Jed pulled over to the side of the street. He needed to find somewhere to leave the bike where it would be safe. Then, if he could just recall the name of the messenger service he had seen on the guy’s bag when they collided, he could find a phone number. He could call and tell someone where the owner would find the bike.
Jed had never intended to keep the bike for long. But he had not anticipated how useful it would be. Or how fun. And he did still have another problem. He had to get to Winson. He couldn’t take the bus. He didn’t have enough money for a cab. And he couldn’t risk standing around in plain sight, trying to hitch a ride. The bike was the obvious answer.
Jed’s notes were lost. They had been in his backpack. But he figured he had about fifty miles to go. Sixty at the most. The bike was fast. Easy to pedal. It would only take, what, a couple of hours? Maybe three? He could call the messenger service when he arrived in the town. The guy would have to travel a little farther to retrieve his bike, but that was too bad. He shouldn’t have been such an asshole. Really, he was lucky it was Jed he had encountered. Anyone else would have kept the bike. Or sold it. Jed had no doubt about that. Not after having his backpack stolen. And all his money.
Chapter 30
Hannah pulled the truck over onto the shoulder when the GPS in her phone said they were half a mile from the start of the construction zone. Reacher opened the passenger door and climbed out. Hannah had the pack of emergency flares on her lap, ready to go. She grabbed her purse from the backseat and took out her gun. The little SIG Reacher had first seen outside Gerrardsville when they began their journey together. She tucked it into a gap at the side of the driver’s seat, then felt Reacher watching her.
Hannah turned and looked at him. “Any other assholes try anything, I’ll be ready. No one’s going to sneak up on me. Not again.”
Reacher said, “You had much practice with that?”
“Hell, yes. Been shooting my whole life. It was the one thing about me my daddy didn’t hate.”
“You didn’t get along?”
“We did. When I was a little kid.”
“Your mom?”
“Died when I was eight.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Not your fault. No one’s fault. Guess it’s no one’s fault my daddy was a bigoted asshole, either, but hey. You play the hand you’re dealt. And he did teach me to shoot, which is how I got close to Sam. He worked at the prison. I worked with the parolees. In our free time we’d hang out at the range. So not all bad in the end.”
* * *
—
It would normally take Reacher no more than five minutes to cover half a mile on foot. That afternoon he agreed with Hannah to give it twenty. The road was lined with trees but it wasn’t clear on her phone’s screen how dense they were. The only certainty was that the land beyond them was flat and open. There was no other cover so Reacher wanted to be able to move slowly and smoothly. To stop where necessary. And he wanted to be in position in plenty of time.
Reacher covered the ground in fifteen minutes. The dirt was damp in places and patches of ankle-high grass and weeds made the cuffs of his pants wet and soggy. A rich musty smell rose up wherever he disturbed the surface. The trees were scattered and patchy and more than a dozen times he had to pause to make sure he wouldn’t be seen by passing vehicles. There were individual ones heading west, toward Winson, spread out at random intervals. And little convoys, packed close together, heading east.
Reacher stayed behind the tree line until he was level with the spot where the road got cut down to one lane. He found a shallow depression, maybe left by a dried-up stream, maybe by an abandoned irrigation system. He lay down in it, pressed himself into the ground, and settled in to watch. Twelve cars were waiting behind a line that had been painted on the blacktop near a sign warning drivers not to proceed unless they were escorted by the pilot vehicle. A guy was making his way along the shoulder, heading toward the end of the row. He was wearing jeans, a gray T-shirt, and black boots. He was carrying a clipboard and he had a yellow safety helmet on his head. He leaned down and looked into each vehicle he passed, checking any passengers. Another guy, of similar height but with a white helmet, was keeping pace on the other side of the vehicles, checking their drivers. The props weren’t fooling anyone, Reacher thought. These guys were obviously the next Minerva crew. The only question was whether they were just being thorough or if they hadn’t been told about Roth’s truck. Reacher smiled to himself. Maybe they did know about it. But if they didn’t, they soon would.