all about, and some hope of salvaging something from the wreckage. But a vain hope, because his second round was a through-and-through, which killed a bagman standing behind the legbreaker, and the doorman crowding in behind the bagman fired back in a panic, pure reflex, and he hit the inner council guy in the head, so a second inner council guy shot the doorman in retaliation, and a foreman from the yard who had a beef with the council fired back at him, and missed, but hit the third council guy with a ricochet, pure accident, high on the arm, who howled and blasted back, multiple rounds, the muzzle of his Glock dancing and jerking uncontrolled, the rounds going everywhere, into the mass of more men crowding in, falling, slipping, sliding on the blood-slick floor, going down, until the councilman’s Glock clicked on empty, and a hissing, roaring version of silence came back, thrumming and buzzing in the air, but not complete, because right then and far away some other loud sound started up to pierce it.
The new sound was more gunshots. Just two rounds. Deliberate. Carefully spaced. A nine-millimeter handgun. Muffled by distance. Maybe all the way over at the front of the shed. Maybe near the roll-up door.
* * *
—
The driver and the passenger stood well back from the Chrysler’s trunk, with their guns still aimed right at it, in the same solid two-handed feet-apart stances they had used before, but with their necks twisted around, comically, almost as far as they would go. They were peering behind their left shoulders, at the far back corner of the shed, way in the distance, where a corridor led away to the administrative quarters. Where the commotion was.
Then the shooting started back there. Far away, muffled, thumping, contained. First came three solo rounds, a fast triple, thud thud thud, and then a hail of more all at once, and more, and more, and then finally the repeated thumping of a handgun being fired unaimed and in anger, until it ran out.
Then there was a second of silence.
The driver and the passenger turned back to the Chrysler.
Still nothing. The trunk lid, raised. No sign of the occupants.
They turned back to the corner.
Another second of silence.
Back to the Chrysler. Still nothing. No raised heads, no glances out. No signs of life at all. The driver and the passenger glanced at each other. Suddenly worried. Maybe there was exhaust gas in the trunk. Maybe there was a leak. A cracked pipe. Maybe the man and the woman had suffocated.
The driver and the passenger took a cautious step forward.
And another.
Still nothing.
They checked the far back corner again. Still silence. They took another step. To where they could see in the trunk. They glanced in, nervous. What they saw was all different. The man and the woman had changed positions. Originally he had gotten in at the back, and she had curled up in the space he left in front of him. Now he was in front, and she was behind him. Shielded by him. Originally he had gotten in with his head on the left, and now his head was on the right. Which meant he was lying on his left shoulder. Which meant his right arm was free to move. And he was moving it. Real fast. In his hand was a small steel automatic. It came to rest aimed at the driver’s head.
* * *
—
Reacher shot the driver through the forehead, and re-aimed right and shot the passenger through the left eye. With the Ukrainian H&K from his boot. From when he rebalanced the load in his pockets, before they walked out of the Shevicks’ development. Two on the left, two on the right, and one in his sock. Always a good idea.
He raised up an inch and peered out cautiously. He saw a long low corrugated shed, full of the smell of raw softwood, but empty of people. No one there at all. Presumably an HQ of some kind. Maybe the lumber yard they had seen before. Once while driving, once on foot. A cover operation. The dull metal looked the same. Like the electrical warehouse and the plumbing depot.
He sat up and took a better look. Still no people. Still no one there. He rolled out and got to his feet. He helped Abby out after him. She looked at the dead guys sprawled on the floor. Not pretty. One had one eye, and the other had three.