The guy opposite Reacher seemed to be the leader. The bigger one. The
calmer one. He looked between Reacher and the woman and jerked his
automatic’s barrel toward the kerb.
“In the car, bitch,” the guy said. “And you, asshole.” He spoke
urgently, but quietly. With authority. Not much of an accent. Maybe
from California, Reacher thought. There was a sedan at the kerb. It
had been waiting there for them. A big car, black, expensive. The
driver was leaning across behind the front passenger seat. He was
stretching over to pop the rear door. The guy opposite Reacher
motioned with the gun again. Reacher didn’t move. He glanced left and
right. He figured he had about another second and a half to make some
kind of an assessment. The two guys with the nine-millimeter
automatics didn’t worry him too much. He was one-handed, because of
the dry-cleaning, but he figured the two guys would go down without too
much of a problem. The problems lay beside him and behind him. He
stared up into the dry-cleaner’s window and used it like a mirror.
Twenty yards behind him was a solid mass of hurrying people at a
crosswalk. A couple of stray bullets would find a couple of targets.
No doubt about that. No doubt at all. That was the problem behind
him. The problem beside him was the unknown woman. Her capabilities
were an unknown quantity. She had some kind of a bad leg. She would
be slow to react. Slow to move. He wasn’t prepared to go into combat.
Not in that environment, and not with that partner.
The guy with the Californian accent reached up and grabbed Reacher’s
wrist where it was pinned against his collar by the weight of the nine
clean garments hanging down his back. He used it to pull him toward
the car. His trigger finger still looked ready to go to work. Reacher
was watching it, corner of his eye. He let the woman’s arm go. Stepped
over to the car. Threw the bags into the rear seat and climbed in
after them. The woman was pushed in behind him. Then the jumpy guy
crowded in on them and slammed the door. The leader got in front on
the right. Slammed the door. The driver nudged the selector and the
car moved smoothly and quietly away down the street.
The woman was gasping in pain and Reacher figured she had the jumpy
guy’s gun jammed in her ribs. The leader was twisted around in the
front seat with his gun hand resting against the thick leather
headrest. The gun was pointing straight at Reacher’s chest. It was a
Clock 17. Reacher knew all about that weapon. He had evaluated the
prototype for his unit. That had been his assignment during his
light-duty convalescence after the Beirut wound. The Glock was a tough
little weapon. Seven and a half inches long from firing pin to muzzle
tip. Long enough to make it accurate. Reacher had hit thumbtack heads
at seventy-five feet with it. And it fired a decent projectile. It
delivered quarter-ounce bullets at nearly eight hundred miles an hour.
Seventeen rounds to a magazine, hence the name. And it was light. For
all its power, it weighed under two pounds. The important parts were
steel. The rest of it was plastic. Black polycarbonate, like an
expensive camera. A fine piece of craftsmanship. But he hadn’t liked
it much. Not for the specialized requirements of his unit. He’d
recommended rejection. He’d supported the Beretta 92F instead. The
Beretta was also a nine-millimeter, a half-pound heavier, an inch
longer, two fewer rounds in the magazine. But it had about 10 per cent
more stopping power than the Clock. That was important to him. And it
wasn’t plastic. The Beretta had been Reacher’s choice. His unit
commander had agreed. He had circulated Reacher’s paper and the army
as a whole had backed his recommendation. The same week they promoted
him and pinned on his Silver Star and his Purple Heart, they ordered
Berettas even though the Beretta was more expensive and NATO was crazy
for the Clock and Reacher had been just about a lone voice and was not