There was a long silence. The guy calculated the distance
between himself and Reacher, just a glance. Then he lowered
the rifle. Reversed it in his hands, in and out fast, long enough
to check. The muzzle was packed with icy snow. The M16 is on
the Yukon’s back seat, Reacher thought. But the door is blocked
shut by the drift.
‘You want to bet your life on a little slush?’ the Bismarck guy
asked.
‘Do you?’ Reacher said. Re breech will blow, take your ugly
face off. Then I’ll take the barrel and shove it up your ass. I’ll
pretend it was a baseball bat.’
The guy’s face darkened. But he didn’t pull the trigger.
‘Step away from the car,’ he said, like the cop he was. Reacher
took a long pace away from the Yukon, up and down in the
snow, like wading.
‘And another.’
Reacher moved again. He was six feet from the car. Six feet
from his M16. Thirty feet from his nine-millimetre, far away in
the snow. He glanced around. The Bismarck brother held the
rifle in his left hand and put his right under his coat and came
out with a handgun. It was a Glock.Black and square and ugly. Probably police department issue. He released the safety and
levelled it one-handed at Reacher’s face.
392
‘Not that one either,’ Reacher said. Keep him talking. Keep him moving. ‘Why not?’
q’hat’s your work gun. Chances are you’ve used it before. So
there are records. They find my body, the ballistics will come
right back at you.’
The guy stood still for a long moment. Didn’t speak. Nothing
in his face. But he put the Glock away again. Raised the rifle.
Shuffled backward through the snow towards the Tahoe. The
rifle traversed and stayed level with ReaCher’s chest. Reacher
thought: just pull the damn trigger. Let’s all have a laugh. The
guy fumbled behind him and opened the Tahoe’s rear door,
driver’s side. Dropped the rifle in the snow and came out with a
handgun, all in one move. It was an old M9 Beretta, scratched
and stained with dried oil. The guy tracked forward again
through the drift. Stopped six feet away from Reacher. Raised
his arm. Unlatched the safety with his thumb and levelled the
weapon straight at the centre of Reacher’s face.
rhrow-down gun,’ he said. ‘No records on this one.’
Reacher said nothing.
‘Say goodnight now,’ the guy whispered.
Nobody moved.
‘On the click,’ Reacher said.
He stared straight ahead at the gun. Saw Neagley’s face in
the corner of his eye. Saw that she didn’t understand what he
meant, but saw her nod anyway. It was just a fractional movement
of her eyelids. Like half a blink. The Bismarck guy
smiled. Tightened his finger. His knuckle shone white. He
squeezed the trigger.
There was a dull click.
Reacher came out with his ceramic knife already open and
brushed it sideways across the guy’s forehead. Then he caught
the Beretta’s barrel in his left hand and jerked it up and jerked
it down full force across his knee and shattered the guy’s
forearm. Pushed him away and spun round. Neagley had hardly
moved. But the guy from the garage video was inert in the snow
by her feet. He was bleeding from both ears. She was holding
her Heckler & Koch in one hand and the guy’s handgun in
the other.
393
‘Yes?’ she said.
He nodded. She stepped a pace away so her clothes wouldn’t
get splashed and pointed the handgun at the ground and shot
the garage guy three times. Bang bang.., bang. A double-tap to
the head, and then an insurance round in the chest. The sound
of the shots clapped and rolled like thunder. They both turned
away. The Bismarck guy was stumbling around in the snow,
completely blind. His forehead was sliced to the bone and blood
was pouting out of the wound in sheets and running down into
his eyes. It was in his nose and in his mouth. His panting breath
was bubbling out through it. He was cradling his broken arm.
Staggering about, left and right, turning circles, raising his left
forearm to his face, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes so