Chapter 37

Reacher and Knight climbed back into the minivan and took a moment to assess their situation. The outlook was not favorable. They were outnumbered five to two. Their opponents had a prime position. It had an unobstructed 360-degree view of its surroundings and the only dry approach was along an exposed pier that offered no cover whatsoever.

Reacher said, "The best approach would be a siege, all things being equal."

Knight said, "We could do that. Keep watch. Stop anyone who tries to approach in case they're here to buy the memory stick. Then hand the gig over to the Feds on Thursday."

"True. But all things aren't equal. What if Kane emails the report to a buyer? What if the buyer shows up on a boat? How would we stop them? Or a float plane. Or a helicopter. Or Kane leaves on his boat? No. The only option is a deliberate attack."

"That's impossible."

"No. Just difficult."

"So what's the plan?"

"Two phases. First we reduce their numerical advantage. I want you to set a marker on this road. I'll hide in the mangroves at the side. There's plenty of room in their crazy roots. You continue. Drive all the way up to the parked cars. Then make a nuisance of yourself. Crash into one of the cars, maybe. Set its alarm going. Slash its tires. Make it look like you're going to steal it, or light it on fire. Keep going till one of the guys comes running across the pier. More than one, if we're lucky. Then turn around and hightail it out of there. Don't stop till you reach the marker. The road's so narrow they'll have to stop, too. Get down in case they open fire. Then I'll hit them from the side."

—

The least satisfactory part of the plan's execution from Reacher's point of view was the lack of visibility from his hiding place. He saw Knight drive away. Then he could only listen. The engine sound faded. A couple of minutes passed, then he heard glass smashing. A car alarm blaring. More glass smashing. Then nothing for another two minutes. Three. Then he heard a vehicle approaching. But slowly. Not trying to outrun anything. There was no doubt about that. Then the minivan trundled back into sight. Knight jumped out. She stood at the side of the road, hands on her hips, and said, "Sorry, Reacher. I did what I could. The fish didn't bite."

Reacher emerged from the tangle of mangrove roots and stood by Knight's side. He said, "No problem. Time for a new plan. Can you look up what time the sun will set tonight?"

Knight prodded and swiped at her phone, then said, "A whisker after seven-thirty."

"OK. That means we'll have to stick around a little longer than I'd hoped, but so be it. Maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe they'll come out on their own. But because they probably won't, I want you to drive to the airport. Go back through passports. Find McLeod. And tell him to fly to this spot at exactly seven-twenty. Then it'll be time for him to channel his inner barnstormer. I want him to fly around like a maniac. Pretend he's trying to land on the beach but keeps having to pull up. Make it look like he's out of control. Like he's going to crash. Like he's drunk. He can do anything he wants as long as it's eye-catching. OK?"

"No problem."

"He needs to keep it up, as wild as possible, till seven-thirty. Then return to the airport and wait for us at the far end of the runway, where I got out."

—

There were six hours to kill before McLeod performed his tricks, and under different circumstances it would have been pleasant to spend the time together. The landscape was beautiful. They enjoyed each other's company. Reacher and Knight talked about it. They were tempted. But in the end, practicality won. Neither of them knew McLeod. All they had learned so far was that he was happy to break the law, given the right incentive. Not something that built confidence in his reliability. He had promised to wait, but if he got cold feet and bailed on them, their plan would fall apart. There were no attractive alternatives. So Knight left right away. They figured that with her by his side, McLeod's backbone would grow a little thicker. And his appetite for taking the easy way out would become a great deal thinner.

Reacher found another spot in the mangroves with a view along the whole length of the road and settled in for the duration. He would have preferred to be with Knight but with that possibility off the table he didn't object to waiting alone. Stillness bordering on the comatose was one of the two natural states that suited him. The other was explosive action. If the plan worked the way he anticipated there would be time for that, as well, after the sun went down.

No vehicles drove toward the shore the whole time Reacher was watching the road. None drove away from it. Reacher heard no boats and no planes. So when the clock in his head hit 6:00 p.m. , he was as sure as he could be that Kane and his guys were still holed up in the house at the end of the pier. He broke cover and made his way west, along the edge of the swamp. He saw fish sheltering behind the mangrove roots. Turtles going about their business. But no people. He covered the ground slowly and steadily and made it to the rocky outcrop overlooking the house with twenty minutes to spare.

By seven-fifteen the sun had sunk low in the sky behind him. Reacher took off his shoes and socks. He tucked his passport and ATM card and toothbrush safely inside and weighed the shoes down behind a root with the Glock. He moved into the cover of a large mangrove plant and stepped into the water. He lowered himself until he was submerged up to his neck, moving gently, causing no ripples.

