The clock in Reacher's head and the mileage boards counting down towards Kansas City showed they were going to beat their two-hour target by a decent margin. The trip was going to take an hour forty, or an hour forty-five, max. Not that there wouldn't be a few extra miles at the end. The bad guys were unlikely to be hiding out in whatever the highway people took to be the exact centre of the city. Reacher didn't expect them to be holding their meetings in the lobby of a downtown hotel.
'It's a suburban house,' Delfuenso said, like she could hear him thinking. 'South of the city, and a little east.'
'How far out of town?'
'Maybe twelve miles.'
An hour fifty-three, he thought, door to door.
He said, 'What kind of neighbourhood?'
'Decent. And crowded.'
'That's awkward.'
'Potentially.'
'But well chosen, I suppose.'
Delfuenso nodded at the wheel. 'Wadiah is smarter than most of what we see.'
The Paris of the Plains got a mile closer every forty seconds, and Sorenson asked, 'What do you know about Peter King?'
Delfuenso said, 'Where did you hear that name?'
'Reacher heard Alan King say it.'
Delfuenso glanced at Reacher in the mirror and nodded.
'Yes,' she said. 'I remember that. And then he made the slip about a million and a half people living where he lived. Right after claiming he was based in Nebraska. Right after claiming he'd been driving three hours despite a full tank and bottles of cold water.'
Sorenson said, 'We know Peter King moved from Denver to Kansas City, seven months ago.'
'You know more than you should.'
'Was his move a coincidence?'
'There are no coincidences. Not in law enforcement. You know that.'
'Is he a cop or an agent?'
'Why would he be?'
'I'm just trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. That's all. He served his country.'
'Then sadly no, Peter King is not a cop or an agent.'
'Is he connected to Wadiah?'
'We think so.'
'How closely connected?'
'We think he might be their leader.'
'I see.'
'Because in terms of their organizational chart there's only a couple of roles we can't put a name to, and there's only a couple of names we can't assign a role to. One of those roles is leader, and one of those names is Peter King. So to connect the two seems like a fairly logical assumption.'
'With a brother he doesn't talk to in the ranks?'
'He doesn't talk to anyone in the ranks. Not if he's the leader. That's not how these cells operate. The leader talks to his trusted lieutenants only, two or three of them at the most. Then there's a chain of command, rigorously compartmentalized, for security.'
'Even so, it's still weird.'
Delfuenso nodded. 'McQueen got to know Alan King pretty well. There's some kind of strange sibling dynamic going on there. Alan is the kid brother. Or was, I should say now. Very needy guy. Always craving his big brother's approval. Obsessed by the guy. Which is why he mentioned him last night, I guess. There was no other reason to. Apparently there was some unspoken issue, stretching back more than twenty years. Peter was holding Alan accountable for something. Some kind of lapse or betrayal or disgrace. In return Alan was always trying to prove himself. And McQueen got the impression Peter wanted Alan to prove himself. Like a redemption thing. Tough love, but love none the less. You know how it is with family. Blood is thicker than water, and all that kind of shit. From what we know about him, Peter is going to be mighty pissed that Alan is dead.'
'Which must be why McQueen is in trouble. Tonight of all nights.'
Delfuenso nodded again.
'Exactly,' she said. 'Let's hope he's managing to convince him it was Reacher who did it, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.'
The plain west-east Interstate that had run so serenely all the way through the state of Kansas splintered into a whole mess of beltways and expressways about ten miles short of the line. Delfuenso turned south, still on the Kansas side, and then she headed east again on a federal road with a new number, and they entered Missouri in the overtaking lane at ninety miles an hour, following a sign to a place called Lees Summit. But they turned north well before they got there, towards a new place called Raytown, but they never got there, either. They turned off before it slid into view, heading now north and west, into multiple acres of suburban sprawl backed by what Reacher took to be a large park. By day it might have been pretty. By night it was just a big black hole. By that point Delfuenso was driving slow and cautious, nosing the silent car through uncertain turns, pausing hesitantly, moving briskly through patches of light, slowing again in patches of darkness, as if unsure of her destination, or scared of it.
Reacher asked her, 'Have you been here before?'
She said, 'None of us has, except McQueen. Too soon for that. This phase of an operation is all about standing back and seeing what develops. But I'm copied on the file. I know the address. I've seen the house on Google Maps. So I know the general situation.'
The general situation was going to be American suburbia, plain and simple. That was clear. There were municipal sidewalks left and right, mossy concrete, heaved up here and there by tree roots, studded less often by city fireplugs. And Reacher could see houses, regularly spaced in lots, most of them modest, some of them small, a few of them large, all of them dark and fast asleep. Most of them had white siding. Some were painted a colour. Most of them were one-storey, much wider than they were high. Some had eyebrow windows at the eaves, for upstairs bonus rooms. All had mailboxes and foundation plantings, and lawns, and driveways. Most had cars parked, at least one or two, or sometimes three. Some had children's bikes outside, dumped and dewy, and soccer goals, or hockey goals, or basketball hoops. Some had flagpoles, with Old Glories hanging limp and grey in the still night air.
'Not what I expected,' Reacher said.
'I told you,' Delfuenso said. 'A decent, crowded neighbourhood.'
'Syrians don't stand out here?'
'The pale ones say they're Italians. The dark ones have been telling people they're Indians. From the subcontinent. You know, Delhi and Mumbai and places like that. Most people can't tell the difference. They say they work tech jobs in the city.' Then she slowed, and came to a stop on the kerb. She said, 'OK, I think we're about two blocks away. How do you want to do this?'
Reacher had stormed houses before. More than once, less than twenty times, probably. But usually with a full company of MPs, divided into squads, some of them in back, some of them out front, some of them held in reserve in armoured trucks with heavy firepower, all of them equipped with working radios. And all of them usually in places cordoned off and cleared of non-combatants. And usually with a bunch of medics standing by. He felt under-equipped, and vulnerable.
He said, 'We could set fire to the place. That usually works pretty good. They all come running out sooner or later. Except that McQueen could be tied up or locked in or otherwise incapacitated. So we'd better put one of us in the cellar door, if there is one, and one of us through the front, and one of us through the back. How are your marksmanship skills?'
'Pretty good,' Delfuenso said.
'Not bad,' Sorenson said.
'OK, you'll have your guns up and out in front of you. Shoot anything that moves. Except if it's me or McQueen. Use head shots for certainty. Aim at the centre of the face. Save rounds. No double taps. We'll have the advantage for about four seconds. We can't let it turn into a siege.'
Delfuenso said, 'You don't want to try a decoy approach? I could go to the door and pretend to be lost or something.'
'No,' Reacher said. 'Because then after they shoot you in the head Sorenson and I will have to do all the work on our own.'