In the spring of 1989 Caroline Crawford was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel. She bought a silver Porsche to celebrate. She had family money, people said, and plenty of it. A trust fund, maybe. Some eminent relative. Maybe an inventor. Her uniforms were tailored in D.C. by the same shop that made suits for the president. She was held to be the richest woman in the army. Not that the bar was high.

With the new rank came a new posting, so the silver Porsche’s first trip was south from War Plans in the Pentagon to Fort Smith in Georgia. All part of the War Plans method. There was no point making plans that couldn’t be executed. High-level on-the-ground liaison was crucial. With a little surreptitious behind-the-scenes observation mixed in. Every new light colonel’s first rotation. Crawford was happy to do it. Even though Fort Smith turned out to be a small damp place in the woods, full of desperate characters. Special forces, of various types. No tailored uniforms. Which was OK. Promising, even. Raw material, possibly, for the kind of new units she was going to need. Input at an early stage could be vital. They might even name the units after her. She would make full bird within a year and a half. She would be fast-tracked to her first star. And she was entitled to have some input. Wasn’t she? Liaison was a two-way street. She was entitled to suggest what they should do, as well as listen to what they couldn’t.

The first week went well, even though it rained a lot. The rumor mill had it straight within an hour: she was unmarried and available, but not cool to hit on, because War Plans was serious shit. So relationships were cordial, but with enough of a hint of a buzz to be interesting, too. The visiting officers’ quarters were adequate in every respect. Like a motel, but more earnest. The woods were always damp and stretched for miles all around, but there were roads through, some of them just forest tracks or firebreaks, others with lit-up signs on their muddy shoulders, eventually, an hour or so out, for barbecue sometimes, or bars with dancing. Life wasn’t bad.

At the end of the first week she left Fort Smith in her tailored Class A uniform, in her silver Porsche, and she turned off the county road at the first big fork, which eventually led to a hidden not-quite two-lane road-to-nowhere through the trees, mostly straight and sunlit, perfect with the windows down, with the wet smell of the rich mud on the shoulders, and the woody echo of the exhaust coming back off the bark, part throaty, part whine, part howl.

Then, a broken-down car up ahead. A sedan, stopped diagonally across the road, its front wheels turned all the way, its hood up, a guy peering in at the motor. A tall guy, obvious even from a hundred yards away. Not lightly built. Big feet.

She slowed, late and hard, just for the fun of it, changing down, the exhaust popping behind her like a firework show. The stalled sedan was a Detroit product painted army green. The guy under its hood straightened up and turned to look. He was tall indeed, maybe six-six, in standard battledress uniform, woodland pattern. He was all in proportion, and therefore far from delicate, but he held himself gracefully. He looked slender, except he wasn’t.

She stopped the car. She rested her elbow on the door and her chin on her elbow, just looking, part quizzical, part resigned, part ready to help, maybe after some teasing. All those things, and not suspicious at all. The raised hood triggered some kind of ancient early-motorist instinct. Helpful, and sympathetic.

That, and the familiar uniform.

The tall guy walked closer. Big clumsy feet, in battered tan boots, but otherwise an elegant long-legged lope. No hat. Cropped fair hair, receding. Blue eyes, an open gaze, somehow both naïve and knowing. An otherwise unremarkable face, with features just the right side of blunt.

He had a full colonel’s eagle on his collar. Above his right pocket his tape said: U.S. Army. Above his left pocket his tape said: Reacher.

He said, “Forgive me for interrupting your journey, but I can’t push it out the way. Can’t turn the wheel. I think the power steering broke.”

She said, “Colonel, I’m sorry.”

He said, “I’m guessing your car doesn’t have a trailer hitch.”

“I could help you push.”

“That’s kind of you, but it would take ten of us.”

She said, “Are you who I think you are?”

“That depends.”

“You’re Joe Reacher. You just got a new counterintelligence command.”

