The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(8)
The west-end guy peeled away from his window and started walking. Heading east. Fifteen feet behind Rutherford. Moving with loose, rangy ease. He was clearly having to shorten his stride to avoid overtaking his mark. Ahead of them a woman had stopped at the edge of the sidewalk to tend to a child in a stroller. Beyond her a couple stood, talking. They were dressed for the gym. Just regular folks. Not part of the pattern. Unaware of what was happening.
The envelope was down to a hundred feet.
The east-end guy touched his earpiece. A moment later a car appeared in the mouth of the alley. It had rolled forward from somewhere deep in the shadows. An anonymous sedan. A Toyota. Dark blue. Reacher saw it move rather than heard it. A hybrid in fully electric mode, he thought. A smart choice of vehicle. Too bad the 110th hadn’t had them back in the day.
The envelope was down to eighty feet. Reacher stepped on to the sidewalk.
Rutherford approached the woman with the stroller. She stood up as he drew level. Her kid threw his teddy bear on to the ground. Rutherford leaned down and retrieved it. Maybe Rutherford wasn’t as clueless as he appeared. It was a perfect manoeuvre to check the sidewalk behind him. Maybe Rutherford knew he was being followed, after all. Then Reacher’s optimism evaporated. Rutherford’s eyes were only on the kid. He held out the toy. The woman snatched it away, glaring furiously. Rutherford continued walking.
The envelope was down to sixty feet. Reacher changed course. Started heading east. Thirty feet behind the western guy.
The couple in gym clothes moved away from the wall. Their body language had hardened. Their conversation must have turned sour. The man strode forward, leading with his shoulder. He slammed into Rutherford, spilling his coffee. His partner caught up. She grabbed his arm and pulled him away, shaking her head and scowling.
‘Hey!’ Rutherford said. He didn’t get a response.
Turn around, Reacher thought. Ignore the gym rats. Notice the guy who’s pursuing you.
Rutherford didn’t turn around. He carried on walking.
The envelope was down to forty feet. Another twenty feet between Reacher and the western guy.
It was obvious what was going to happen next. Reacher could see it as clearly as if a skywriter had spelled it out with white smoke. The car would roll a little further forward so that its rear door was level with the sidewalk. The eastern guy would open it. The western guy would push Rutherford inside and jump in himself. The woman would get in on the other side. The eastern guy would take the passenger seat. And they’d drive away. Less than five seconds for the whole operation, if they did it right. And it would be silent. No muss, no fuss. No one would see a thing.
The envelope was twenty feet. Ten feet between Reacher and the western guy. Decision time.
It was four against one, now. Maybe five or six against one if they had a mobile backup. Not the kind of odds to bother Reacher. But Reacher was not their target.
The car moved up, right on cue. Rutherford stopped, thinking nothing of it. Just an impatient driver taking a short cut through the alley. He took a sip of coffee, waiting for the car to pull away. It stayed put. The eastern guy opened the back door and held it. The other quickened his pace. He stretched out. His left hand cupped the top of Rutherford’s head. His right grabbed Rutherford’s elbow. He started to steer him towards the back seat. But he was too slow. All he wound up pushing was empty air.
The envelope was zero feet. Reacher was level with the western guy, on his left-hand side. He took hold of Rutherford’s collar. Stuck his right arm across the western guy’s chest like a steel barrier. Pivoted clockwise on his right foot. Pushed Rutherford back and to the side. And held him there, out of anyone else’s range.
‘Let’s keep things civil,’ Reacher said. ‘Show me some ID, or get in the car and drive away.’
‘Let him go,’ the western guy said.
‘If you have a legitimate reason to detain him, you’ll have some kind of official ID. If you do, show it to me. If you don’t, drive away. This is your last chance.’
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Given the situation, you should stick to the relevant issues.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I gave you two options. Asking irrelevant questions was not one of them.’
‘Let him go.’ The guy went to step around Reacher, his arm stretched out, trying to grab Rutherford. Reacher hit him in the temple and he bounced off the wall and dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Reacher turned to the other guy. ‘You’ve had your final chance. Pick up your trash and leave. Or don’t, and get added to the pile. Make your choice. Either way’s fine with me.’
Reacher caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The Toyota’s passenger window was rolling down. The driver was lifting her arm. She was looking directly at him. Raising a gun? Reacher didn’t wait to find out. He let go of Rutherford and spun the eastern guy around so that he was facing the car. Grabbed his collar and waistband. And launched him headfirst through the open window, jamming him in tight, his arms pinned and his legs kicking helplessly.
Reacher stepped back to avoid the flailing feet and checked that Rutherford was still there, frozen to the spot. Then he sensed rather than heard a heavy object racing towards them. He grabbed Rutherford and shoved him back and a moment later a black Chevy Suburban lurched on to the sidewalk, stopping right where Reacher had been standing. The driver’s door opened and a man jumped out. He was shorter than the others, and wirier. Another man jumped down from the passenger side and joined him. They stood side by side for a moment, both in a version of some strange martial arts stance, then relaxed. They stepped forward. They were comfortable together. They had clearly done this kind of thing before.