Hotel California (eBook)

Reacher expected a truck, but he wound up in a car. He expected to be kept waiting in the hot Texas sun, but he got a ride almost at once. He expected trouble when he saw a skinny guy in a suit stick his nose into someone else’s business, and on that score at least, he wasn’t wrong.

The rest area parking lot was maybe half full, but, human behavior being what it is, the vehicles weren’t evenly distributed. There were clumps of cars and trucks all bunched up together in some places, and other sections with three or four empty spaces in a row. The skinny guy had been about to climb into a silver sedan on the right-hand side of one of these gaps, thirty yards from where Reacher was standing. Another guy was heading for a dull blue pickup on the left-hand side. He would be in his late twenties, Reacher guessed. Early thirties at the most. He wasn’t especially tall, only around five ten, but he was broad. His sleeveless T-shirt was stretched tight across his chest. His arms were thick. They were covered with a bright, swirling mass of tattoos. So were his calves, which bulged out below his knee-length shorts. He wore black boots, unlaced and gaping open. His head was shaved. And he was hurrying after a girl.

She looked around ten years old, with blond hair in braids and a yellow sundress and sandals. She stretched for the door handle, then pulled her arm back and darted toward the rear of the truck.

The tattooed guy grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back.

“Dad!” The girl’s voice was shrill. “Let go.”

The skinny guy paused, one foot inside his car. He shifted his weight. Set his foot back on the asphalt. Turned to face the other man and the child. “Hey,” he said. “Stop that, you asshole. Let her go.”

Reacher clamped the lid back down on his carry-out coffee cup and started to move. If it had been any other kind of dispute—a squabble over dinged paintwork, a contest for the most convenient parking spot—he might have left them to it. But this involved a kid. And as things stood, the way he saw them, there was no prospect of a happy ending.

There were twenty-five yards between Reacher and the three people.

The tattooed guy kept hold of the girl’s hair for another couple of seconds. He was acting on his own timetable. He wanted that to be clear. Then he put his hand flat on her chest, slammed her against the side of the truck, and held her there for a few moments as if the pressure would fix her in place.

Fifteen yards between them.

The skinny guy took a step, stiff and tentative. The tattooed guy took a bigger step, confident and aggressive. They locked eyes. Neither of them spoke.

Five yards.

The skinny guy edged back. The tattooed guy moved forward. He raised his fist. Cocked his arm. They were seconds away from game over. Moments away. Then Reacher stepped between them.

“In the car,” Reacher said to the skinny guy.

The guy didn’t react for a moment. He was too shocked. The giant, messy figure in front of him seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Six foot five. Two hundred and fifty pounds. Chest like a refrigerator. Arms like most people’s legs. He could have been a villain in a horror movie. Or the thing you run from in a nightmare. Then the guy’s senses kicked in and he scrambled backward and did what he’d been told.

Reacher turned to the girl. “In the truck.”

She climbed up onto the step, pulled open the door, jumped inside, and disappeared from sight.

“Your kid?” Reacher said to the tattooed guy.

The guy didn’t answer. He glared back. But he did lower his fist. Which was smart, under the circumstances.

“Want to keep her?”

The guy strode forward. “You’re not taking—”

Reacher shoved him back, one handed. “Do you want to keep her?”

The guy raised his arm again and took a wild swing. He was aiming for the side of Reacher’s head. Reacher leaned back and watched the guy’s fist sail harmlessly past.

“Behave yourself.” Reacher checked the lid on his coffee cup. “Don’t make me kick your ass in front of the kid. So. You want to keep her?”

“Damn right.”

“Because if you don’t, no problem. We can call Child Protective Services right now. They’ll take her off your hands, no questions asked.”

“No one’s taking my kid. Not you. Not the government.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Depends if you hurt her again.”

The guy didn’t respond.

Reacher said, “Well?”

“I didn’t hurt her. You don’t understand. Kids, they act out. You have to—”

“Show me your wallet.”

“What?”

