Reckoning Road: A Get Jack Reacher Short Story (6 page)

I said, “Get up!”

The cop stood up. He put his hands up near his head.

Water soaked his face and shirt. He said, “You’ve got no idea what you just did!”

“What? What did I do?”

He said, “I’m a cop!”

I stayed quiet.

He seemed surprised that I didn’t seem intimidated by that fact.

He said, “I’m a US marshal. You just assaulted a federal agent! That’s ten years in prison! Minimum!”

I shook my head and said, “No it’s not. It’s twenty years—maximum. There’s no minimum.”

“You’ll get ten!”

“Shut up!”

He said nothing.

I asked, “You ever been shot?”

His face turned a deep shade of blue like he was strongly considering this question, which he should have been.

Then he said, “No! No! Please!”

I asked, “Who’s the guy? Your boss?”

He started to say something and then stopped himself. I guessed he was going to try to deny it, play stupid, but he looked at my face and decided it was a bad idea.

“His name is Carter. Regan Carter.”

I smiled and almost laughed. I said, “Bullshit! What’s his name?”

“That’s it! I swear!”

“Regan Carter?”

He said, “Like the presidents.”

“Whatever. What about the girl?”

“What about her?”

“You here to help them kill her?”

He said, “What? No! I’m a US marshal! I told ya that!”

“Cut the shit! You’re the reason John Martin was in such a big hurry to get here.”

His eyes lit up like I touched a nerve. He said, “You know Martin? Where is he?”

I said, “He’s safe. Told me all about you.”

“You’re working for him? You’re too young to be a Fed. What are you, some kind of new recruit? FBI trainee or something?”

I said, “Nope. I’m just a guy passing through.”

He said, “What? Like a good Samaritan?”

“No. Not good. Not necessarily.”

He said nothing.

I said, “I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t like guys like you.”

He looked puzzled. He said, “So you don’t work for anyone?”

“I’m here for John. For Kara.”

“What? Like a hired bodyguard?” He giggled.

I smiled and said, “You shouldn’t make fun because, see, I don’t work for the government. I’m not bound by laws. Right now, I could put a bullet in your head, and no one would know. No one but you knows I’m here. And no one here knows anything about me.”

He gulped.

“Listen up. I got two questions. They’re important. You could say they’re a matter of life or death. Your life or death.

“You see, depending on how you answer, you might live—and then again, you might not.”

He said nothing.

I said, “How many guns on them?”

“One. Just Carter.”

I moved the muzzle in closer to him.

He said, “I swear!”

I nodded. I reached out slowly and gripped his collar. I pulled his face up close to the gun. I asked, “You got any evidence lying around? Somewhere safe? The kind of evidence you stashed away in case you ever got caught? You know, the type of evidence that’s bad for you, bad for them?”

He started to say something and then stopped. Again, he looked like he was thinking it over. He said, “Sure. Of course. Insurance policy. Lots of cops do that.”

“I figured. Where is it?”

He shook his head like all of a sudden he had decided that he would rather die.

I said, “Where is it? I’m not going to ask again.”

He gave me a locker number at an old train station in Las Vegas. I believed him. He had truth in his eyes—truth and fear.

I said, “Okay. Handcuffs?”

He nodded and looked down at his jacket pocket.

I said, “Slow. Get ’em out.”

He did.

I told him to get in the bathroom. He walked inside, and I handcuffed him to the pipe under the sink and checked his pockets. I took everything—phone, watch, keys, and badge. I memorized his name and badge number and all of his information, but I made a show of it to him. I kept his badge, but I didn’t need to do that. I would remember him. I just wanted him to know that I knew everything about him—and he knew nothing about me.

Before I left him in the bathroom, I shoved a huge wad of napkins down his throat so he couldn’t make any noise. I crammed them so far down that I was afraid he might choke on them, but I shrugged and figured he deserved it.

I darted back out the back door. I still had a primal urge to deal with. I walked off a little ways from the building. There was plenty of darkness and no one around. I took a minute to relieve myself. Then I took the US marshal’s keys and threw them as hard as I could into the dark woods to the east. I tossed the rest of his stuff—except for the Glock—in the dumpster.

I zipped my pants back up and headed back inside.

Chapter 14

I STEPPED THROUGH THE BACK DOOR
and into the kitchen. I headed to the front of the restaurant, stopped at the swinging door. I tucked the Glock into the waistband of my pants and covered it with my shirttail.

I walked back into the restaurant and smiled at everyone. The guys still sat where they had been. I guessed they had been waiting for their friend’s signal.

Kara was at the counter, doing dishes in a low sink. Mostly coffee mugs and spoons. Most likely, she was just trying to look busy.

I sat down, looked at the two guys who were left, and smiled.

A shared expression of utter confusion swept over their faces. They looked at each other and then back at me, back at each other and then again at me. I ignored them and signaled for Kara to bring me another cup of coffee.

She brought it, and I thanked her but said nothing about the US marshal in the back or the danger she was in. Didn’t want to give it away. Not my strategy.

I wondered how long I’d have to wait before the steely guy came over and sat with me. Turned out it wasn’t long. I had only taken one pull from my coffee when I looked up to see him on his feet.

He unbuttoned the one button of his jacket as he approached, an ancient signal from the Old West. A gunslinger approaching a potentially dangerous situation usually exposed his gun, tucked into a belt holster.

