“Can I borrow this?” he asked.
The guy with the interest in sports nodded without looking. Reacher tucked the paper under his arm and walked to the serving counter. Breakfast was set out like a buffet. He helped himself to a stack of pancakes and eight rashers of bacon. Added syrup until the plate was swimming. He was going to need the nutrition. He had a long journey ahead, and he was probably going to be walking the first part of it.
He came back to the table and squatted awkwardly to get the plate down without spilling the syrup or dropping the newspaper. He propped the paper in front of his plate and started to eat. Then he pretended to notice the headline.
“Well, look at that,” he said, with his mouth full.
The headline read Gang Warfare Explodes in Lower Manhattan, Leaves Six Dead. The story recounted a brief and deadly turf war between two rival protection rackets, one of them allegedly Chinese, the other allegedly Syrian. Automatic firearms and machetes had been used. The body count ran four to two in favor of the Chinese. Among the four dead on the Syrian side was the alleged gang leader, a suspected felon named Almar Petrosian. There were quotes from the NYPD and the FBI, and background reporting about the hundred-year history of protection rackets in New York City, the Chinese tongs, the jockeying between different ethnic groups for their business, which reputedly ran to billions of dollars nationwide.
“Well, look at that,” Reacher said again.
They had already looked at it. That was clear. They were all turned away from him. Blake was staring through the window at the streaks of dawn in the sky. Poulton had his eyes fixed on the back wall. Lamarr was still studying her teaspoon.
“Cozo call you to confirm it?” Reacher asked.
Nobody said a thing, which was the same as a yes. Reacher smiled.
“Life’s a bitch, right?” he said. “You get a hook into me, and suddenly the hook isn’t there anymore. Fate’s a funny thing, isn’t it?”
“Fate,” Blake repeated.
“So let me get this straight,” Reacher said. “Harper wouldn’t play ball with
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the femme fatale thing, and now old Petrosian is dead, so you got no more cards to play. And you’re not listening to a word I say anyway, so is there a reason why I shouldn’t walk right out of here?”
“Lots of reasons,” Blake said.
There was silence.
“None of them good enough,” Reacher said.
He stood up and stepped away from the table again. Nobody tried to stop him. He walked out of the cafeteria and out through the glass doors into the chill of dawn. Started walking.
Jl
116 walked all the way out to the guardhouse on the perimeter. Ducked under
the barrier and dropped his visitor’s pass on the road. Walked on and turned the corner and entered Marine territory. He kept to the middle of the pavement and reached the first clearing after a half-mile. There was a cluster of vehicles and a number of quiet, watchful men. They let him go on. Walking was unusual, but not illegal. He reached the second clearing thirty minutes after leaving the cafeteria. He walked through it and kept on going.
He heard the car behind him five minutes later. He stopped and turned and waited for it. It came near enough for him to see past the dazzle of its running lights. It was Harper, which is what he had expected. She was alone. She drew level with him and buzzed her window down.
“Hello, Reacher,” she said.
He nodded. Said nothing.
“Want a ride?” she asked.
“Out or back?”
“Wherever you decide.”
“1-95 on-ramp will do it. Going north.”
“Hitchhiking?”
He nodded. “I’ve got no money for a plane.”
He slid in next to her and she accelerated gently away, heading out. She was in her second suit and her hair was loose. It spilled all over her shoulders.
“They tell you to bring me back?” he asked.
She shook her head. “They decided you’re useless. Nothing to contribute, is what they said.”
He smiled. “So now I’m supposed to get all boiled up with indignation and storm back in there and prove them wrong?”