“Your wallet.”

“You want money, you’re SOL.” The guy took a billfold from his back pocket and held it up. It was made of imitation snakeskin, frayed and stained and sorry looking.

Reacher took it and flipped it open, then turned it around to show he’d seen the guy’s driver’s license. “Here’s something you didn’t know. I used to be a military cop. One of the guys from my unit is a Texas Ranger now. I’m going to give him a call. Have him put a flag on your address. Any domestic disturbances, any visits to the emergency room, he’ll hear about them. Your kid stubs her toe too often and—”

“What? He’ll arrest me? Bullshit.”

“No.” Reacher shook his head. “He’ll call me. Then you’ll wish he’d arrested you.”

Mason Greenwood sat in his house, in front of his computer, one hundred and fifty miles away, safely out of the heat and the dust. He was working. Although, he was almost embarrassed to call it that when he thought of the way business used to be done. He was earning a living, then. Providing a service. Meeting a demand. There was no arguing with that. And no one could call him lazy. He put in more hours than he had to. Way more. But then he’d always been a hands-on kind of guy. He could buy his stock from elsewhere, but he preferred to produce it himself. He enjoyed it. And he could automate the transactions as well as the security. There are bots that can handle pretty much everything these days. Maybe he’d use them, at some future point. Not yet, though. Not while he was still expanding. Looking for new markets. Like the client he was getting ready to pitch. From Japan. They were sticklers for etiquette, those guys. He’d read all about them. Done his research. They needed to be handled carefully. And he didn’t want to risk a lucrative revenue stream for the sake of a few more hours at the keyboard.

Greenwood figured he’d get the deal squared away then head into town, such as it was, and celebrate. He liked the place. In many ways, the two years he’d been there had been the best of his life. Certainly the safest. But it wasn’t exactly a heaving metropolis. There wasn’t much in the way of fresh blood. Usually. When someone new arrived, it was an event to be savored. Especially if she was young. Pretty. And happy to stick around for a while. As had happened two weeks ago. Greenwood had enjoyed the chase. But now he figured it was time to close another kind of deal.

The old V8 spluttered into life. The truck shivered as the tattooed guy dropped it into Drive. Its rear tires squealed as he hit the gas. Reacher watched until it disappeared onto the highway, then started toward the section where the trucks were parked.

“Hey.” The skinny guy rolled down his window. “I want to thank you.”

“No need.” Reacher kept on walking.

The guy fired up his engine and reversed out after him. “Let me at least drive you to your car. Is it far?”

“I don’t have a car.”

“Your truck, then.”

“Don’t have a truck.”

“Then where are you going?”

Reacher shrugged. “Wherever the first driver who offers me a ride is going.”

“You’re looking to hitch a ride?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And you really don’t mind where?”

“Somewhere west of here, preferably.”

“Why west?”

“Because I just came from the east.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I’m heading west. South first, then west. Want to ride with me for a while?”

Reacher stopped and looked at the guy’s car. He figured it was German. Not new. Ten years old, at least, based on the style and the degree of fade shown by the three expired parking permits stuck on the inside of the windshield. Maybe fifteen years. But a good brand. And it seemed in good shape. Clean. Well maintained. Which meant there was a good chance it would be reliable. A critical factor in that part of Texas. There could be hundreds of miles between one town and the next. Not the kind of place you want to break down. Not unless you want to be dinner for the vultures. “How much gas have you got?”

“Full tank.”

“Range?”

The guy pressed a button at the end of one of the stalks that stuck out from the steering column. “Three hundred and fifty-eight miles. If you trust the computer.”

Reacher nodded, walked around the front of the car, and climbed into the passenger seat.

The guy shifted into Drive but kept his foot on the brake. “Where’s your stuff ?”

“What stuff ?”

“I don’t know. Clothes. Luggage. Suitcases, or whatever.”

“I’m wearing my clothes. My stuff’s in my pocket. I don’t need any luggage.”

“The clothes you’re...