Let's see if they can hit a major league fastball.
Strike three, pal.
Reacher turned and jogged the four hundred feet back to the domed hatch. He heaved the lid open and felt with his feet for the ladder.
SEVENTY-SIX
IF DELFUENSO HAD been correct about no more than two dozen opponents, then there were nine of them left, with maybe one of those nine wounded. The guy in the corridor, one of the five searchers. He had gone down pretty heavily. More than just gravity. Out of the fight, almost certainly. Which left eight still vertical. Better than a poke in the eye. A decent rate of attrition. So far. Reacher opened the blue-spot door and peered out into the corridor.
No one there.
He went room to room, one at a time, from the back of the building to the front, and he saw the same things everywhere: desks and shelves and paper. No people. It took him the best part of ten minutes to clear the second chamber. He entered the first through the garage. He started again, room to room, moving in the opposite direction, front to back.
Desks, shelves, paper.
No people.
Not in the first room, not in the second, not in the third or the fourth or the fifth. He guessed they must all be clustered in the far back corner. Safety in numbers. A defensible position. Unless they were all playing an elaborate game of cat and mouse, moving from chamber to chamber around him. Which was unlikely. But possible.
The third room on the left had been done up like a kitchen. A stove, a refrigerator, a sink. Drawers full of knives and forks and spoons. Food storage. The room opposite was a dining hall. Trestle tables and benches. Beyond that were bedrooms. Like dormitories. Bunk beds, eight to a room. Three rooms in total. Plus two more, each with just one bed. Privacy, but no luxury. The beds were plain iron cots. Rough sheets, coarse blankets. After that came washrooms and toilets. After that came yet more offices. Desks and shelves and paper.
So Delfuenso had been more or less exactly right. There were accommodations for a total of twenty-six people, max. The wrong side of two dozen, but not by much. One of them would be McQueen, presumably.
Therefore there were nine hostiles still vertical, somewhere.
Then it was eight, because the next room had a guy working feverishly at a desk. Reacher shot him point blank and instantly in the chest, with the Glock, and then it was seven, because the sound of the gunshot stirred things up and he caught another guy running for safety in the corridor, and shot him in the back.
Then everything went quiet again. No sound anywhere, even accounting for the fact Reacher was a little deaf after firing so often in an enclosed space. The next room was empty. As was the next. Which was the halfway point in the chamber. Twenty more rooms to go. Ten on each side. Three more blue spots, all on the right. All leading through to the middle chamber. Built like rooms, used like lobbies. Therefore there were still seventeen viable targets ahead. Slow progress. The Quantico team was probably in Illinois airspace by then. Maybe talking to St Louis air traffic control, getting permission to proceed, setting a course for the approach to Whiteman.
The next room on the left was empty.
Desks, shelves, paper.
No people.
The next room on the right had Don McQueen in it.
McQueen was tied to a chair. He had a black eye and was bleeding from a cut on the cheek. He was dressed in coarse black denim. Like prison garb. No belt. No GPS chip.
There was a man behind the chair.
The man behind the chair had a gun to McQueen's head.
The man behind the chair was Alan King.
Living and breathing.
Alive again.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
EXCEPT THE MAN behind the chair was not Alan King. He was a slightly different version of the exact same guy. Marginally older, a little harder, maybe half an inch taller, maybe a pound or two lighter. But otherwise identical.
'Peter King,' Reacher said.
'Stay where you are,' King said. 'Or I'll shoot your man.'
Reacher said, 'He's not mine.'
Peter King's gun was a Beretta M9. Army issue. Better than the Glock, in Reacher's private opinion. Its muzzle was tight in the hollow behind McQueen's right ear. A dangerous place for it to be. Therefore, job one: make the Beretta move.
Peter King said, 'I need you to place your weapons on the floor.'
'I guess you do,' Reacher said. 'But I'm not going to.'
'I'll shoot your man.'
'He's not mine. I already told you that.'
'Makes no difference to me. I'll shoot him anyway.'
Reacher raised the Glock.
'Go right ahead,' he said. 'Then I'll shoot you. You pull your trigger, I'll pull mine. There's only one definite here. Which is that I'm going to walk out of this room, and you're not. The only question is whether McQueen is going to come out with me, or stay in with you. You understand that, right? What were you, a forward observer?'
King nodded.
Reacher said, 'Then you've hung out with real soldiers long enough to have some basic grasp of short-term tactics.'
'You're not going to give this guy up. You've gone to a lot of trouble to find him.'
'I'd prefer to take him with me, sure. But it's not a deal-breaker.'
'Who are you?'
'Just a guy, hitching rides.'
'McQueen claims you killed my brother.'
Job one: make the Beretta move.
'The woman killed your brother,' Reacher said. 'The cocktail waitress. Even then it wasn't a fair fight. Your brother was a useless tub of lard.'
King said nothing.
Reacher said, 'I bet he burned real well. All that fat? I bet he went up like a lamb chop on a barbecue.'
King said nothing.
Reacher said, 'You would too, probably. You're not much thinner. Is it a genetic thing? Was your momma fat as well as ugly?'
No reaction.
None at all.
'What do you care about your brother anyway?' Reacher asked. 'Story is you weren't even talking to him. Which I guess I can understand. He must have been a real disappointment. What did he do? Wet the bed all the time? Or did he interfere with the family dog?'
King didn't answer.
Reacher asked, 'What kind of a dog was it? Did it yelp?'
The Beretta didn't move.
Stalemate.
'Tell me,' Reacher said. 'I'd like to understand. I'd like to know what came between you. I'd like to know what made you cut him off for twenty long years. Because I had a brother once. He's dead now, unfortunately. We were both busy all the time. But we talked when we could. We got along pretty well. We had fun. We were there for each other, when we needed to be. I never made him ashamed, and he never made me ashamed.'
Silence in the room. One concrete wall, three plywood walls, a weird, dull acoustic.
Then King said, 'It was more than twenty years.'
'What was?'
'Alan was a coward.'
'How so?'
'He ratted someone out.'
'You?'
'His best friend.'
'Doing what? Knocking over a package store?'
'Doesn't matter what they were doing,' King said. 'Alan walked, and his best friend didn't.'
'And you would never do that, right?'
'No, I wouldn't.'
'Because you're a man.'
'You got that right,' King said.
'So face me like a man,' Reacher said. 'Take your gun out of McQueen's ear and count to three and go for it.'
'What, like a duel?'
'Call it whatever you want. But stop using an innocent man for a shield. That's a pussy's trick.'
'He's not an innocent man. He's a federal agent.'
'He's tied to a chair. You can get back to him afterwards.'
'You think you're going to lose?'
'There are two possible outcomes here. Both should be considered.'
No answer.
'Pussy,' Reacher said.
'We count to three, right?'
'If you can.'
'Then we fire?'
'One of us does.'