In the silent room it made a tiny sound. A whir, a hum, a grind. A rhythmic little pulse. It jumped and buzzed against my thigh.
I stared at Lila’s hands. Flat. Still. Empty. No phone.
She said, ‘Perhaps you should answer that:
I juggled the MP5’s grip into my left hand and pulled out the phone.
I said, ‘What?’
‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for twenty minutes.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Where are you?’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘You called my cell, remember? Your number is in the call log.’
‘Why is your number blocked?’
‘Precinct switchboard. I’m on the landline now. Where the hell are you?’
‘What’s up?’
‘Listen carefully. You have bad information. Homeland Security got back to us again. One of the Tajikistan party missed a connection in Istanbul. He came in through London and Washington instead. There are twenty men, not nineteen.’
Lila Hoth moved and the twentieth man stepped out of the bathroom.
EIGHTY-TWO
Scientists measure time all the way down to the picosecond. A trillionth of a regular second. They figure all kinds of things can happen in that small interval. Universes can be born, particles can accelerate, atoms can be split. What happened to me in the first few picoseconds was a whole bunch of different things. First, I dropped the phone, still open, still live. By the time it was down level with my shoulder whole lines of conversation with Lila were screaming in my head. On the same phone, minutes ago, from Madison Avenue. I had said,
For once, she hadn’t talked too much.
And I hadn’t listened enough.
By the time the phone was down level with my waist I was focusing on the twentieth guy himself. He looked just like the previous four or five. He could have been their brother or their cousin, and probably was. Certainly he looked familiar. Small, sinewy, dark hair, lined skin, body language bridging wariness and aggression. He was dressed in a pair of dark knit sweatpants. A dark knit sweatshirt. He was right-handed. He was holding a silenced handgun. He was sweeping it through a long upward arc. He was aiming to bring it level. His finger was tightening on the trigger. He was going to shoot me in the chest.
I was holding the MP5 left-handed. The magazine was empty. The last round was already chambered. It had to count. I wanted to change hands. I didn’t want to fire from my weaker side, under my weaker eye.
No choice. To change hands would take half a second. Five hundred billion picoseconds. Too long. The other guy’s aim was nearly there. By the time the phone was down around my knees my right palm was slapping upward to meet the barrel. I was turning and straightening and tucking the grip back towards my chest. My right palm stopped and cradled the barrel and my left index finger squeezed the trigger with exaggerated calm. Lila was moving on my left. She was stepping out into the room. My finger completed its squeeze and the gun fired and my last round hit the twentieth guy in the face.
The phone hit the floor. It sounded like the padlock. A loud wooden thump.
My last spent shell case ejected and raffled away across the room.
The twentieth guy went down in a clatter of limbs and head and gun, dead before he hit the boards, shot through the base of the brain.
A head shot. A hit. Not bad for my left hand. Except that I had been aiming for his centre mass.
Lila kept on moving. Gliding, swooping, ducking down.
She came back up with the dead guy’s gun. Another Sig P220, another silencer.
Swiss manufacture.
A nine-round detachable box magazine.
If Lila was scrambling for the gun, it was the only one in the apartment. In which case it had been fired at least three times, through the ceiling.
Maximum six rounds left. Six versus zero.
Lila pointed the gun at me. I pointed mine at her.
She said, ‘I’m faster.’
I said, ‘You think?’
Way off to my left Svetlana said, ‘Your gun is empty.’
I glanced at her. ‘You speak English?’
‘Fairly well.’
‘I reloaded upstairs.’
‘Bullshit. I can see from here. You’re set to three-round bursts. But you fired only once. Therefore that was your last bullet.’
We stood like that for what seemed like a long time. The P220 was as steady as a rock in Lila’s hand. She was fifteen feet from me. Behind her the dead guy was leaking fluid all over the floor. Svetlana was in the kitchen. There were all kinds of smells in the air. There was a draught from the open window. Air was moving in and stirring through the room and funnelling up the staircase and out through the hole in the roof.
Svetlana said, ‘Put your gun down.’
I said, ‘You want the memory stick.’
‘You don’t have it.’
‘But I know where it is.’
‘So do we.’
I said nothing.
Svetlana said, ‘You don’t have it but you know where it is. Therefore you employed a deductive process. Do you think you are uniquely talented? Do you think that deductive processes are unavailable to others? We all share the same facts. We can all arrive at the same conclusions.’
I said nothing.
She said, ‘As soon as you told us you knew where it was, we set about thinking. You spurred us on. You talk too much, Reacher. You make yourself disposable.’
Lila said, ‘Put the gun down. Have a little dignity. Don’t stand there like an idiot, holding an empty gun.’
I stood still.
Lila dropped her arm maybe ten degrees and fired into the floor between my feet. She hit a spot level with and exactly equidistant between the toecaps of my shoes. Not an easy shot. She was a great markswoman. The floorboard splintered. I flinched a little. The Sig’s silencer was louder than the H&K’s. Like a phone book smashed down, not dropped. A wisp of wood smoke drifted upward, where the friction of the bullet had burned the pine. The spent shell case ejected in a brassy arc and tinkled away.
Five rounds left.
Lila said, ‘Put the gun down.’
I looped the strap up over my head. Held the gun by the grip down by my side. It was no longer any use to me, except as a seven-pound metal club. And I doubted that I would get near enough to either one of them for a club to be effective. And if I did, I would prefer bare-knuckle hand-to-hand combat. A seven-pound metal club is
