In Too Deep (Jack Reacher #29)

Chapter 3

Reacher was again woken by a sound. A door opening, this time. His eyes were closed but he could sense light. Fairly dim. Then much brighter. He heard footsteps approaching. One set. They came close, then stopped. Reacher opened his eyes, slowly, against the glare. The dizziness had receded a little but everything looked pale and washed-out, like a watercolor made by a beginner who didn’t throw enough paint into the mix. A man was standing by Reacher’s side. He was wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt. He was slim, like a runner, and maybe six feet four. His fists were clenched and Reacher thought he looked angry, maybe even scared, but was trying to hide it.

The man said, “I’m Darren Fletcher. Who are you?”

Reacher ignored him. If they’d searched him, Fletcher would already know his name. And if Fletcher hadn’t searched him, he wasn’t worth wasting breath on. Reacher concentrated on his surroundings instead. He saw that the restraints on his wrists and ankles were handcuffs, and that he was secured to a rectangular steel table. The floor was covered with white tiles and the walls were lined with steel shelves. The place was some kind of food storage or preparation area, Reacher figured. Then he turned back to Fletcher because the thought of food was making him feel sick.

“This silent act? It isn’t helping you,” Fletcher said. “You need to understand how serious this situation is. A man is dead. He was my friend. So you need to tell me who you are. You need to explain why you were in his car. And what made him go crazy and smash into a tree.”

Reacher couldn’t remember anything about a car or a crash or a dead man but he figured that wouldn’t make for a strong negotiating position, so he said, “Release these cuffs. Then I’ll tell you.”

Fletcher shook his head. “Convince me you had nothing to do with my friend’s death. Then I’ll unlock the cuffs.”

Reacher said nothing.

“Not smart. I can make you tell me, if you don’t start talking.”

Reacher said, “Can you? Because I can only see one of you.”

“You don’t want to test me. Believe me. So be sensible. Convince me.”

“Then you’ll release me?”

Fletcher nodded.

“You have the key?”

“Of course.”

“Show it to me.”

“No.” Fletcher paused for a moment. “Why?”

“To demonstrate good faith. Prove you can keep your word.”

Fletcher sighed and pulled a small silver key out of his pocket. “Satisfied?”

“One more thing. Release my left hand.”

“Talk first.”

“Here’s the problem. My left wrist is broken. I can feel it swelling. It’s getting constricted by the cuff. That can be serious. The damage could be done by the time we’ve talked. I could lose my hand.”

Fletcher didn’t respond, but he didn’t put the key away.

“Come on. Release one broken limb. What am I going to do with it? My three good ones will still be secure and you have the only key. Release it, and I’ll talk.”

Fletcher hesitated for another moment. A broken wrist had been mentioned at the scene of the accident. He remembered that. But he was a cautious man. He switched the key to his left hand, took the Glock that Vidic had given him from his waistband and stepped forward, gun raised, finger on the trigger.

Fletcher said, “Try anything and I’ll shoot you with your own gun.”

Reacher had no idea why Fletcher thought the gun was his but he had no time to waste on questions. So he just said, “I get the picture.”

Fletcher kept the gun lined up on Reacher’s face. He leaned down. Inserted the key into the cuff around Reacher’s left wrist. Worked the lock. The cuff sprang open. It swung down, empty, and clanged against the table leg. Fletcher straightened up. The gun was still in his right hand. The key was still in his left. Reacher struggled to focus on either. The dizziness was building again and the images were threatening to split into two. Reacher willed his vision to stay clear then whipped up his hand and caught the Glock by its barrel. He forced it up and to the side. Then he jammed it back. The move was sharp and vicious and Reacher kept it going until the gun was horizontal and the muzzle was pointing at Fletcher’s chest. Fletcher’s finger was trapped by the trigger guard. It was bent backward, all the way to its limit. Reacher pushed harder. Fletcher’s knuckle joint gave way. Cartilage tore. Tendons ripped. Fletcher screamed and let go of the grip. Reacher let the gun fall and dragged his hand across Fletcher’s body. He caught Fletcher’s left wrist. Pulled until Fletcher’s hand was above his chest, then started to squeeze. Hard. Fletcher screamed again. Reacher increased the pressure. He could feel bones and ligaments begin to twist and crack. Fletcher screamed louder. And dropped the key.

