Without Fail

It was a Heckler amp; Koch MP5SD6 silenced submachine gun, set to fire three-round bursts. It used standard nine-millimeter Parabellums. No need for low-powered versions, because the SD6’s barrel has thirty holes in it to bleed gas and reduce muzzle velocity to subsonic speeds. It fires at a cyclic rate of eight hundred rounds per minute, so that each three-round burst was complete in a fraction over a fifth of a second. The first burst hit Armstrong in the center of his chest. The second hit him in the center of his face.

The basic H amp;K MP5 has a lot of advantages, including extreme reliability and extreme accuracy. The silenced version works even better because the weight of the integral suppressor mitigates the natural tendency that any submachine gun has toward muzzle climb during operation. Its sole drawback is the vigor with which it spits out its empty cartridge cases. They come out of the side almost as fast as the bullets come out of the front. They travel a long way. Not really a problem in its intended arenas of operation, which are confined to the necessary operations of the world’s elite military and paramilitary units. But it was a problem in this situation. It meant the shooter had to leave six empty shell cases behind as he stuffed the gun under his coat and stepped over Armstrong’s body and walked out of the small courtyard and away to his vehicle.

By six-forty there were almost seven hundred guests in the hotel lobby. They formed a long loose line from the street door to the coat check to the ballroom entrance. There was loud excited conversation in the air, and the heady stink of mingling perfumes. There were new dresses and white tuxedos and dark suits and bright ties. There were clutch purses and small cameras in leather cases. Patent shoes and high heels and the flash of diamonds. Fresh perms and bare shoulders and a lot of animation.

Reacher watched it all, leaning on a pillar near the elevators. He could see three agents through the glass on the street. Two at the door, operating a metal detector. They had its sensitivity set high, because it was beeping at every fourth or fifth guest. The agents were searching purses and patting down pockets. They were smiling conspiratorially as they did so. Nobody minded. There were eight agents roaming the lobby, faces straight, eyes always moving. There were three agents at the ballroom door. They were checking ID and inspecting invitations. Their metal detector was just as sensitive. Some people were searched for a second time. There was already music in the ballroom, audible in waves as the crowd noise peaked and died.

Neagley was triangulated across the lobby on the second step of the mezzanine staircase. Her gaze moved like radar, back and forth across the sea of people. Every third sweep she would lock eyes with Reacher and give a tiny shake of her head. Reacher could see Froelich moving randomly. She looked good. Her black suit was elegant enough for evening, but she wouldn’t be mistaken for a guest. She was full of authority. Time to time she would talk to one of her agents face-to-face. Other times she would talk to her wrist. He got to the point where he could tell exactly when she was hearing messages in her earpiece. Her movements lost a little focus as she concentrated on what she was being told.

By seven o’clock most of the guests were safely in the ballroom. There was a small gaggle of latecomers lining up for the first metal detector and a corresponding number waiting at the ballroom door. Guests who had bought an overnight package at the hotel were drifting out of the elevators in couples or foursomes. Neagley was now isolated on the mezzanine staircase. Froelich had sent her agents into the ballroom one by one as the lobby crowd thi

“How much is all this costing?” Reacher asked her.

“You don’t want to know,” she said. “You really don’t.”

Neagley came down off the staircase and joined them by the pillar.

“Is he here yet?” she asked.

Froelich shook her head. “We’re compressing his exposure time. He’s arriving late and leaving early.”

Then she stiffened and listened to her earpiece. Put her finger on it to cut out the background noise. She raised her other wrist and spoke into the microphone.

“Copy, out,” she said. She was pale.

“What?” Reacher asked.

She ignored him. Spun around and called to the last remaining agent free in the lobby. Told him he was acting on-site team leader for the rest of the night. Spoke into her microphone and repeated that information to all the agents on the local net. Told them to double their vigilance, halve their perimeters, and further compress exposure time wherever possible.

“What?” Reacher asked again.

“Back to base,” Froelich said. “Now. That was Stuyvesant. Seems like we’ve got a real big problem.”

9

She used the red strobes behind the Suburban’s grille and barged through the evening traffic like it was life and death. She lit up the siren at every light. Pushed through and accelerated hard into gaps. Didn’t talk at all. Reacher sat completely still in the front passenger seat and Neagley leaned forward from the back with her eyes locked on the road ahead. The three-ton vehicle bucked and swayed. The tires fought for grip on the slick pavement. They made it back to the garage inside four minutes. They were in the elevator thirty seconds later. In Stuyvesant’s office less than one minute after that. He was sitting motionless behind his immaculate desk. Slumped in his chair like he had taken a punch to the stomach. He was holding a sheaf of papers. The light shone through them and showed the kind of random coded headings you get by printing from a database. There were two blocks of dense text under the headings. His secretary was standing next to him, handing him more paper, sheet by sheet. She was white in the face. She left the room without saying a single word. Closed the door, which intensified the silence.

“What?” Reacher said.

Stuyvesant glanced up at him. “Now I know.”

“Know what?”

“That this is an outside job. For sure. Without any possible doubt.”

“How?”

“You predicted theatrical,” Stuyvesant said. “Or spectacular. Those were your predictions. To which we might add dramatic, or incredible, or whatever.”

“What was it?”

“Do you know what the homicide rate is, nationally?”

Reacher shrugged. “High, I guess.”

“Almost twenty thousand every year.”

“OK.”

“That’s about fifty-four homicides every day.”

Reacher did the math in his head.

“Nearer fifty-five,” he said. “Except in leap years.”

“Want to hear about two of today’s?” Stuyvesant asked.

“Who?” Froelich asked.

“Small sugar beet farm in Mi

“So?”

“The farmer’s name was Bruce Armstrong. The accountant’s was Brian Armstrong. Both of them were white men about Brook Armstrong’s age, about his height, about his weight, similar appearance, same color eyes and hair.”

“Are they family? Are they related?”

“No,” Stuyvesant said. “Not in any way. Not to each other, not to the VP. So therefore I’m asking myself, what are the odds? That two random men whose last name is Armstrong and whose first names both begin with BR are going to get senselessly killed the same day we’re facing a serious threat against our guy? And I’m thinking, the answer is about a trillion billion to one.”