I didn’t want to resort to guns. This was a small town and probably had a local constable or deputy on patrol. Small town cops could be a major headache because they came in only a few types, and usually the one who was the readiest to spring to action tended to work the graveyard shift. I wasn’t in the mood to stick around after a gunfight, giving explanations to cops, answering questions, or waiting in a jail cell. My motto was hit fast, hit hard, and get the hell out of town faster.

Just in case, I took one more pull from my coffee, slipped my free hand under the table, and took out the Glock. Laid it on my lap only as a precaution.

Regan Carter sat down across from me. He didn’t ask permission, just dumped himself down in the booth.

The big guy stood directly behind him like a big tree.

I looked at both of them and said, “No thanks, fellas. I’d rather sit alone. Not looking for company.”

Carter said, “Where’s Derek?”

I asked, “Who?”

“Marshal Derek? You went to the bathroom, and he went right behind you.”

I shrugged and said, “So?”

“So where is he?”

Carter had some kind of accent I wasn’t quite sure of. It was a mixture of East Coast meets the South. Maybe it was a North Carolina or West Virginia accent or something else from where the two converged.

I said, “I didn’t see him. The back door was open. Maybe he went out there to piss.”

Carter looked over his shoulder and said, “Go check.”

I smiled. Another tactic of combat that always worked was divide and conquer. I loved the classics.

The big guy said nothing. He walked back past the counter and into the kitchen.

Kara backed up against the wall as he passed. I figured she realized something was going on. She just didn’t know what exactly.

I guessed it would be only twenty seconds before the big guy either called out or came running back out of the kitchen. At which point, Carter would draw his weapon. I didn’t know what kind of gun he had. If I had to guess, I would say it was some kind of gold-plated nonsense. My first impression of him was that he was style over substance—no question.

“Who exactly are you, my friend?”

Five seconds had passed.

“Me? I’m nobody.”

Six seconds.

“Mr. Nobody, you got some bad luck.”

Eight seconds.

“How’s that?”

Ten.

“Cause you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Eleven.

Carter went for his gun. My mother had been a sheriff and an ex-Marine cop. She’d taught me a lot about combat and military verve. She used to say that self-defense was letting the other guy throw the first punch. But these weren’t fists. These were firearms. When it came to guns, if you let the other guy strike first, then you ran a very high risk of letting his first strike be your last.

The cemeteries were chock-full of guys who played by the rules.

Thirteen.

I’d planned on pulling the Glock before Carter went for his gun, but he was faster than I thought.

Fifteen.

Chapter 15

CARTER WAS FAST,
but he made the same quick motion that every gunslinger throughout history has ever made. He grabbed his gun from his jacket and pulled it out into view—big and obvious. He was all about the show. At least that was his intention as it had been of all of those old, dead gunslingers from Texas all the way to California.

I didn’t go the traditional route. I already had my gun on my lap. I ducked my hand under the tabletop, put it on the gun, and squeezed the trigger. No finesse. No quick draw moves like in the movies. I was all about results, and the first result was not getting shot myself.

The gun fired under the table. The gunshot was deafening in the cramped space. It echoed loudly through the diner, the kitchen, and probably the parking lot.

I had to give Carter credit. He had gotten his gun completely out and in his hand and pointed almost in my direction. He was fast, but not fast enough. Preparation counted far more than finesse—I had been prepared every time.

The bullet must’ve slammed into his kneecap because his top half jolted forward like a catapult had launched him out of his seat. His gun was a shiny Colt Night Defender. The name was etched across the chrome barrel in huge letters. The whole thing was an insult to guns, at least it was to me. His gun was just like him, style over substance.

Carter screamed and wailed. I knocked the gun away from him. It slid across the table and fell down under the seat, out of view.

The big guy’s twenty seconds were up. Either he had seen the US Marshal tied up in the back or he’d heard the gunshot and assumed it was his boss taking me out because he came running from the kitchen. The door blasted open, and a priceless look oozed down his face.

I said, “Welcome back.”

I pointed the gun at him and said, “Come back in. Sit.”

The big guy looked at his boss and then at me. For the first time, he expressed an emotion—anger.

He didn’t move.

Kara was inching away, past Carter.

Without turning my head toward her, I said, “Kara, go to the front window. See if there’s anyone else out there.”

She said, “What?”

“Go check it out. It’s okay. See if they got any friends out there.”

“Friends? What’s going on?”

“Go check for me. It’s important.”

She nodded and walked over to the front door and looked out the window. She said, “I don’t see anyone.”

“Are you sure?”

She said, “I think so.”

I said, “Okay. Kara, listen to me.”

I glanced at her to make sure she was listening, and then I looked back at the big guy. He still wasn’t sitting.

I said, “Take a good look at these guys. Especially that one.” I pointed at Carter.

She came back over and looked at them.

I said, “These guys came here to kill you.”

She gasped and said, “What? Why?”

“Something your mom saw twenty years ago. There’s a guy in the ER. The one down the street. His name is John Martin. He’s a Marshal. Go to the ER and find him. Find the sheriff’s deputies. They’ll be there already. This guy Martin will explain everything to you. He’s in bad shape right now, but he’ll be okay in a couple of days. Meanwhile, you tell the sheriff what went on here tonight. Make sure he knows about the other cop that was here. Tell him that twenty years ago, you and your mom were moved here by John Martin.”