“Correct on both counts,” Joe Reacher said. “I’m pleased to meet you.” He glanced down at her nameplate. Plastic, white on black, because of the tailored Class As. The nameplate is adjusted to individual figure differences, centered horizontally on the right side between one and two inches above the top button of the coat. He looked at her unit insignia and her badges of rank. He said, “You must be Caroline Crawford. Congratulations.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Part of my job. But it’s not part of yours to know who I am.”

“Not part of my job, but part of my interest. I like to track the key players.”

“I’m not a key player.”

“Sir, bullshit, with respect, sir.”

“Academic interest, or career interest?”

She half smiled, half shrugged, but didn’t answer.

He said, “Both, right?”

She said, “I don’t see why it can’t be.”

“How high do you plan to get?”

“Three stars,” she said. “In the Joint Chiefs’ office, maybe. Anything more would be in the lap of the gods.”

Joe Reacher said, “Well, good luck with all of that,” and he put his hand in his battledress pocket, and he came out with a standard army-issue Beretta M9 semi-automatic pistol, and he shot Caroline Crawford with it, twice in the chest and once in the head.

—

Also with a new posting the same week as Caroline Crawford was a military police major named David Noble. He was detaching from his current command and heading to Fort Benning, Georgia, from where he would oversee criminal investigations throughout the southeastern military districts. A brand-new reorganization. Someone’s baby. Unlikely to last, but temporarily important work. Noble never got to do it. He was in a car wreck on the way. In South Carolina. An adjacent state. Nearly there. Not fatal, but he ended up at Walter Reed. He had a collapsed lung. He couldn’t breathe right. So an emergency substitute was decided on and hunted down and pulled off his current maneuvers and hustled north to Benning. Just how it always was, for the army. Situation entirely normal. A big job, the second-best guy, a week late. On the bright side people said this new one was a fast study and a hard worker. He might catch up. If he got started right away.

So it was that the same moment Joe Reacher said, “I’m not a key player,” his younger brother, Jack Reacher, walked into a brand-new office more than a hundred miles away, and then out again, in search of coffee, almost ready to begin overseeing criminal investigations throughout the southeastern military districts.

—

The Porsche was found early the next morning, by four soldiers in a Humvee, who were trying to find a shortcut back to Smith after a night exercise had gone all kinds of wrong in terms of navigation. They recognized the car from a distance. It was already famous on the base. The new War Plans lady. Hot, smart, and rich. Nothing wrong with any of that. Nothing at all. Maybe she had a flat tire. Maybe she was in need of assistance.

As they pulled closer they thought the car was empty.

Then they saw it wasn’t.

They rolled by at walking speed and their high seating positions let them look down inside the Porsche, where they saw a woman in Class A uniform flopped over backward across the seats, shot twice in the chest and once in the head.

They parked nearby, and called it in on the radio. Then they sat tight. Crime scenes were not their problem. Within forty minutes an MP crew got there. From Fort Smith. With two JAG lawyers. Also from Fort Smith. They all took a look, and then they all stepped back. There was a question of jurisdiction. The road belonged to the county. Hence the county police had been informed. No choice. They were on their way, for a discussion.

—

Fort Benning heard about it almost immediately. A brand-new reorganization. Too fresh to be screwed up yet. Reacher had spent until late in the evening studying the new unit manual, and reviewing open cases, and reading files, and talking to people. Then he had grabbed a few hours of sleep, and gotten up again with a plan in his head. He figured he had a lot of work to do. The place was drowning in paper. And the NCOs were badly chosen. In his experience units ran either well or not depending on the quality of their sergeants. He wanted expert bureaucrats, but he didn’t want them to be in love with bureaucracy. There was a difference. He wanted people who treated tasks like an enemy, to be dispatched fast and efficiently and ruthlessly. Or punitively, even. They won’t send me that form again. The new unit didn’t have such people. They were all too comfortable. A little soft. Like the guy who brought the torn-off telex first thing in the morning. A soft, comfortable guy. Hard to put in words, but he didn’t have the spirit Reacher wanted. He didn’t have the edge. He didn’t look dangerous.

The telex said One repeat one (1) active-duty personnel found shot to death ten miles north of Fort Smith. Circumstances unknown.