Two minutes later Reacher heard a plane engine. It was coming closer. He scanned the sky. He caught sight of a dot against the inky background. It grew larger. He recognized the shape. It was McLeod's de Havilland. The airplane was coming in hot. For a moment Reacher thought it was going to crash into the ocean near the shore. McLeod turned at the last moment, banked hard, and began to climb. Reacher set out to swim. He cut through the water steadily. Smoothly. He made no jerky movements. No splashes. No sounds. The planebuzzed the beach, west to east. Reacher kept swimming, stroke after stroke. The plane rose, then wobbled in the air like it was losing its invisible support. It fell, then leveled out. Reacher swam on. He pulled a little closer to the house on the pier. He kept on going. The plane kept swooping and diving and banking. Reacher pulled to within a hundred yards of the house. Fifty. Twenty. The plane darted across the sky, heading west. But this time it didn't pull up. It didn't turn. It kept going on the same heading. It grew smaller, then disappeared. Reacher was still in open water. He was completely exposed. If he was spotted, that would be the end. The worst shot in the world would have all the time he needed to hit the target.

Reacher took a deep breath and ducked his head under the water. He let himself sink a couple of feet straight down, like a falling rock. Then he kicked with all his strength. He stretched and pulled and hauled himself through the water. The sudden increase in effort set off an abrupt throbbing in his head. He couldn't see anything through the darkness. His lungs began to hurt. Then burn. He forced himself to take one more stroke. Two. Then let himself float to the surface. He opened his eyes and looked around. He saw the underside of the pier. He was safe. For the moment.

Reacher swam to the ladder. He grabbed hold with his right hand. Pulled. And immediately let go. There was no strength in his wrist. Only pain. It couldn't take his weight. He couldn't climb with one hand. And he couldn't get his feet on the lowest rung. It didn't extend into the water, which left him marooned. There was no way forward, and no way back.

Reacher took a moment to bring his breathing under control. The throbbing in his head had subsided a little, but it was still there. He ignored it and looked around. He focused on Kane's boat. The Zodiac. He pushed off from the ladder and swam across to its mooring line. He pulled himself up with his left arm. He slithered over the side and rolled onto the boat's slatted wooden floor. Then he moved to the stern. He stood up, stretched out, and closed his fingers around the vertical side of the ladder. He stepped onto the bottom rung and began to climb. He made it to the top. He paused. He listened. He heard a creaking sound. But not footsteps. He figured it was just the ladder binding against the stone column supporting the house. He risked a peek above the highest rung. He saw no one. He took another breath and scaled the last few feet until he was standing on the deck. He darted across and pressed his back against the blank wall between two windows.

Reacher chose the window to his left. He crouched down and took a quick look through the glass. He saw a bunch of living room furniture but no people. He looked again to be sure then tried to take hold of the window frame. He couldn't get a grip. The paint was too shiny. Too slippery. And his right hand was no help at all. The false start on the ladder had messed it up worse than it had been after the car wreck. So he stretched up to the top of the casement with his left. He heaved. He used all his strength but couldn't move it an inch. The frame was stuck solid.

There were three more windows on the first floor. They were for the kitchen, a dining room, and a study. All the rooms were empty. All the windows were jammed. Reacher stepped back until he was leaning against the railing. He craned his neck to get a glimpse of the second floor. He could see another four windows. Three were dark. They had plain glass and they were closed. One had frosted glass. And it was open a crack. Reacher climbed onto the deck rail and leaned forward to use the wall for support. He studied the stones it was made from. One stuck out a little farther than the others. It had a flat top. Reacher would have preferred a deeper ledge but there was nothing he could do. It was the best available. He planted his right foot on top and tried to grip its edge with his toes. The stone was rough against his bare skin. He shifted his weight toward the wall, pushed down with his foot and shot his left hand up, aiming for the windowsill. He grabbed hold of it. He spotted a tiny ledge for his left foot. Moved his foot from the rail. Gripped with his toes. Pushed down and at the same time shoved his hand through the open window. His fingers found the inside edge of the sill. He shifted his right foot up. Pushed. Levered the window up with his wrist to increase the gap. Slid his forearm through. Then his useless right arm. His head. His shoulders. His chest. With each move he walked his feet higher, shifting them from one joint or crack in the stone to another. Finally he wriggled his body far enough through the window frame for gravity to stop fighting him. He slithered across the top of a toilet cistern, took a moment to regain his balance, and lowered himself to the floor.

