Reacher said, “Can your phone show the view from a satellite?”
“Sure.” Hannah hit a button at the corner of the screen and flipped it around for Reacher to see. “It’s not a live feed, you know. You’re not going to see the pilot vehicle moving around.”
“Don’t need to.” Reacher studied the phone for a moment. “I just need to see the terrain.” He nodded. “We can make this work for us. We could get a rental car but it would be better to use the truck. We can get a replacement vehicle delivered to the hotel, later, if you want.”
“Sticking with the truck for now is the best way? You’re sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
“It’s not about the cost? Because I’m happy to pay.”
“It’s not the cost. Trust me.”
Hannah pointed to the truck’s rear door. “What about the window? We can’t drive with it in that state.”
“Duct tape will fix it.”
“Duct tape?”
“You can fix anything with duct tape.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. Look—the tinting film is holding on to all the glass. All we need is something to secure it around the frame. Duct tape.”
“And do you have any? In your extensive selection of luggage, maybe? Because oddly enough it’s not something I carry in my purse.”
“They sell it in the store here. I saw it earlier.”
“Oh. Good. I guess.”
“I’ll go grab some. And some emergency road flares. We’re going to need those, too.”
“We are? Why?”
“We’re going to do some traffic management of our own.”
* * *
—
Bruno Hix was back on his practice stage. The cameras were running. And this time he made it to the end of his speech in one take. Pretty good, he thought. But could be better.
Hix had just started his second run-through when the conference room door opened. It was Brockman.
Hix said, “What now?”
Brockman was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head and said, “You were right again.”
“About what this time?”
“The truck stop. Something is wrong up there.”
“Explain.”
“Harold just called. He arrived and there was no sign of our other guys. He looked in all the places it would be logical for them to use on a stakeout. Nada. So he cast his net wider. He checked the parking lot. He cruised up and down every aisle. In the corner, the farthest one away from the building, by some charity donation thing, he found Nick’s car. His Marauder. His pride and joy. Harold took a closer look. The doors were unlocked and the keys were on the driver’s seat. He thought it looked low at the back. So he popped the trunk. And he was right.”
“Nick was in there? Hell and damnation. Was he alone? Or with whoever he was partnered up with? Steve, wasn’t it? Were they alive? Or dead?”
“They were alive. But it wasn’t Nick and Steve. Get this. It was Pep and Tony. The guys we sent over from the intersection.”
“How did they get in Nick’s trunk?”
“No idea.”
“Where are Nick and Steve?”
“No idea. There was no sign of them anywhere.”
“What about the truck Pep found? The one Reacher was using.”
“It was gone. Harold thought he saw a red truck leaving when he arrived but he couldn’t be sure it was the same one.”
Hix was silent for a moment. “OK. No point worrying about what’s already happened. Call the guys at the construction zone. Give them the description of Reacher’s truck. Make sure they know the plates.”
Brockman said, “Already done.”
“Call them again. Make sure they know what they’re dealing with. Tell Harold to get down there. And the guys from the Greyhound station. This Reacher’s a menace. I don’t want him in my town. Not tomorrow.”
* * *
—
Jed Starmer could finally see the appeal of riding a bike. He had never had the chance to do it very much in the past. He’d never owned one of his own. His foster parents would never have allowed it. So one day, a few months back, he badgered a friend into teaching him how to ride one. The experience had not been much fun. Jed found that steering in a straight line was next to impossible. He wobbled all over the place. Hit every crack in the pavement. Every pothole. Bumped into a parked car. Fell off four times. Hurt his knee. And his elbow. And his chin. The other kids on the street all laughed at him. He was relieved when it was time to return the bike and limp his way back home. But that afternoon in Jackson, on the messenger’s bike, everything was different. At first he only had one thing on his mind. Getting away from the officers who were closing in on him. He didn’t worry about staying on two wheels or hurting himself or whether he looked ridiculous. He just raced down the sidewalk, bounced down off the curb, and swooped and dodged between the cars and trucks that were grinding their way through the choked city streets. He kept going for ten minutes. Fifteen. Then something dawned on him. He was free and clear.