Reacher pointed, left-handed, rattling their shared handcuff.
"Your injury," he said. "You're back to work after some kind of an accident, before you're really recovered. You're still using that crutch for your bad leg. Most people in your position would be staying home and drawing sick pay."
She smiled.
"I could be handicapped," she said. "Could have been born this way."
Reacher shook his head in the gloom.
"That's a hospital crutch," he said. "They loaned it to you, short-term, until you're over your injury. If it was a permanent thing, you'd have bought your own crutch. Probably you'd have bought a dozen. Sprayed them all different to match all your expensive outfits."
She laughed. It was a pleasant sound above the drone and boom of the truck's engine and the roar of the road.
"Pretty good, Jack Reacher," she said. "I'm an FBI Special Agent. Since last fall. I just ripped up my cruciate ligaments playing soccer."
"You play soccer?" Reacher said. "Good for you, Holly Johnson. What kind of an FBI agent since last fall?"
She was quiet for a beat.
"Just an agent," she said. "One of many at the Chicago office."
Reacher shook his head.
"Not just an agent," he said. "An agent who's doing something to somebody who maybe wants to retaliate. So who are you doing something to?"
She shook her head back at him.
"I can't discuss that," she said. "Not with civilians."
He nodded. He was comfortable with that.
"OK," he said.
"Any agent makes enemies," she said.
"Naturally," he replied.
"Me as much as anybody," she said.
He glanced across at her. It was a curious remark. Defensive. The remark of a woman trained and eager and ready to go, but chained to a desk since last fall.
"Financial section?" he guessed.
She shook her head.
"I can't discuss it," she said again.
"But you already made enemies," he said.
She gave him a half-smile which died fast. Then she went quiet. She looked calm, but Reacher could feel in her wrist that she was worried for the first time. But she was hanging in there. And she was wrong.
"They're not out to kill you," he said. "They could have killed you in that vacant lot. Why haul you away in this damn truck? And there's your crutch, too."
"What about my crutch?" she said.
"Doesn't make any sense," he said. "Why would they toss your crutch in here if they're going to kill you? You're a hostage, Holly, that's what you are. You sure you don't know these guys? Never saw them before?"
"Never," she said. "I don't know who the hell they are, or what the hell they want from me."
He stared at her. She sounded way too definite. She knew more than she was telling him. They went quiet in the noise. Rocked and bounced with the movement of the truck. Reacher stared into the gloom. He could feel Holly making decisions, next to him. She turned sideways again.
"I need to get you out of here," she said again.
He glanced at her. Glanced away and grinned.
"Suits me, Holly," he said. "Sooner the better."
"When will somebody miss you?" she asked.
That was a question he would have preferred not to answer. But she was looking hard at him, waiting. So he thought about it, and he told her the truth.
"Never," he said.
"Why not?" she asked. "Who are you, Reacher?"
He looked across at her and shrugged.
"Nobody," he said.
She kept on looking at him, quizzically. Maybe irritated.
"OK, what kind of nobody?" she asked.
He heard Memphis Slim in his head: got me working in a steel mill.
"I'm a doorman," he said. "At a club in Chicago."
"Which club?" she asked.
"A blues place on the South Side," he said. "You probably don't know it."
She looked at him and shook her head.
"A doorman?" she said. "You're playing this pretty cool for a doorman."
"Doormen deal with a lot of weird situations," he said.
She looked like she wasn't convinced and he put his face down near his wristwatch to check the time. Two-thirty in the afternoon.
"And how long before somebody misses you?" he asked.
She looked at her own watch and made a face.
"Quite a while," she said. "I've got a case conference starting at five o'clock this afternoon. Nothing before then. Two and a half hours before anybody even knows I'm gone."
Chapter Four
RIGHT INSIDE THE shell of the second-floor room, a second shell was taking shape. It was being built from brand-new softwood two-by-fours, nailed together in the conventional way, looking like a new room growing right there inside the old room. But the