Page 30 of Chain Reaction

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Turner looked at Reacher, who said, “Pick a brand name. I’m sure there’s at least one of everything up there.”

“The Four Seasons,” she said.

—

It was late. Traffic was light. They were at the Industrial City sign in no time at all. The whole ride was going to take less than twenty minutes. Turner was leaning way back in her seat. She looked exhausted. Some kind of after-action comedown, maybe. Different people had different reactions. Reacher asked her, “You OK?”

“I’ve been driving a desk since the 110th,” she said. “It’s been a long time since I had a day like today. Since I did what I did today.”

“You OK with it?”

“I examined the alternatives, and there were none. I did what I had to do. I’m OK with it. But part of me thinks I shouldn’t be.”

“You did the right thing. What was he going to do to you? That’s how you measure it. Like for like, but get your retaliation in first. That’s what I used to tell my people. Words to live by. Don’t give it another thought.” He pictured her in his mind, in the dark, five feet seven, small-boned, slender, pressed hard against the wall, holding her breath, waiting. Not a foregone conclusion. Much braver than he had been.

Then he smiled. Couldn’t help it.

“What?” she said.

“Perfect title,” he said.

“What was?”

“Your Stephen King book,” he said. “That’s exactly where you hit the guy. Under the dome, right at the very top of his neck. You should write Mr. King a fan letter. Tell him thanks for the suggestion.”

“I’m very sorry for what I said about your shirt.”

“Don’t worry about it. You know what I’m like with clothes. It’ll be gone tomorrow. You can help me pick out the next one.”

“I doubt there’s going to be a Goodwill on the same block as the Four Seasons.”

“We could go to a regular store. I get new clothes sometimes.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“Making me feel better.”

—

The Four Seasons lobby was all golden stone and glittering marble and warm paint. Brass accents, thick carpet. The night clerk was a woman about thirty. Immaculately dressed, fragrant, perfectly coiffed. Her name tag said Holly Watkins. Turner asked her for two rooms. Ms. Watkins said she had plenty available. All kinds of different categories. All very expensive. The best part of a grand a night each, even the simplest.

Turner looked at Reacher.

“Too much,” she said.

“The Chief of Staff can afford it,” he said.

“But we can’t afford to run out of cash. We can’t get more without giving away our location.”

“We could go find a Motel Six. Or similar. Got to be something nearby.”

Turner paused a beat. Looked him in the eye.

“No,” she said. “We can do better than that.” She turned back to the desk and said, “Make it one room only. Make it a king bed, breakfast included.”