Reacher lay still. He listened. He heard nothing so he got to his feet. He took a towel from a rack on the wall. He needed to dry his hair to stop water from dripping into his eyes. Then the door opened. A guy stepped through. His hands were on his belt, already loosening the buckle. He saw Reacher standing in front of him. He stopped dead. Then he raised both his arms and lunged forward, clawing at Reacher's throat. Reacher threw the towel in the guy's face and batted his arms aside. Then he grabbed hold of the guy's shirt. He pulled, adding to the guy's own momentum. He stepped to the side and pivoted, swinging his shoulders around to bring every ounce of centrifugal force to bear. Then he let go. The guy continued straight. He was out of control, like a falling-down drunk. His arms were flailing like windmills. He was desperate to find anything to brace himself. The wall. The window frame. The toilet. But he missed every solid surface. His head disappeared out of the window. His body followed. His legs. His feet. Reacher heard a crash from below. He heard wood splintering. A long, drawn-out scream. Then silence.

Reacher rushed out of the bathroom. The corridor was empty. He turned left and dived through the first door he came to. It was a bedroom. Small, and sparsely furnished. He pressed back against the wall to the side of the doorframe. He heard footsteps on the stairs. Two sets, running. They continued straight, into the bathroom. Reacher looked around for anything he could use as a weapon. He saw a chair sitting in front of a vanity. It was made of wood. It was old. Rustic. It looked sturdy. And its legs narrowed markedly toward its feet.

Reacher grabbed the chair and made for the bathroom. The two guys had found out it was empty. They had turned around. They got to the doorway at the same moment as Reacher. They were rushing out. Reacher was charging in. He was holding the chair out in front, legs-first. One caught the leading guy in the gut. Reacher pushed forward. The second guy was slow to react. He slammed into his buddy's back, pinning him like the meat in a sandwich. The chair leg pierced the guy's shirt, then his skin. He howled. Reacher pushed harder, driving both the guys back through the door. The chair leg bit deeper into the first one's abdomen. He screamed. Blood soaked his shirt and streamed down, staining the front of his jeans. Reacher kept on shoving. The second guy slipped. He fell onto his back. The first guy tumbled on top of him. Reacher let go of the chair then stamped down onto its seat. Hard. Maybe harder than he should have. A shock wave ran all the way up from the sole of his foot to the top of his skull. He felt a jolt of pain, sharp and hot. His vision split into two identical images. They stayed separate for a moment, then reunited. Reacher saw that the chair leg had disappeared farther into the guy's gut. He twitched, then stopped moving. The guy on the ground struggled and wriggled and managed to shove the corpse off to the side. He flattened his hands on the floor, ready to push himself up. He wasn't done fighting. That was clear. So Reacher stepped around and stomped on the guy's throat. His larynx collapsed. He wheezed and gurgled and clawed at his neck. His eyes bulged. No air was getting to his lungs. He rolled over onto his front. Some kind of primitive instinct was coming into play. It was driving him to protect his wound. To shield his weakness while he searched for a last-ditch maneuver. It was unlikely that he would find a way back, but Reacher was in no mood to take chances. He slammed his heel down against the base of the guy's skull. He heard a crunch. The guy stiffened. His shoulder blades pulled back, then he flopped down, face-first. He twitched. Then he was still.

Reacher heard a sound behind him. Another set of footsteps on the staircase. He spun around and rushed out of the bathroom. Kane's fourth guy was running up the stairs, heading right for him. He had a knife in his hand. Reacher hated knives at the best of times, and at that moment he was far from his best. The throbbing in his head had wound up a notch and his vision was blurred around the edges, so he picked his moment. He tracked the guy's trajectory. Stepped forward at the perfect time and kicked the guy under the chin like a lineman looking to make his name at the Super Bowl. The guy's head snapped back a full 90 degrees. Reacher heard a crack. It was crisp and loud. The guy's neck was broken. There was no doubt about that. His body spun around, landed on its back, and slid headfirst all the way down to the bottom of the stairs.

Reacher stopped and listened. The house was silent. The four guys were accounted for. The secondary players, as Knight had christened them. But there was no sign of Kane. And the front door was open. Reacher suddenly saw the potential flaw in his plan. He had done what he had described to Knight, the day before. He had projected his own attitude onto Kane. Reacher stood and fought when he was attacked, no matter the circumstances. No matter the odds. There was no guarantee that Kane would do the same. If he ran, and he didn't take Vidic's phone with him, it would take one hell of an effort to find him again. All he had to do was cover the length of the pier. The same stretch of walkway that had made the house so hard to assault was now Kane's cakewalk to freedom.

Reacher pushed the doubt aside, picked up a Ruger9mm that the guy he'd impaled with the chair had dropped, and checked the rest of the second floor. There were two more bedrooms. Both were empty. There was no sign of Kane. No indication he'd ever set foot inside them. Reacher made his way downstairs. The treads creaked under his weight but otherwise the house was silent. There was nothing to give away any hiding places. No sounds or misplaced chinks of light. Reacher stopped in the hallway. There were four doors. All of them were closed. That meant there were four chances to find Kane. And four chances to walk into a trap.

