Page 14 of Chain Reaction

“How many others?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see. I was in the back when they drove in. I was on the floor when they drove out. The tall guy hit me again, even though I had done what he wanted. In the stomach. I fell down.”

“OK,” Reacher said.

On the screen all twelve pictures were still fast forwarding through a whole lot of nothing happening. Then eventually high-beam headlights bounced into view, and the dirty white truck turned right off the two-lane, and looped a wide 180 in the diner’s empty lot, and parked where it still was, many hours later. It killed its lights and settled into the silvery gloom, distant and almost invisible.

The kid did the math with the time code.

“Ninety-four minutes,” he said.

Reacher nodded.

He said, “Call it thirty minutes for a decision, which was to play it safe and monitor the situation. Information is king. So they sent a guy. Call it a sixty minute drive. From Denver, probably. You sure you don’t know them?”

“I promise.”

“You’re supposed to call them again right now, aren’t you? You’re supposed to warn them if the not-engineers or software guys show any kind of active interest in what happened here two weeks ago.”

The kid nodded.

“They threatened us,” he said.

“With what?”

“They said they would burn this place down. With us in it.”

“Did you believe them?”

“Yes.”

“What time does the diner open?”

“Any minute now,” the kid said. “Seven-thirty, regular as clockwork.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “I don’t want to put you in a difficult spot. You have troubles enough already. So go ahead and call them, right now. Tell them the new guest is poking around. Meanwhile I’ll go get breakfast. Ninety-four minutes should be plenty of time to eat a meal in peace.”

“But one of them is already here.”

“One of them won’t be enough,” Reacher said.

Chapter 6

Reacher stepped out from under the portico and walked straight ahead, his gaze fixed on the diner’s door. Which kept the white truck firmly in his peripheral vision. It was maybe a hundred yards away. The driver was still in his seat. His hand was still up by his face. Binoculars, probably, not a phone. He was wearing a hat. Boring duty. Sitting in the dark, pissing in a bottle. Therefore this guy was the low man on the organizational chart. Top boys didn’t do menial work. They sent others to do it. Who were usually nervous about exactly what to do next, if the plan jumped the rails. Initiative was rarely encouraged.

Reacher walked on. He assumed the guy had a gun. He took that as a given. Probably nothing else, except the binoculars and a cell phone. Which were the actual tools of his trade on his current mission. Observe and report. Maybe he was dialing the phone right then. He’s going for breakfast now. Or maybe the line was busy, because the kid in the office was already phoning in his own report.

Reacher walked on. The air was still cool. He crossed the two-lane. It ran like a long, ruler-straight gash through the solar fields left and right. Mile after mile. He left it behind and started down the approach road. A straight line to the diner door would pass about five paces from where the truck was parked. About six and a half seconds in the future. Dumb choice of bay. Too close. Second rate, all the way down the chart.

The guy went all nonchalant when Reacher got close. Hey, just a guy, sitting in a truck. The binoculars had disappeared. There was no twist or tension in his shoulders. No tendons standing out in his neck. No readiness. Therefore no gun in his lap. Still in his pocket. Probably. He was a normal-sized guy, neither tall nor wide. He was heading for forty. He had a pale doughy face and a dumb expression. He was wearing a mesh seed cap and a canvas barn coat.

Reacher took two long steps toward the driver’s door. The guy stared, frozen. Two more steps. The guy started scrabbling around. Reacher wrenched the door open and swung his left hand in and caught the guy by the throat. And squeezed. Left-handed, but still. The guy started bucking in his seat.

“Listen up,” Reacher said. “Either you agree to give me what I ask you for, or you’re brain-dead about four minutes from now. Personally I don’t care which. It’s your call. I’m happy to oblige either way.”

The guy started nodding his head, frantic, urgent, but tiny movements were all he could make, because of the size of Reacher’s hand clamped on his neck.

Reacher let go.