Blue Moon - Lee Child Page 0,126

Arms got tired. The muzzle drooped down.

Beyond the dead guy was a room that looked pretty much the way Hogan had called it. White laminate and chilly air. Huge. The size of the street lobby. Windows floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Benches and racks. Someone’s idea of a technical facility. Maybe last year. Or last week. Since updated with an overlay of drooping wires and unexplained boxes. The heart of the operation seemed to be even skinnier than Vantresca had predicted. Five laptops, not six. They were lined up side by side, on a bench.

Behind the bench were two guys. Reacher recognized Trulenko immediately. From Abby’s description. From the pictures in the paper. A pretty small guy. Young, but his hair was going. He wore eyeglasses. He won’t be breaking rocks in a quarry. He was wearing chino pants and a T-shirt. Next to him was a guy maybe five years younger. Taller, but reedy. Stooped shoulders already, from typing too much.

Trulenko said something in Ukrainian.

Vantresca said, “He just told his pal not to tell us anything.”

“Not a good start,” Reacher said.

Barton and Hogan backed the two guys away from their keyboards. Reacher looked out the window, at the earthlings below.

He said, “Suppose you were writing a program. Here’s what you need to know about our side of the equation. We’re not affiliated with any government or any agency. This is purely private enterprise. We have two very specific and very personal requirements. Apart from them, we don’t give a shit. We have no dog in any other fight. Do exactly what we tell you, and we’ll leave, and you’ll never see us again.”

No response.

Reacher asked, “What does your impeccable software logic tell you will happen next?”

No response.

“Correct,” Reacher said. “We’re not affiliated with any government or any agency. Which means we obey no rules. We just fought through a whole army of the best tough guys you personally ever saw. We just penetrated your innermost lair. Which means we’re tougher than you. Therefore most likely nastier, too. Your impeccable logic tells you you’re going to suffer. If you don’t do what we want. Before we came here, we visited the hardware store. You can play it out like a game of chess. Obviously we’ll start with the kid. A victory for your side is very hard to imagine. Inevitably in the end you’ll do what we tell you. Logic dictates you should skip straight there. Save us all a lot of trouble.”

Trulenko said, “I’m not one of these guys.”

“But you work for them.”

“I ran low on options. But hey, I’m not committed. Maybe we can work something out. I do two things, and you let me walk out of here. Is that what we’re saying?”

“But don’t get smart,” Reacher said. “We know enough to know what you’re doing. We bought a glass cutter at the hardware store. We could cut a circle out of the window. We could throw you through. Like mailing a letter.”

“What two things?”

“The first is the pornography. All your different websites.”

“That’s what you’re here for?”

“Two very specific and very personal requirements,” Reacher said again. “The first is the porn.”

“It’s a sideline, man.”

“Erase it. Delete it. Whatever the word is.”

“All of it?”

“Forever.”

“OK,” Trulenko said. “Wow. I guess I could do that. Mind me asking, is this some kind of moral crusade?”

“What part of our process so far strikes you as moral?”

Trulenko didn’t answer. Reacher walked over and stood next to him. Barton and Hogan stood back. Trulenko stepped up to the bench. Reacher said, “Tell us what you got here.”

Trulenko pointed. He said, “The first two are social media. A constant stream of made-up stories. Which also go to the bullshit websites, all of which are dumb enough to believe every word. They also go to the TV networks, only some of which are dumb enough. The third is identity theft. The fourth is miscellaneous.”

“What’s the fifth?”

“The money.”

“Where’s the porn?”

“Number four,” Trulenko said. “Miscellaneous. It’s a sideline.”

“Go for it,” Reacher said. “Task number one.”

The others crowded around. In truth their knowledge was rudimentary. From the consumer end only. But Trulenko didn’t know that. Their scrutiny seemed to keep him on the straight and narrow. He typed long streams of code. He answered yes, yes, and yes, to all kinds of are-you-sure questions. Text marched across the screen. Eventually it stopped.

Trulenko stood back.

“It’s gone,” he said. “The content is a hundred percent securely deleted, and the domain names are back for sale.”

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