Reacher called out, "Kane? You surprise me. Vidic said you were an asshole. A sociopath. A Neanderthal. I believed him. But when he said you were a coward? I thought he was wrong. I know better now. No wonder everyone laughs at you. You're a joke. You have a yellow streak that's fatter than your head. Which is pretty extraordinary, if you think about it."

Reacher paused. There was no response. He wasn't entirely surprised but at least he'd tried. Now there was no alternative. He checked each first floor room in turn. The kitchen. The dining room. The living room. And finally the study.

There was no sign of Kane.

Reacher felt his stomach grow tight. He thought of the memory stick falling into the wrong hands. The consequences could be unimaginable. And then there was Knight. She had been so sad the night before when the reality of Kane's latest escape had come home to roost. Each time he slipped through their fingers it only hit her harder.

Reacher shook off the negative thoughts and forced himself to focus. The boat was still there. He would have heard the motor if Kane had sailed away in it. That meant his only route off the island was by air. There were two options. The official airport at Fresh Creek, or the private strip Kane had flown into the day before. Knight was at Fresh Creek. She would stop Kane if he tried to leave from there. Or she would die trying. Reacher was sure about that. Which left the new strip for him to cover. He checked the pockets of the guy who was lying at the bottom of the stairs. He ignored the guy's wallet and a spare magazine, then found what he was looking for. A car key. He slipped it into his pocket and took a step toward the front door. Then stopped. The door was standing open, like an invitation. Like someone wanted him to walk through.

Reacher went back to the living room, unlocked the window, and climbed out. He glanced at the body of the guy who'd walked in on him in the bathroom. The top of the railing was gone, presumably into the water, and two of the uprights had speared the guy's torso. Reacher looked away, checked the Ruger, and started to edge around the building. He was moving clockwise, expecting to find Kane lying in wait beside the front door. His sight was still grainy so he decided to take no chances. He would shoot Kane in the leg, the first chance he got. He made it halfway around. Heard a thumping sound, behind him. Then something slammed into him. It felt like he'd been hit by a truck. The impact knocked him down. He hit the deck. The gun slipped out of his grip, skittered across the deck, and fell into the water. The air was driven out of his lungs. His damp clothes were slippery and he slid into the railing. His head hit a post and his vision split in two. A wave of dizziness washed over him, just like it had done after the car wreck. Then he heard a voice. He realized it must be Kane's. It said, "You're clever, Reacher. Just not clever enough."

Reacher rolled to the side and Kane's boot smashed down onto the spot where his head had just been. He scrambled to his feet and dodged backward, struggling for balance. Kane was looming in front of him, arms wide, blocking his path. He took a step closer. There was no way past him. He was the same height as Reacher, but he was heavier. He didn't have a cast on his wrist. And he could see straight.

Reacher looked up and said, "You're the one who's not clever enough if you're thinking about killing the guy who wants to make you rich."

Kane took another step.

Reacher said, "You don't know who I am. I work for…it doesn't matter. The name wouldn't mean anything to you. But the money will."

Reacher moved his left foot slowly to the side. Kane would be in range very soon. He would only have one chance to spring forward and poleax the guy, even though he could currently see two of him, so he needed to get his foundation just right.

He said, "The gold those Europeans gave Vidic? That's peanuts next to what I can get you."

He felt something against the side of his foot. Something hard with a straight edge.

"Why do you think I'm here? Why do you think I went to the trouble of infiltrating your tedious little group?"

He glanced down. It was a strain to focus but he was able to make out that the deck plank had snapped where Kane had stamped on it when he tried to crush Reacher's head. The rows of screws showed it had been fixed down at its front end, its center, and its rear end. Now it was broken between its center and its rear edge.

"We knew all about Paris and Vidic and their little hacking sideline. Truth be told, we were impressed. They got some good stuff. Like the example you have. I hope you've got it somewhere safe."

Kane's gaze dipped for a moment toward his right-hand pocket. Then he looked up and said, "I like you, Reacher. It's a shame I'm going to have to kill you. But you're bullshitting me. Vidic was a Fed. You got wrapped up in this whole thing by mistake."

Reacher said, "Kill me? You'll have to catch me first. I hope you can swim."

Reacher feinted to the side like he was going to jump over the railing. Kane lunged forward. Reacher stamped on the broken plank, just ahead of where it was cracked. His weight forced that section down. The joist in its center acted like a pivot. The front end shot up, right as Kane reached it. He tripped and went down, face-first. He lay still for a moment, winded. Reacher didn't hesitate. He didn't waste time on taunts or insults. He just curled his toes up and smashed the ball of his foot into Kane's temple. He did it again, to be safe. Kane was completely inert. The back of his neck was exposed. Reacher raised his foot, high. He was ready to slam his heel down and mash the delicate vertebrae, just like he'd done to the guy in the bathroom. Then he heard a voice. It was female. It was loud and insistent. It said, "Stop. Please."