Killing Floor

He looked over at Roscoe. She saw where the conversation was going.

“He wants me up there?” she asked.

“Just for twenty-four hours,” Finlay said. “That’s what he’s asking for. Will you do it for him?”

Roscoe shrugged. Smiled.

“Of course I will,” she said. “No problem. I can spare a day. As long as you promise to get me back when the fun starts, OK?”

“That’s automatic,” Finlay said. “Fun can’t start until we’ve got the detail, and as soon as we’ve got the detail, Picard goes official and he puts his own agents into the safe house. You come back here.”

“OK,” Roscoe said. “When do I go?”

“Right now,” Finlay said. “He’ll be here any minute.”

She gri

“So you already figured I’d agree to it?” she said.

He gri

“Like I told Reacher,” he said. “You’re the best we got.”

She and I went back through the squad room and out through the glass doors. Roscoe took her valise out of the Chevy and set it on the curb.

“See you tomorrow, I guess,” she said.

“You going to be OK?” I asked her.

“Sure,” she said. “I’m going to be fine. Can’t get much safer than an FBI safe house, right? But I’m going to miss you, Reacher. I didn’t figure to spend time apart just yet.”

I squeezed her hand. She kissed me on the cheek. Just stretched up for a quick peck. Finlay pushed the station house door open. I heard the suck of the rubber seal. He stuck his head out and called over to Roscoe.

“You better give Picard an update, OK?” he said.

Roscoe nodded to him. Then we stood waiting in the sun. Didn’t have to wait long. Picard’s blue sedan squealed into the lot within a couple of minutes. Bounced to a stop right next to us. The big guy folded himself out of the seat and stood up. Just about blotted out the sun.

“I appreciate this, Roscoe,” he said to her. “You’re really helping me out.”

“No problem,” she said. “You’re helping us out, right? Where is this place I’m going?”

Picard gri

“I can’t say where it is,” he told her. “Not in front of civilians, right? I’m way out of line already. And I’m going to have to ask you not to tell him afterward, OK? And Reacher, don’t you press her about it, or Charlie, OK?”

“OK,” I said. I wouldn’t press her about it. She’d tell me anyway.

“Good,” Picard said.

He nodded a busy good-bye and picked up Roscoe’s bag. Threw it onto his rear seat. Then the two of them got into the blue sedan and drove off. Nosed out of the lot and headed north. I waved after them. Then the car was lost to sight.

23

DETAILS. EVIDENCE GATHERING. SURVEILLANCE. IT’S THE basis of everything. You’ve got to settle down and watch long enough and hard enough to get what you need. While Roscoe made cups of coffee for Charlie Hubble and Finlay sat in the rosewood office, I was going to have to watch the warehouse operation. Long enough and hard enough until I got a feel for exactly how they did it. It could take me a full twenty-four hours. Could be Roscoe would get back before I did.

I got in the Bentley and cruised up the fourteen miles to the cloverleaf. Slowed down as I passed the warehouses. I needed to scout out a vantage point. The northbound on-ramp dived under the southbound off-ramp. There was a kind of low overpass. Short, wide concrete pillars hoisted the road overhead. I figured the thing to do would be to hole up behind one of those pillars. I would be well hidden in the gloom and the slight elevation would give me a good view of the whole warehouse area. That was my spot.

I accelerated the Bentley up the ramp and carried on north to Atlanta. Took an hour. I was picking up a rough idea of the geography. I wanted the low-rent shopping area and I found it easily enough. Saw the sort of street I wanted. Automobile customizers, pool table wholesalers, repossessed office furniture. I parked on the street in front of a storefront mission. Opposite me were two survival shops. I picked the left-hand one and went in.

The door worked a bell. The guy at the counter looked up. He was the usual type of guy. White man, black beard, camouflage fatigues, boots. He had a huge gold hoop in one ear. Looked like some kind of a pirate. He might have been a veteran. Might just have wanted to be one. He nodded to me.

He had the stuff I needed. I picked up olive fatigue pants and a shirt. Found a camouflage jacket big enough to fit. Looked at the pockets carefully. I had to get the Desert Eagle in there. Then I found a water canteen and some decent field glasses. Humped the whole lot over to the cash desk and piled it up. Pulled out my wad of hundreds. The guy with the beard looked at me.

“I could use a sap,” I said.

He looked at me and looked at my wad of hundreds. Then he ducked down and hoisted a box up. Looked heavy. I chose a fat sap about nine inches long. It was a leather tube. Taped at one end for a grip. Built around a plumber’s spring. The thing they put inside pipes before they bend them. It was packed around with lead shot. An efficient weapon. I nodded. Paid for everything and left. The bell rang again as I pushed open the door.

I moved the Bentley along a hundred yards and parked up in front of the first automobile shop I saw advertising window tinting. Leaned on the horn and got out to meet the guy coming out of the door.

“Can you put tints on this for me?” I asked him.

“On this thing?” he said. “Sure I can. I can put tints on anything.”

“How long?” I said.

The guy stepped up to the car and ran his finger down the silky coachwork.

“Thing like this, you want a first-rate job,” he said. “Take me a couple of days, maybe three.”

“How much?” I said.

He carried on feeling the paint and sucked air in through his teeth, like all car guys do when you ask them how much.

“Couple of hundred,” he said. “That’s for a first-rate job, and you don’t want anything less on a thing like this.”

“I’ll give you two fifty,” I said. “That’s for a better than first-rate job, and you loan me a car the two or three days it’s going to take you to do it, OK?”

The guy sucked in some more air and then slapped lightly on the Bentley’s hood.

“It’s a done deal, my friend,” he said.

I took the Bentley key off Charlie’s ring and exchanged it for an eight-year-old Cadillac the color of an old avocado pear. It seemed to drive pretty well and it was about as anonymous as you could hope to get. The Bentley was a lovely automobile, but it was not what I needed if the surveillance went mobile. It was about as distinctive as the most distinctive thing you could ever think of.

I CLEARED THE SOUTHERN RIM OF THE CITY AND STOPPED AT a gas station. Brimmed the old Cadillac’s big tank and bought candy bars and nuts and bottles of water. Then I used their toilet cubicle to get changed. I put on the military surplus gear and threw my old stuff into the towel bin. Went back out to the car. Put the Desert Eagle in the long inside pocket of my new jacket. Cocked and locked. Poured the spare bullets into the outside top pocket. Morrison’s switchblade was in the left side pocket and I put the sap in the right.

I shared the nuts and the candy bars around the other pockets. Poured a bottle of water into the canteen and went to work. Took me another hour to get back to Margrave. I drove the old Cadillac right around the cloverleaf. Up the on-ramp again, heading north. Backed up about a hundred yards along the shoulder and stopped right in the no-man’s-land between the off-ramp and the on-ramp. Where nobody would pass either leaving or joining the highway. Nobody would see the car except people shooting right past Margrave. And they wouldn’t care.

I popped the hood and propped it open. Locked up the car and left it like that. It made it invisible. Just a broken-down old sedan on the shoulder. A sight so ordinary, you don’t see it. Then I climbed over the low concrete wall at the edge of the shoulder. Scrambled down the high bank. Ran south and sprinted across the on-ramp. Carried on ru