Blue Moon

They checked the far back corner again. Still silence. They took another step. To where they could see in the trunk. They glanced in, nervous. What they saw was all different. The man and the woman had changed positions. Originally he had gotten in at the back, and she had curled up in the space he left in front of him. Now he was in front, and she was behind him. Shielded by him. Originally he had gotten in with his head on the left, and now his head was on the right. Which meant he was lying on his left shoulder. Which meant his right arm was free to move. And he was moving it. Real fast. In his hand was a small steel automatic. It came to rest aimed at the driver’s head.

—

Reacher shot the driver through the forehead, and re-aimed right and shot the passenger through the left eye. With the Ukrainian H&K from his boot. From when he rebalanced the load in his pockets, before they walked out of the Shevicks’ development. Two on the left, two on the right, and one in his sock. Always a good idea.

He raised up an inch and peered out cautiously. He saw a long low corrugated shed, full of the smell of raw softwood, but empty of people. No one there at all. Presumably an HQ of some kind. Maybe the lumber yard they had seen before. Once while driving, once on foot. A cover operation. The dull metal looked the same. Like the electrical warehouse and the plumbing depot.

He sat up and took a better look. Still no people. Still no one there. He rolled out and got to his feet. He helped Abby out after him. She looked at the dead guys sprawled on the floor. Not pretty. One had one eye, and the other had three.

She looked around the empty shed.

“Where are we?” she said.

But he didn’t get a chance to tell her what he figured, because right then two new things happened. A bunch of guys ran in from somewhere and swarmed toward the far back corner of the shed, where there was some kind of an archway, that seemed to lead through to other rooms beyond. And simultaneously a bunch of guys ran out in the other direction, through the archway from the other rooms, to the main floor of the shed. They were wild looking characters. Guns out, white in the face, all hopped up and trembling from some kind of mad adrenaline. The two groups collided. There was crazy shouting and there were yelled questions and blurted incoherent answers, all in a foreign language Reacher assumed was Albanian. Then one guy pushed another guy in the chest, and the other guy pushed back, and someone fired his gun, and the first guy went down, and someone else touched the muzzle of his gun to the shooter’s temple and pulled the trigger, point blank, like a punishment, like an execution, and the shooter’s head blew up, whereupon the whole situation looked like it was turning into chaos fast, except someone shouted loud and pointed urgently, all the way down the long diagonal distance, and everyone else shut up and turned to look.

A small slender woman and a big ugly man.

Once Reacher had read a paperback book he found on a bus, about how people like to second guess themselves for hours or days, whereas really they know the truth in the blink of an eye. He liked the book because it agreed with him. He had learned to trust his first flash of instinct. Therefore he knew at that point all bets were off. No questions would be asked. We want to know who you are. Not anymore. Now they were in the grip of some kind of crazy turmoil and bloodlust. There would be no more bonus points for still able to talk. That offer was way past its best-by date.

So even before the pointing guy’s shout died to an echo Reacher fired three rounds into the mass of distant figures. Three down for sure. Couldn’t miss. The rest scattered like roaches. Reacher ducked back and caught Abby by the elbow and pulled her behind the car. Behind the rear flank. He glanced sideways, out the roll-up door. He recognized the gate, and the scooped-out curb, and the street. He knew where he was.

The gate was open.

He whispered, “Scoot along and get in the passenger door. Then scoot over and drive us out of here. It’s a straight shot. Put your foot down and don’t even look. Keep crouched down in your seat.”

Abby said, “What time of day is it?”

“This doesn’t count. People pay money for this kind of thing.”

“Where they get spattered with paint, not bullets.”

“So this is more authentic. They would pay more.”

Abby crouched her way along the flank of the car, and reached up to the handle from below, and slipped her fingers in the bottom seam, and eased the door open, just wide enough to get in, twisting, slithering low, her belly pressed to the seat.

“The key’s not in,” she whispered.

One of the distant figures fired a single round. It passed a foot over the trunk lid, two feet over Reacher’s head. The crack of the shot slurred to a boom, as the metal roof vibrated like a giant drum skin.

Abby whispered, “They took the key with them. Think about it. They must have opened the trunk remotely.”