Except that some of his disadvantages carried their own compensation. His limbs were slow because they were heavy, and they were heavy because they were not only thick but also long. In the case of his legs, very long. He drove hard off his left foot and kicked out with his right, stretching low, a huge vicious wingspan, aiming at anything, any part of the guy, any part of the swoop, any window of time, whatever came along.
What came along was the guy’s head. A freak result. Four dimensional geometry gone wrong. His slight hesitation, Reacher’s primeval thrust, triggered by instinct, soaked in ancient all-or-nothing aggression. The guy chose to keep his head up and his arm long, all the better to scoop up the gun and wheel away, but Reacher was already there, like a batter early on a fastball, a foul ball for sure, and the guy hit the first inch of his follow-through, his temple solidly against the welt of Reacher’s shoe, not a perfect connection, but close to it. The guy’s neck snapped back and he scraped and clattered cheek-down on the sidewalk.
Reacher watched him.
He said, “Do you see his gun somewhere?”
The guy wasn’t moving.
Abby said, “I see it.”
“Pick it up. Finger and thumb, butt or barrel.”
“I know how.”
“Just checking. Always safer that way.”
She darted in, knelt, picked up the Glock, and darted back.
The guy still wasn’t moving.
She said, “What should we do about him?”
Reacher said, “We should leave him right where he is.”
“And then what?”
“We should steal his car.”
“Why?”
“His boss is coming. We need to leave the right kind of message.”
“You can’t declare war on them.”
“They already did. On me. For no apparent reason. So now I’m offering a robust initial response. I’m saying their policy should be reconsidered. It’s a standard diplomatic move. Like playing chess. It gives them a chance to parley, no harm, no foul. I hope they see that.”
Abby said, “This is the Albanian mob we’re talking about. You’re one guy. Frank is right. This is crazy.”
“But it’s happening,” Reacher said. “We can’t roll the clock back. We can’t wish it away. We just have to deal with it the best we can. So we can’t leave the car here. Too meek and mild. Like we’re saying, oops, sorry. Like we didn’t really mean it. We got to make a point. We got to say, don’t mess with us, or you get a kick in the head and your car stolen. That way they’ll take it seriously. They’ll act with an element of tactical caution. They’ll assemble larger forces.”
“That’s a bad thing.”
“Only if they find us. Assuming they don’t, all they’re doing by bunching up is leaving bigger gaps elsewhere, for us to walk through.”
“Walk through where?”
“I guess the ultimate goal would be a face to face meeting with the big boss. Gregory’s equivalent.”
“Dino,” Abby said. “That’s crazy.”
“He’s one guy. Same as me. We could have an exchange of views. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”
“I have to work in this town. One side of Center or the other.”
“I apologize,” Reacher said.
“You should.”
“But that’s why we need to do this right. We need to play to win.”
“OK, we’ll steal the car.”
“Or we could set it on fire.”
“Stealing is better,” she said. “I want to get out of here as fast as I can.”
* * *
—
They drove the car four blocks into a tangle of blank urban streets, and they left it on a corner, keys in, all four doors standing open, plus the hood, plus the trunk. Somehow symbolic. Then they walked back to Barton’s place, via a long circuitous route, and they checked all four sides of his block before they stepped to his door. He was up, waiting, with Hogan.
Plus a third guy, who Reacher had never seen before.
Chapter 27
The third guy in Barton’s hallway had the kind of hair and skin that made a person look ten years younger than he really was, which therefore in reality made him about Reacher’s own generation. He was smaller and neater. He had sharp watchful eyes set deep either side of a blade of a nose. He had a long unruly lock of hair that fell across his forehead. He was dressed with a modicum of style, in good shoes and corduroy pants and a shirt and a jacket.
Joe Hogan said, “This is who I was telling you about. The dogface who knows all the old Commie languages. His name is Guy Vantresca.”
Reacher stuck out his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“Likewise,” Vantresca said, and he shook hands, and then he did so all over again, with Abby.
Reacher said, “You got here fast.”
“I was still awake,” Vantresca said. “I live close by.”
“Thanks for helping out.”
“Actually that’s not why I’m here. I came to warn you off. You can’t mess with these people. Too many, too nasty, too protected. That would be my assessment.”
“Were you Military Intelligence?”
Vantresca shook his head.
“Armor,” he said.
A company commander late on in the Cold War, Hogan had called him.
“Tanks?” Reacher asked.
“Fourteen of them,” Vantresca said. “All mine. All facing east. Happy days.”
“Why did you learn the languages?”
“I thought we were going to win. I thought I might be ruling a civilian district. Or at least ordering a bottle of wine in a restaurant. Or meeting girls. It was a long time ago. Plus Uncle Sam paid for it. Back then the army liked education. Everyone was getting postgraduate degrees.”
Reacher said, “Too many and too nasty are subjective judgments. We can talk about that kind of stuff later. But too protected is different. What do you know about that?”
“I do some corporate consulting. Mostly physical security of buildings. But I hear things, and I get asked things. Last year a federal project ran a set of integrated numbers from all across the nation, and it turned out the two most law-abiding populations in America were the Ukrainian and Albanian communities right here in town. They don’t even get parking tickets. That suggests a very close relationship with all levels of law enforcement.”