No Plan B

That afternoon there was a single prisoner in the fourth category. He was housed all alone in Unit S1. The segregation unit that was still selectively operational. So that was where Riverdale started his rounds. He had arrangements to make. Personnel to organize. Processing. Packaging. Distribution. There was a whole complex operation to keep on the rails.

That was assuming everything went according to plan on Friday. If not the place would be mothballed. Indefinitely. And a lot of Minerva staff would find themselves on their way to other prisons. Where they would wind up on the other side of the bars.

—

Jack Reacher left Gerrardsville, Colorado, on foot, the same way he had arrived two days earlier.

As he walked Reacher thought about the best way to get to his destination. Winson, Mississippi. He had never heard of the place before he saw it printed on Angela St. Vrain’s driver’s license. He had been planning on a detour to Gerrardsville’s library to learn more about it but while they were still on the bench in Wiles Park Detective Harewood had taken out his phone. Pulled up a map. Of sorts. An indistinct multicolored tangle of roads and other features on a small, scratched screen. But enough to show Reacher the general location of the town. It was on the very edge of the state, no more than a dot, nestled into a C-shaped curve on the east bank of the Mississippi River.

Finding his way to Winson would not be a problem. Reacher was more worried about how long the journey would take. He had two dead bodies on his mind. At least one killer was on the loose. With at least one accomplice. On a trail that was getting colder by the minute. He had plenty of energy. He had cash in his pocket. But not much time.

The mountains were to his right, sawing away at the clear blue sky. The sun was turning pink and starting to dip down toward their highest peaks. It was still warm but Reacher’s shadow was growing longer, dancing and skipping across the rough, bleached blacktop at his side. The air was still. It was quiet. No cars had gone by since he had crossed the town boundary. No vans. No trucks. Normally Reacher would have enjoyed the solitude. But not today. It only added to his growing impatience.

Reacher picked up his pace and after thirty seconds he heard a sound behind him. A truck’s motor. A large diesel, rattling and clattering like a freight train. He looked around and saw a pickup barreling toward him. It was red. It had black glass and lots of chrome. Reacher had seen it before. He stopped walking, stepped to the edge of the road, and let it catch up to him.

The truck braked abruptly to a halt, rocked on its springs for a moment, then the passenger window buzzed down. Hannah Hampton was in the driver’s seat. Her right hand was on the steering wheel. She smiled and looked at Reacher and said, “Open the door.”

Reacher worked the handle and swung the door as far as its hinges allowed it to go.

The smile disappeared from Hannah’s face. She brought her left hand up from the gap between her thigh and the driver’s door. She was holding a gun. A short, squat, black pistol. It was an inch wide with a three-inch barrel. Less than six inches, total length. A SIG P365, Reacher thought. He had never fired one. Never even handled one. The whole subcompact thing had gotten popular after his time in the army was over, fueled by the concealed-carry craze. But he had read about that particular model. He knew it was no joke.

Hannah pointed the gun at the center of Reacher’s chest and said, “Stay there. Stand still.”

—

A repeat customer. The Holy Grail of any business. Not someone to be questioned or doubted or turned away.

Lev Emerson was counting on the guys he was after to be running their organization like a business. Albeit not a regular one. He didn’t know its name. It didn’t advertise. It didn’t have a logo, as far as he was aware. No website. No bank details for online payments. No app. No social media presence. Just a front man. And a ship. The last, floating resort of the desperate. The place people had to go when they couldn’t get what they needed anywhere else.

Emerson had paid the front man in cash the last time he had gotten involved. The only time. To get his son, Kyle, onto the ship. Kyle had certainly been desperate. But he hadn’t got what he needed. He got something that killed him, instead.

Emerson had paid a lot of cash, the last time. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. Any kind of further involvement with these guys would be a mistake. But if the front man took the bait, he would be the one making the error. That was for damn sure. Him. The people he worked for. And, most important, the people who supplied them. The ultimate source of the poison that had killed Kyle. Because Emerson didn’t want to just cut off a limb. He wanted to slay the whole beast. To incinerate every cell in its body.

If the front man took the bait.