Technically a grievous breach of his orders, but, win or lose, trivialities weren’t going to count for much, either one way or the other.
He saw nothing on the walk, except another municipal bus, heading out, and a garbage truck, on its rounds. At the restaurant the hostess gave him a table on the other side of the room from his breakfast billet, and he got a different waitress. He ordered coffee, and a cheeseburger, and a slice of pie, and he enjoyed it all. He saw nothing on the walk back except another bus heading out, and another garbage truck on its rounds. He was back in his room less than an hour after leaving it. The squirrelly guy had been in with a new towel, and new soap, and new shampoo. The trash cans were empty. The room was as good as it was going to get. He lay down on the bed and crossed his ankles and put his hands behind his head and thought about taking a nap.
But he didn’t get one. Within about a minute of his head hitting the pillow, three warrant officers from the 75th MP showed up to arrest him.
FOURTEEN
THEY CAME IN a car, and they were driving it fast. Reacher heard it on the road, and he heard it thump up into the lot, and he heard it slew around and jam to a stop outside. He heard three doors open, a ragged sequence of three separate sounds, all contained in the same second, and he heard three pairs of boots hit the ground, which meant three guys, not four, which meant they were not the guys from the car with the dented doors. There was a pause, with one set of footsteps receding fast, which he guessed was someone running around to cover the rear, which was a waste of time, because there was no bathroom window, but they didn’t know that, and better safe than sorry. Which told him he was dealing with a competent crew.
He uncrossed his ankles and unlaced his hands from behind his head and sat up on the bed. He swivelled around and put his feet on the floor. Right on cue the hammering started on the door. Nothing like Major Sullivan’s polite little
The guys outside stopped banging long enough to shout something a couple of times.
He opened up and saw two guys in army combat uniform. One had a sidearm drawn, and the other had a shotgun. Which was pretty damn serious, for a suburban Virginia afternoon. Behind them their car had three doors hanging open. Its motor was running.
Reacher said, ‘What?’
The guy on the hinge side of the door was in charge. Safest spot, for the senior guy. He said, ‘Sir, you’re to come with us.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me.’
‘Unit?’
‘75th MP.’
‘Acting for who?’
‘You’ll find out.’
The name on the guy’s uniform tape was Espin. He was about the size of a flyweight boxer, dark-haired, hard and muscled, with a flattened nose. He looked like an OK type of guy. In general Reacher liked warrant officers. Not as much as sergeants, but more than most commissioned officers.
He asked, ‘Is this an arrest?’
‘Do you want it to be?’ Espin said. ‘If so, keep talking.’
‘Make your mind up, soldier. It’s one thing or the other.’
‘I prefer voluntary cooperation.’
‘Dream on.’
‘Then yes, you’re under arrest.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Espin.’
‘First name?’
‘Why?’
‘I want to remember it as long as I live.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Pete,’ the guy said.
‘Got it,’ Reacher said. ‘Pete Espin. Where are we going?’
‘Fort Dyer,’ Pete Espin said.
‘Why?’
‘Someone wants to talk to you.’
The third guy came back from behind the building. Junior to Espin, but only technically. All three of them looked like veterans. Seen it all, done it all. Espin said, ‘We’re going to search you first.’
