* * *
—
Bruno Hix was still awake. He had done everything he could think of to get to sleep. Herbal tea. Whiskey. Meditation. Nothing had worked. He felt the anger building inside himself. His big speech was hours away. He didn’t want black circles under his eyes because he was short of rest. He didn’t want to fluff his lines because he was too tired to concentrate.
Hix stared at the ceiling and pictured himself at the beach on a tropical island. He’d read somewhere about relaxation techniques and this one was supposed to help. He took it a step further. Imagined what kind of drink he would have in his hand. Maybe a pi?a colada. Maybe a daiquiri. He was still trying to decide when his peace was shattered by his phone. It was a text. From Brockman.
“Friends” located. H & co on scene. Only a matter of time…
That was it. Everything was going to be OK after all. Harold would take care of Reacher. The guy’s luck had to run out sometime. And if this wasn’t the time, if Harold failed, it wouldn’t matter. Not now that contact had been made. They could fall back on the insurance. Hix had arranged it himself, therefore he didn’t have to worry. He was confident it would work if it was needed.
* * *
—
Hix was confident. In the insurance itself. The note was completely credible. He had put a lot of thought into it. He wasn’t worried about whether Reacher would believe it. But for Reacher to believe it he would have to read it. And for him to read it he would have to find it. If he defeated Harold. And Brockman had hinted that Harold might refuse to take it due to some ridiculous sense of pride. Hix pictured the envelope abandoned at Harold’s house. Left in the vehicle. Tossed in the trash. Then he got hold of himself. Forced nice images of the beach back into his head. There was no need to borrow trouble. His plan was elegant. Sophisticated. There was no way the universe would let it get torpedoed by some petulant meathead.
Chapter 37
Reacher was worried about the gunshot. The noise it had made. Someone was certain to have heard. The night clerk. Or the other guests, in the south wing. One of them was bound to call 911. Maybe they all would. Maybe they already had. One way or another the police would soon be showing up. And Reacher did not want to be around when they got there. The stealthy approach hadn’t worked. Now whoever was pulling the strings would have an emergency call and a dead body to work with. A perfect excuse to send in a couple more goons, guns blazing, no questions asked.
Winson was not a New York or a Chicago. It wasn’t even a Jackson. Reacher doubted the cops would be on patrol twenty-four/seven. Any presence was likely to be confined to the station house at that time of night. The best case would be one guy. Low down the pecking order. Alone with a pot of stewed coffee and a box of stale donuts. Someone who would have to call for assistance and wait for another officer to arrive before responding. The worst case would be that a pair of old hands were on duty. Trusted guys. Ready to roll at a moment’s notice. Ready to do whatever their boss told them to.
Reacher always planned for the worst. The town wasn’t far away. There would be no traffic. The cops would be local. They would know the road, and they would drive fast. He figured he and Hannah had nine minutes to get clear of the hotel.
* * *
—
Hannah was kneeling down near Harold’s head. She had checked his neck for a pulse after Reacher climbed off him. She hadn’t found one. But she had discovered her legs would no longer work. She was unable to stand up. When the week began she had never seen a dead body. Now she had been up close and personal with two. And this one she felt partially responsible for. Blood was leaking from its crushed chest and oozing toward her knees. She was starting to get mesmerized by it.
Reacher helped Hannah to her feet and guided her back to room 121. He asked her to get her things together. Quickly. And while she packed he went out to the corridor. He took a pillowcase from the bed and filled it with the contents of the Minerva guys’ pockets. Their guns. Phones. Wallets. Keys.
Reacher and Hannah made it down the corridor and into reception. They had six minutes left to get clear. Plenty of time. Then Reacher noticed a pair of bare feet. Someone was on the floor, behind the counter. He detoured to investigate. It was the kid who had checked them in. He was in his pajamas. Alive, but unconscious.
Reacher crossed back to Hannah and they continued to the parking lot. The three rental cars were still lined up on the south side of the porte cochere. The VW bus had moved closer on the north side. Two other vehicles had arrived and were parked next to it. A Dodge Neon and a Ram panel van. The Dodge had lived a hard life. That was clear. It had dents in its front wings, mud sprayed around its wheel arches, a crack running the whole width of its windshield, and a couple of deep gouges in its front fender. The van was dark blue. It was spotless. It had no livery or logo, but it looked like the kind of thing a company would use to ferry stock and supplies between different sites.