Reacher stepped back to avoid the flailing feet and checked that Rutherford was still there, frozen to the spot. Then he sensed rather than heard a heavy object racing towards them. He grabbed Rutherford and shoved him back and a moment later a black Chevy Suburban lurched on to the sidewalk, stopping right where Reacher had been standing. The driver’s door opened and a man jumped out. He was shorter than the others, and wirier. Another man jumped down from the passenger side and joined him. They stood side by side for a moment, both in a version of some strange martial arts stance, then relaxed. They stepped forward. They were comfortable together. They had clearly done this kind of thing before.
‘Step aside, mister,’ the driver said. ‘This isn’t your fight. The guy’s coming with us.’
Reacher shook his head. ‘You’re not taking him. That’s a given. He walks away. The only question is, will you? Or do you have some strong urge to join your buddies in the hospital?’
The driver didn’t reply and Reacher became aware of a scrabbling sound on the far side of the Suburban. The guy he’d thrown through the Toyota’s window had wriggled free and along with the woman from the alley was trying to manoeuvre their unconscious comrade into the back seat. A ring of onlookers had formed, starting on the sidewalk and spilling on to the street. It reminded Reacher of the crowds that would gather in the playgrounds on the first day of each new school he attended, growing up. Him and his brother, Joe. Back to back. Fighting them off. He looked at Rutherford. He wasn’t trying to run, which was something. But Reacher knew he’d be no help if the mob turned nasty.
The two guys exchanged glances. They were considering their next move. Stealth was out of the window so it was down to a choice between a frontal assault and a tactical withdrawal. Neither option seemed to appeal. Then a siren started up. The pedestrians scattered. The car pulled away, its gas engine kicking in as the driver buried the accelerator. The wiry guys jumped back into the Suburban and slammed it into reverse, clipping the front corner of the leading police cruiser before racing into the distance. Rutherford stayed still, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.
The pair of police cars stopped at the side of the street and killed their sirens and light bars. Four officers jumped out. Three converged immediately on the sidewalk. One lingered to inspect the damage to his car. All had their guns drawn, but not raised. They expected their numbers to give them the advantage, Reacher guessed, but were taking no chances. Which seemed like a sensible attitude to take.
‘On the ground,’ the lead officer said. ‘Face down.’
‘You’re arresting us?’ Reacher said.
‘What were you expecting? A lollipop? Get on the ground.’
Reacher didn’t move.
The officer stepped closer. ‘On the ground. Do it now.’
Cops are the same the world over. Once they commit to a position in public they never back down. Trying to make them is a waste of time. Reacher knew that from personal experience. But still, there are standards to uphold.
‘All right,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ll let you arrest us. We’ll be released in five minutes, anyway. But we’re not getting on the ground.’
THREE
The team’s temporary base had been established the week before in a motel eight miles west of town. Traffic was light so theoretically the ground could be covered in twelve minutes without drawing unwelcome attention. But that afternoon the occupants of both vehicles took substantially longer to get back.
The guys from the Suburban made it first. It was easier for them since neither was injured. They started by heading ten miles north. The driver, who went by the name of Vasili, gave it an initial blast to get clear of the arriving police, then slowed to just above the limit until they reached a patch of waste ground behind a dense stand of trees. The place was secluded enough but they knew better than to torch the damaged vehicle. That would be the same as texting a map to the cops and saying Here’s the SUV you’re looking for. And if it could be salvaged the Suburban would still be a valuable asset, so they got to work. Vasili lined up on a concrete post at the end of a fence by the side of the road and slammed back into it. He pulled forward and repeated the manoeuvre then climbed out to check the damage. It was satisfactory, he decided. Deep enough to obscure the dent sustained when they clipped the police car but not so extensive as to give a different cop an excuse to pull them over. He drove around behind the trees and wiped down the interior while his partner, who used the name Anatole, swapped the plates. Then they switched to their secondary vehicle for the final thirteen-mile diagonal stretch.
Natasha was driving the Toyota. She started out going south for six miles. She took it very easy. She had an additional reason to drive slowly. She was worried about two of her companions. The guy Reacher had thrown through the window, Petya, had wound up with an injured shoulder. Natasha wasn’t sure if the damage had been done going in or wriggling out. He had kept quiet at the time but now his face was pale and he groaned every time they hit a bump or a pothole. Ilya, the guy Reacher hit, was still out cold. Natasha was concerned about concussion and didn’t want to cause any additional damage. She wanted both of them back in the game as soon as humanly possible. It was hard not to paint what had happened that afternoon as anything but a failure. With failure comes the danger of replacement. That danger grows if the team is left under strength. And that danger had to be avoided at all costs.
After fifteen minutes they pulled into a lot belonging to a chintzy roadside diner. Natasha switched plates while the other woman, Sonya, helped Petya into their secondary vehicle. Together the two women transferred the unconscious Ilya and sanitized the Toyota’s interior. Then they set out for the motel, looping further west than strictly necessary which stretched the final leg out to twelve miles.
Natasha had taken her time at each stage of the journey. Partly due to thorough training. Partly due to taking pride in doing the job right. But mainly due to how little she was looking forward to the next step in the process. The report. Making the call presented no major difficulty. There was no particular challenge in describing what had happened. She knew that her contact would listen without interruption. He’d save any questions he might have until she’d finished speaking. He’d hang up. And then there would be the wait. For the verdict. Continue. Or stand down. A fighting chance. Or disaster.
The information would flow up the chain of command until a decision was reached. Who that involved or where they were located, Natasha didn’t know. The system was designed that way. For security. Compartmentalization was king in the world she currently inhabited. She suspected there must be a local connection. Someone with their ear to the ground. Who raised the alarm in the first place. Who may or may not still be involved. Who may or may not have a say in the outcome. Identifying him or her would be possible, she supposed. Maybe necessary. Certainly desirable. But that was a problem for the future. Right then all she had to worry about was keeping her team, and therefore herself, in the field.
The lead officer took care of searching Reacher. He was thorough. And slow. Rutherford was in the back of the first car before the officer got as far as Reacher’s waist. He was reclaiming a little authority, Reacher guessed. Showing whose timetable they were working to. Reacher stood still and let him finish. Then the officer stepped to the side and made a call on his cell, while another cop guided Reacher into the back of the second car.