The Hard Way Read Free

And urgent. That’s how he moved.”
    “Where did he come from?”
    “From behind my shoulder, more or less. He could have been walking north, and then stepped off the sidewalk at the café, north and east through the traffic.”
    “Would you recognize him again?”
    “Maybe,” Reacher said. “But only by his clothes and his walk and his posture. Nothing that would convince anyone.”
    “If he crossed through the traffic he must have glanced south to see what was coming at him. At least once. So you should have seen the right side of his face. Then when he was behind the wheel, you should have seen the left side.”
    “Narrow angles,” Reacher said. “And the light wasn’t great.”
    “There must have been headlight beams on him.”
    “He was white,” Reacher said. “No facial hair. That’s all I saw.”
    “White male,” Lane said. “Thirty-five to forty-five. I guess that eliminates about eighty percent of the population, maybe more, but it’s not good enough.”
    “Didn’t you have insurance?” Reacher asked.
    “This is not about the car,” Lane said.
    “It was empty,” Reacher said.
    “It wasn’t empty,” Lane said.
    “So what was in it?”
    “Thank you, Mr. Reacher,” Lane said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
    He turned and walked back to where he had started, next to the table with the phone and the photograph. He stood erect beside it and spread his fingers again and laid the tips lightly on the polished wood, right next to the telephone, like his touch might detect an incoming call before the electronic pulse started the bell.
    “You need help,” Reacher said. “Don’t you?”
    “Why would you care?” Lane asked.
    “Habit,” Reacher said. “Reflex. Professional curiosity.”
    “I’ve got help,” Lane said. He gestured with his free hand around the room. “Navy SEALs, Delta Force, Recon Marines, Green Berets, SAS from Britain. The best in the world.”
    “You need a different kind of help. The guy who took your car, these folks can start a war against him, that’s for sure. But first you need to find him.”
    No reply.
    “What was in the car?” Reacher asked.
    “Tell me about your career,” Lane said.
    “It’s been over a long time. That’s its main feature.”
    “Final rank?”
    “Major.”
    “Army CID?”
    “Thirteen years.”
    “Investigator?”
    “Basically.”
    “A good one?”
    “Good enough.”
    “110th Special Unit?”
    “Some of the time. You?”
    “Rangers and Delta. Started in Vietnam, ended in the Gulf the first time around. Started a second lieutenant, finished a full colonel.”
    “What was in the car?”
    Lane looked away. Held still and quiet for a long, long time. Then he looked back, like a decision had been made.
    “You need to give me your word about something,” he said.
    “Like what?”
    “No cops. That’s going to be your first piece of advice, go to the cops. But I’ll refuse to do it, and I need your word that you won’t go behind my back.”
    Reacher shrugged.
    “OK,” he said.
    “Say it.”
    “No cops.”
    “Say it again.”
    “No cops,” Reacher said again.
    “You got an ethical problem with that?”
    “No,” Reacher said.
    “No FBI, no nobody,” Lane said. “We handle this ourselves. Understand? You break your word, I’ll put your eyes out. I’ll have you blinded.”
    “You’ve got a funny way of making friends.”
    “I’m looking for help here, not friends.”
    “My word is good,” Reacher said.
    “Say you understand what I’ll do if you break it.”
    Reacher looked around the room. Took it all in. A quiet desperate atmosphere and six Special Forces veterans, all full of subdued menace, all as hard as nails, all looking right back at him, all full of unit loyalty and hostile suspicion of the outsider.
    “You’ll have me blinded,” Reacher said.
    “You better believe it,” Lane said.
    “What was in the car?”
    Lane moved his hand away from the phone. He picked up the framed photograph.