house. The difference now was the people who were there. Hix, Brockman, and Carpenter. Naked. Hanging by their wrists from the lighting gantry over the stage. Immobile. Hannah and Jed, on the grass to the right of the stage. Facedown. Dressed. Also immobile. And two guys Reacher hadn’t seen before. They were ladling some kind of gel out of a large barrel and slopping it into ice troughs they’d taken from the bar.
Reacher ran back down the stairs, through the front door, and around to the rear of the building. He stepped up onto the porch. The new guys set the third trough down on the edge of the stage. They were standing on either side of the barrel. They heard the footsteps. Spun around. Pulled out guns. And aimed at Reacher.
The older guy said, “Drop the weapon. Then get on the ground. Facedown.”
The breeze was blowing directly toward Reacher. Past the two guys. Past their barrel.
Reacher said, “Not going to happen. I have no quarrel with you. I’m here for the woman and the kid. They come with me. The idiots you strung up? Do what you want with them.”
The guy shook his head. “The woman and the kid are going nowhere. They saw us.”
Reacher was picking up a faint smell. Something familiar. He said, “They caught a glimpse at best. They’re no threat.”
“Doesn’t matter. They can put us at the scene. So can you.”
Gasoline, mainly, Reacher thought. And benzene. And something else. Then he made the connection. The combination of ingredients. He looked at the barrel. It was almost empty. Almost. But not quite. He said, “Not my problem. I’m taking my friends and I’m leaving.”
“You’re in no position to be telling us what’s going to happen.”
Reacher said, “I’m in the perfect position.” Then he fired. At the barrel. The bullet pierced the plastic and the remaining napalm ignited instantly. The sides buckled. The shock wave knocked both the guys over. And a tongue of orange flame engulfed the younger one. He screamed and writhed and squeezed off one unaimed round before he lost his grip on his gun.
Reacher jumped down from the porch, stepped forward, and shot the younger guy in the head. The older guy was on his back. He wasn’t moving. He had escaped the flames completely. But there was a red stain on his shirt. Low down on the left side of his abdomen. It was wet. And it was growing. His buddy’s bullet had passed right through him.
The guy rolled over and forced himself onto his hands and knees. He tried to crawl toward the stage. Reacher stepped across and blocked his path.
“Move.” The guy’s voice was somewhere between a croak and a whisper.
Reacher stayed still.
The guy nodded toward Carpenter. “Him. Got to make him talk.”
Reacher said, “You’re going to bleed to death.”
“He killed my son. He has a supplier. I need a name.”
“Your son got a transplant?”
The guy nodded, then slumped down onto his side. “His liver was toast. He went to rehab after rehab. Nothing stuck. The regular doctors wouldn’t help. So I found a clinic. On a ship. They put in a new liver. But it was bad. Kyle died.”
Reacher said, “The other guys you strung up. They’re his suppliers. They run a prison. Find inmates no one will miss and sell them for their organs to be harvested.”
The guy raised his head. “That true?”
Reacher nodded.
The guy said, “Help me then. Shoot them.”
“No.”
“Why not? You shot Graeber. My friend.”
“That guy? He was on fire. It was a kindness. I’ll make sure the prison operation gets closed down. Permanently. But I’m not going to kill anyone in cold blood.”
“Please. For my son. His name was Kyle Emerson. He was twenty-two.”
“No.”
The guy struggled back onto his hands and knees and crawled another yard.
Reacher picked up a shirt from a pile of clothes at the side of the stage. He held it out and said, “Keep going and you’ll bleed out. Stop, press this against the wound, call 911, maybe you’ll have a chance.”