The plan was simple. Hannah would pull over on the shoulder just before the east/south ramp. Reacher would get out of the truck. Hannah would continue on I-20 toward Jackson, in case anyone was already watching. She would leave the highway at the next intersection and loop around to the giant store. She would wait in the parking lot. The Minerva guys would spot Reacher. They would try to photograph him and detain him, either on the shoulder or in a vehicle. They would have the same kind of success as their buddies at the truck stop had. And when they were unconscious and immobilized, Reacher would climb down the side of the ramp, make his way to the store, and rendezvous with Hannah.
The plan was simple. But it went off the rails before it even got started.
* * *
—
Reacher dumped his old clothes in the trash and walked back to the truck. He opened the passenger door but he didn’t get in. Because someone was in his seat. A guy, late twenties, wearing some kind of European soccer jersey, jeans, and motorcycle boots. His hair was buzzed at the sides and a little longer at the top. He had a goatee. And he was holding a gun. In his left hand. A desert tan–colored SIG P320. His grip was steady and he was aiming at the center of Reacher’s chest.
Reacher grabbed the guy’s wrist and pulled until his forearm was clear of the truck’s doorframe. He forced it back against the pillar between the windows. Twisted, so the gun was pointing at the ground. Then he slammed the door. He threw all his weight behind it. The guy screamed. The gun fell. It clattered against the truck’s running board and skittered away under the next parked car. Reacher felt the guy’s wrist go limp. He’d heard the bones crack and splinter. Then he snatched the door open again. The guy’s head was lolling back against the seat. Beads of sweat had sprung out all over his face. His skin looked almost green. Reacher pulled back his right arm. Closed his fist. The guy’s throat was exposed. One punch was all it would take.
A voice said, “Stop.” It was coming from the backseat. Another guy was there. The same kind of age and build as the one with the broken arm. He had a plain black T-shirt on. His head was completely shaved. He was behind Hannah. Leaning forward. And pressing the muzzle of a revolver into the base of her skull.
Hannah was sitting up so straight it was like she was trying to levitate. Her arms were stretched out in front. She was gripping the steering wheel with both hands. Her knuckles were bone white. She was staring straight ahead and her face was twisted into the kind of scowl you’d expect from a parent who found her teenage kids hosting an orgy in her living room.
The gun looked tiny in the guy’s hand. It was a Ruger LCR. A .22. Probably the guy’s ankle piece, Reacher thought. It wouldn’t be much use at distance. You wouldn’t choose it as a primary weapon. But at close quarters it would be more than adequate. And in that situation it would be ideal. If the guy got his angle right, there was a good chance the round wouldn’t break out through the top of Hannah’s skull. It would just bounce around inside her head, pulping her brain, until its energy was dissipated and it came to rest in the resulting mush. Which meant her blood and cerebral jelly wouldn’t be sprayed across the windshield for anyone to see. And if the bullet did emerge it certainly wouldn’t have enough force left to pierce the truck’s steel roof. It was as discreet an option as the guy could hope for. Although with his buddy’s life on the line he might not care too much about attracting attention.
Reacher opened his hand and lowered his arm.
“Good decision,” the guy said. “Now, we’re looking for two of our friends. This young lady told me you could help us find them.”
Reacher said, “You have friends?”
“This is no time for jokes.”
“Who’s joking?”
“Tell me where they are.”
“How would I know?”
The guy pulled something out from under his left thigh. He held it up for Reacher to see. It was the Beretta he had left in the truck when he went to change.
The guy said, “Stop wasting time. Tell me where they are.”
A vehicle rumbled past the rear of the truck. Reacher took a glance. It was a bus. The old one from British Columbia. There were no passengers on board. Only the driver. Reacher hoped he was taking it all the way to Canada. Or given the sudden shift in his mood, straight to a scrap yard. One that wouldn’t check it too thoroughly before dumping it in the crusher.
Reacher said, “They’re not far away.”
“Tell me where.”
“I’ll show you.”