Page 141 of Chain Reaction

Think, think, answer.

Brill’s face said, “I’m sorry, I can’t answer that question right now.”

Ask Me Another!

Behind them the computer’s voice said, “Bro, have we met?”

Reacher turned around. Axel Brill, right there. Living and breathing. The real thing, not the A.I. model. Eye contact, a smile, charm and warmth. Which all chilled a notch when he saw Reacher from the front. And Turner. His gaze dimmed, as if some of its wattage had been diverted inside, to help him remember where he had seen these people before.

“On video,” Reacher said. “That’s where you saw us before. Obtained by your best pal Saxby, from hotels and motels and no doubt other places too. You should have paid more attention. But I guess you’re not here for the detail work.”

Brill didn’t answer.

“We have a message from your associate Mr. Hennessy.”

“Where is he?”

“I dumped his body against your back fence in Summertown. About four hours ago. I expect by now the vultures have pecked his eyes out.”

No answer.

“We should include Mr. Cameron in our discussions, don’t you think? Do you have a nice quiet room, where the four of us could go? Your office, perhaps?”

Still no answer. Conflict in his face. He had to know it was over. He was a smart guy. A Stanford postgrad. The other shoe had finally dropped. No doubt about that. But hope springs eternal. The salesman half of his brain was running ahead on autopilot. Stay cheerful, ride it out, don’t upset the money people, get the next tranche of capital safely buttoned up.

He said, “Sure, we can use my office.”

He led the way. Someone stopped him and asked him something, and he replied with an apologetic smile and a spread-fingers promise: five minutes. He caught Cameron’s eye and beckoned him over. Cameron saw Reacher and Turner and froze. He knew who they were immediately. He had paid attention. The details guy. The nervous one. Brill waved again. Cameron came toward them, forcing himself, slowly, reluctantly, distracted, making a trillion guesses a second, like a cryptocurrency computer.

“My office, bro,” Brill said to him. “We have things to discuss.”

Brill led the way, through a door, through an outer office, past a receptionist’s station, into an inner office. Like Turner’s setup in the D-ring, but without the earnest grandeur. There were boxes and cartons, and laptop computers all around, and a desk and a bunch of chairs, none of which matched, plus the kind of worn-out sofa normally found on the front porch of a fraternity house. No point in anything better. Brill always knew he wasn’t staying.

“Where were you planning to go?” Reacher asked.

No answer. Not from Brill, not from Cameron.

“Somewhere with no extradition treaty,” Turner said. “I’m sure of that. Which limits your choices. You wouldn’t like most of them. My guess is Saint Kitts and Nevis. The only Caribbean island that wouldn’t send you back.”

Reacher saw in their eyes she had guessed right.

“Have you started building yet?” she asked. “Your matching beachside villas?”

Reacher saw in their eyes that they had.

“Sucks to be you,” Turner said to them.

“What do you want?” Cameron asked.

“We’ll get to that,” Reacher said. “First I want to know how much money you made in the last three weeks.”

“What?”

“I’m sure you keep track.”

“Including what we’re due today? A couple hundred, I guess.”

“A couple hundred what?”