The key hit Reacher’s chest and bounced straight back up. It was spinning and sparkling and arcing away to the side. Reacher couldn’t follow its flight. His vision was too blurred. He pictured it skittling off the shiny surface of the table and rattling down onto the floor tiles. In which case it might as well land in Australia for all the good it would do him. But then he felt something. It was like a butterfly landing on his right bicep. He still couldn’t see what it was, but Fletcher stretched for it with his damaged hand. Reacher twitched his arm and felt something hard and cold slide down against his side. Fletcher tried to pull away. He scrabbled at the back of his waistband. A second gun was tucked in there. A Sig Sauer. He got it free, but he couldn’t hold on to it. His broken finger wouldn’t bend. Reacher heard the gun rattle onto the floor. He let go of Fletcher’s hand and grabbed his neck instead. He found his Adam’s apple. Shifted his thumb down and to the side. Did the same with his middle finger. Then jammed both into the flesh of Fletcher’s neck and pinched them together, crushing his carotid arteries. Fletcher howled and grabbed Reacher’s wrist with his good hand. He pulled and heaved and scratched and gouged with his nails, but Reacher just increased the pressure. He held it for five seconds. Six. Fletcher kept on struggling. Seven seconds passed and Fletcher’s energy started to fade. Eight seconds, and that was all Fletcher could take. His brain was out of oxygen. He slumped forward. Reacher pulled his arm aside and Fletcher collapsed face-first onto Reacher’s chest.

Reacher gave himself a moment for his heart rate to subside, hoping the hammering in his head would die down with it, then he slammed his fist into Fletcher’s temple and let his unconscious body slide onto the floor. He retrieved the key from where it was wedged against his side. Eased himself into a semi-sitting position. Paused to fight a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness, then got to work on the cuff on his right wrist. He moved slowly to avoid jarring the damaged bones. He released his right ankle. His left. Then he swung his legs around to the side and stood uncertainly on the floor.

Reacher was wearing his only pair of shoes. He had bought them years earlier, in England. They were quality items. Expensive. Solid and sturdy right out of the box, and the leather had only gotten harder with time and weather and uncompromising use. Now the toe caps were like steel. Reacher turned and kicked Fletcher in the head. Partly to make sure Fletcher wouldn’t regain consciousness any time soon. And partly because he was pissed about his wrist. And being dragged to this place against his will. And the whole business with the handcuffs.

Reacher searched Fletcher’s pockets using just his left hand. He came across a set of keys, which he took in case they would aid his escape. And to cause Fletcher extra inconvenience down the line. Next he found a wallet, which he also took. He figured he would check it for ID or credit cards later, when he could see better. Then he retrieved the two fallen guns, crept to the doorway, and peered out. It led to a kitchen. It was large and was kitted out with all kinds of appliances and machines Reacher didn’t recognize. He was no expert but he figured it was the kind of place that would belong to a big private house rather than a restaurant or a hotel. Either way, there were no people around, which was what mattered. Reacher could see another door in the corner, diagonally opposite. He started toward it. Made it halfway across the space, then the door opened. Reacher had the Glock in his left hand. He raised it. A man stepped into the room. He was heavy and stooped and he had a strange, angular head.

The man paused for a moment, then said, “Reacher? No need for the gun. I’m here to help.”

Reacher didn’t lower the gun. He said, “Who are you?”

The man said, “A friend. I saved you from the car wreck.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I found your things. Kept them safe. So the others wouldn’t get them. I have them right here.” The guy gestured to his pocket. “Do you want them back?”

Reacher nodded. “Do nothing stupid.”

The guy pulled out Reacher’s expired passport, his ATM card, some banknotes, and a folding toothbrush. “You travel light, huh?”

Reacher said, “Put them on the floor. Then step back.”

“No time,” the guy said. “We’ve got to hurry. The man in the car with you? Who died? You remember him?”

“No,” Reacher said.

“Well, that’s awkward. Because he was an FBI agent. Now he’s dead all hell’s going to break loose. There’ll be cops swarming everywhere. Hordes of agents, too, just as soon as they can get here. Every last one of them looking for somebody to carry the can for their buddy’s death. And if you can’t account for yourself, that someone is going to be you.”