No Plan B

Emerson’s wife had been crazier than he’d expected when he got home. She had screamed at him the moment he walked through the door. She had wailed and pounded on his chest. She had flung things. She had blamed him for what had happened to Kyle. For the fact that the treatment had failed. Which didn’t seem fair to Emerson. Not fair at all. He hadn’t poured the booze down Kyle’s throat. He hadn’t rolled his joints or filled his syringes with who knew what. All he had done was try to get the kid better. At huge expense. And not a little personal risk.

It had taken all Emerson’s strength to stay patient while his wife raged. To try to understand what was going on. And to wait for her Xanax to finally kick in.

—

Emerson sat at the head of the battered old table and took a moment to compose himself. Then he said, “Guys, thank you for being here. First up, you should know that this is not business as usual. It’s not professional. It’s personal. To me. So if anyone wants to sit this one out, you can leave. No hard feelings. No repercussions. I guarantee.”

No one moved.

“Excellent.” Emerson nodded his head. “So here’s the plan, such as it is. We have two known points of contact with these assholes. First, we know who their front man is. Graeber and I will pay him a visit. See if we can’t loosen his tongue. Persuade him to share more details of their operation. Second, there’s their ship, twelve miles and an inch off the Jersey coast. It’s not going anywhere. It can’t. Their top guys will probably stay on board. They’ll think they’re safe there, and it’s where they keep all their equipment and supplies. Which suits us fine, for now. As long as none of them sneaks away. So the rest of you, I want you to head over there. A friend is providing a plane. Take a basic dry kit. There’s no need for finesse with this job. Then start by setting up surveillance from the shore. There’s only one little boat that goes back and forth. If anyone tries to leave, intercept them. If they’re customers, let them go. Maybe shake them up a little first. Make sure they know to never come back. If they’re anything other than customers, put them on ice. And there’s no need to be gentle. Just make sure they’re still alive when I get there.”

—

Wiles Park was badly named, Reacher thought. It should have been called Wiles Square. Because that’s what it was. A square. It was a nice one. An effort had been made to turn it into a place that people would want to visit. That was clear. It was surrounded by cute stores and cafés and restaurants with fancy outdoor seating. There was a fountain in the middle, probably modeled on something from a French chateau, running at a quarter capacity, probably due to a problem with the water supply. There were all kinds of brightly colored flowers planted between tiny hedges that were cut into intricate geometric shapes. And there were benches. They were made of polished concrete and set out in a wide circle, like the numbers on a clock face. There were twelve of them. But only one was near a tree, as specified by the note in Roth’s mailbox.

Reacher picked up a coffee in a to-go cup from the least pretentious-looking café on the perimeter and strolled across to the bench by the tree. He got there at ten to one. He sat down, right in the middle, and waited.

—

At five to one a guy stepped out from behind the fountain. He was broad, about six-two, and he was wearing jeans and a white Rolling Stones T-shirt. His hair was buzzed short and he had on a pair of black, sporty sunglasses. He halved the distance to Reacher’s bench, paused, scowled, then came right up close.

The guy said, “Move.”

Reacher held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers. “Like this?”

The guy’s frown deepened. “Get off the bench, jackass.”

“Why? Is it yours?”

“I need it. Now.”

“There are eleven other benches. Use one of those.”

“I need this one. I won’t tell you again. Move.”

Reacher stayed still. He said nothing.

The guy leaned in closer. “Did you not hear me?”

“I heard you just fine. You said you weren’t going to ask me to move again. I figured you changed your mind. If you have one.”

“You better watch your words. You’re starting to make me mad.”

“And if I don’t? What are you going to do about it?”

The guy turned away. His hands bunched into fists, then relaxed again. He took a deep breath. Then he turned back to face Reacher. “Look. I’m meeting someone here, at this particular bench. In about a minute’s time. It’s very important. So I’d appreciate it if you would just move to another one.”

Reacher said, “You’re meeting Sam Roth.”

The guy’s scowl returned. “How did you know?”

“Because you’re not meeting Roth. Not anymore. You’re meeting me.”

“The hell? What’s going on here?”

“Change of negotiating stance.” Reacher patted the smooth concrete by his side. “Sit down. Let’s talk. See if we can find a solution everyone can live with.”

“You got the printout?”

“It’s nearby. I can get it. If we can agree on terms.”