Blue Moon - Lee Child Page 0,102
“Behind the taxi company, across from the pawn shop, next to the bail bonds.”
“We were right there,” Abby said.
Reacher nodded. He slid his hand around under the guy’s collar, from the back, to the side. He dug down with his fingers until he felt the inside face of the guy’s necktie centered in the meat of his palm. He felt it through the cotton of the collar. A silk necktie, at that point about an inch and a half wide. More tensile strength than steel. Silk shimmered because its fibers were triangular, like elongated prisms, which did nice things with light, but which also locked together so tight it was virtually impossible to pull them apart end to end. A steel cable would give way sooner.
Reacher bunched his fist. Took up what slack there was. At first his hand was square on. All his knuckles were lined up parallel with the crushed rim of the collar. Like he was hanging one-handed from a rung on a ladder. Then he rotated his thumb toward him, and his pinkie knuckle away from him. As if he was trying to spin the ladder, like an airplane propeller. Or like a tweak on a rein, turning a horse. All of which drove his pinkie knuckle into the side of the guy’s neck. Which in turn tightened the stronger-than-steel strap against the other side of his neck. Reacher held it like that for a spell, and then he turned his hand another small angle. And then another. The doorman was calm. The pressure was all side to side, not front to back. He wasn’t choking for lack of air. Not thrashing around in desperate panic. Instead the arteries in his neck were closed off and no blood was reaching his brain. Relaxed. Peaceful. Like a narcotic. Warm and comfortable.
Sleepy.
Almost there.
Almost done.
Reacher held it a whole extra minute, just to be sure, and then he tipped the guy in the trunk with his cousin, and he slammed the lid. Abby looked at him. As if to ask, are we going to kill them all? But not disapproving. Not accusatory. Merely a request for information. He thought to himself, I hope so.
Out loud he said, “I should try The Washington Post again.”
She passed him the dead guy’s phone. There was a brand new text on the screen. As yet unread. It had Reacher’s own picture in a fat green bubble. The surprise portrait from the moneylending bar. The pale guy, raising his phone. Below the photo was a block of Cyrillic writing. Some long screed about something or other.
“What the hell is their problem now?” he said.
“Vantresca will tell us,” she said.
He dialed The Washington Post from memory, having done it not long before. Once again the phone rang. Once again the call was answered.
Once again he said, “Ms. Buckley?”
“Yes?” a voice said.
“Barbara Buckley?”
“What do you want?”
“I have two things for you,” Reacher said. “Some good news, and a story.”
Chapter 41
In the background on the line Reacher heard all kinds of hustle and bustle. A big open space. Maybe a low hard ceiling. The clatter of keyboards. A dozen conversations. He said, “I’m guessing you’re at a desk in a newsroom.”
Barbara Buckley said, “No shit, Sherlock.”
“I’m guessing you’ve got tickers and cable news on screens all around you.”
“Hundreds of them.”
“Maybe right now one of them is showing regional coverage of a fire in a lumber yard in a city you know.”
No answer.
Reacher said, “The good news is the lumber yard was the Albanian gang’s HQ. It’s burning to the ground. Most of them are dead inside. The rest have fled. They’re history. The things they said to you don’t apply anymore. From when you had that meeting, a couple months ago. In the back room of the restaurant. Those threats are now gone forever. As of today. We believe it was important you should know as soon as possible. It’s a part of our victims’ rights protocol.”
“Is this the police department?”
“Strictly speaking, no.”
“But you are law enforcement?”
“Which has many levels.”
“Which level are you?”
“Ma’am, with the greatest possible respect, you’re a journalist. There are some things better not said out loud.”
“You mean, you could tell me, but then you would have to kill me?”
“Ma’am, we don’t really say that.”
“Are you speaking from there?”
“I would prefer not to discuss specific locations. But I will say it’s very warm here.”
“Wait,” she said. “How did you even find me? I didn’t report the threats to anyone.”
Reacher took a