No Plan B

Reacher slid the photo and the documents back into the envelope. He put the envelope back into the purse and loaded up Angela’s other possessions. He zipped the purse closed and dropped it into the trash bag. Then he unwound the plastic strips from his hands and jammed them into his pocket. He was thinking about the contents of the envelope. The tragic tale of a wrongly convicted man. He wondered what it had to do with Angela. Which made him think of another tragic tale. One that was just beginning. For the little girl in the wallet photo. Angela’s daughter. Who would now have to grow up without a mother.

Chapter 6

A car nosed into the entrance to the alley. A black sedan. It was shiny. Sleek. A BMW. Reacher could tell from the blue and white emblem on its hood. It was supposed to represent sky and clouds. Reacher had read about it somewhere. That it harked back to the company’s roots as an aero engine manufacturer. He had no idea which model it was, though. He was no kind of a car guy.

The BMW crept forward. The driver was also wearing a gray hoodie. He slowed to a stop, lowered his window, and said, “Hands where I can see them. Then step away.”

Reacher didn’t move.

The driver shifted into Neutral and revved the engine. He floored the gas pedal twice, three times, then waited for the angry sound to subside. “I said, step away.”

Reacher stayed still.

The car was ten feet from Reacher and eight feet from the wall. The unconscious guy was on the ground, six inches from Reacher’s heels. Presumably he was the driver’s buddy. Which would be why the driver wanted Reacher to move. To avoid harming both of them.

Reacher stayed still.

The car crept forward. The driver pulled on the wheel. He kept going, inching across until the gap between Reacher and the front fender was down to four feet. Then he straightened up and hit the gas. The car surged ahead. The driver held the wheel with his right hand. He worked the door handle with his left. He pushed the door all the way open and kept it there like he was a knight on horseback trying to bludgeon his opponent with his shield. Trying to knock him down. Or back him away from his safe position, at least.

Reacher didn’t back away. Instead he took a step forward. Toward the car. He raised his knee and drove the ball of his foot into the door. He put all his strength into the kick. All his weight. He connected with the center of the panel. The metal skin warped and shrieked and deformed. The door slammed shut. The car fizzed past Reacher then swerved away to the right. The driver fought the wheel. He braked, hard, but he was a moment too late. The front right corner of the car slammed into a dumpster on the other side of the alley. Its headlight shattered. The driver slammed into Reverse and hit the gas again. He tugged on the wheel. The car slewed around then straightened. Its back left corner was lined up with Reacher’s legs. The guy on the ground would be fine. He would be safely beneath the car’s rear overhang. But Reacher wouldn’t escape. Not at that angle. He’d be crushed against the wall.

Reacher dived toward the mouth of the alley, rolled over once, and scrambled back to his feet. The car hit the wall. More glass broke. Shards showered down over the unconscious guy’s chest and abdomen. But they weren’t sharp enough to cut through his clothes. And the impact wasn’t sufficient to immobilize the car.

The driver had stayed in his seat throughout. That was understandable. Avoiding a fist fight was a smart move. But he’d made no attempt to shoot. Reacher figured he must want whatever happened to look like an accident. That would be a little suspicious, given how close they were to the place where the bus had crushed Angela St. Vrain. But a lot less suspicious than leaving a body with a fatal gunshot wound.

Reacher was under no such constraint. He drew the gun he’d taken from the guy on the ground and stepped around the car. He was going for a shot through the passenger window. The driver saw what was happening and lurched forward, straight down the center of the alley. Reacher fired three shots at the rear window, instead. The first turned the glass into a dense mesh of opaque crystals. The second knocked the whole mass onto the car’s backseat. The third hit something inside. Reacher was sure about that. But he couldn’t tell if it was the driver. Or the head restraint. Or some other random component.