Reacher pictured a bar fight, a private or maybe a specialist, in some kind of an altercation with a local. Maybe a Harley fell over in the parking lot, or a glass of beer got spilled. Bars near bases were always full of local civilian hotheads with guns in their pockets and points to prove.

He said, “Bring me the details as and when they come in.”

The soft sergeant said he would, and left the room.

Reacher picked up the phone and called his new CO. Among other things he said, “I need a better sergeant here. I need you to send me Frances Neagley. Before the end of the day, preferably.”

—

The county sheriff who showed up in the woods knew the value of mud as an evidentiary medium. He parked way short and skirted the scene a yard off the road, pausing often to crouch and study the marks in the fine black tilth, which covered the blacktop more or less side to side, like a scrim, molecules thin in the center and inches thick on the edges. There were a lot of marks, some of them crisp, some of them oozing black water, some of them overwritten by the four soldiers rolling by in their Humvee.

The county guy made it all the way to the gaggle of Smith guys, and they all introduced themselves and shook hands and then stood around mute, maybe taking the legal temperature, maybe rehearsing their arguments. The county guy spoke first. He said, “Was she based at Fort Smith?”

A JAG lawyer said, “Yes.”

“Any indication this was blue on blue?” Meaning, was there a professional dispute I don’t need to know about? Is this all in the family?

The JAG lawyer said, “No.”

“Therefore she’s mainly mine. Until I know for sure the shooter wasn’t a civilian. I need to pay attention to a thing like this. I could have a crazy person running around in the woods. What was her name?”

“Crawford.”

“What did she do at Fort Smith?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“She was ambushed,” the county guy said. “I can tell you that. The marks are clear. Someone faked a breakdown. She stopped to help. He had big feet.”

The ranking MP said, “What next?”

The county guy said, “It’s above my pay grade. Literally, in the township by-laws. I have to pass it on to State. No choice.”

“When?”

“I already called. They’ll be here soon. Then they can decide to keep it or pass it on to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.”

“We can’t wait forever.”

“You won’t have to. Half a day, maybe.” And then the guy crabbed back around the mud, to his car, where he got in and sat by himself.

—

The next telex came in an hour later. The same soft sergeant tore it out of the machine and brought it to Reacher’s desk. It said Gunshot victim previously reported was LTC Caroline C. Crawford. DOA inside POV stationary on isolated forest road.

POV meant personally owned vehicle. DOA meant dead on arrival. LTC meant lieutenant colonel. All of which together added up to an issue. Very few senior officers of Reacher’s acquaintance fought to the death in bars. Especially not senior officers named Caroline. And even if they did, they didn’t wind up inside their own private cars on remote woodland tracks. How would they?

Not a bar fight.

He said, “Who was she?”

The sergeant said, “Sir, I don’t know.”

Which was a case in point. A decent NCO would have detoured to a book or a phone and brought with him at least a capsule biography and a copy of current orders. Frances Neagley would have had all of that five minutes ago. Plus a photograph. Plus a lock of baby hair, if you wanted one.

Reacher said, “Go find out who she was.”

—

The dispute over jurisdiction lasted longer than expected. The State cop who showed up let slip he wasn’t sure if the woods were federal property. Fort Smith’s acreage was, obviously. Maybe the undeveloped land all around was, too. The county guy said the road was maintained by the county. That was for sure. And the car was on the road, and the victim was in the car. The JAG lawyers said killing a federal employee was a federal crime, and a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army was assuredly a federal employee. And so on and so forth. Dark clouds gathered in the sky. More rain was on the way. The marks in the mud were about to get washed out. So a compromise was offered. The State Police would be the lead agency, but the army would be fully accommodated. Access would be guaranteed. Acceptable, to the men in green. The autopsy would be performed by the state, in Atlanta. Also acceptable, because everyone already knew what the autopsy was going to say. Otherwise healthy, except shot twice in the chest and once in the head. The deal was agreed, whereupon immediately all three factions got into a flurry of crime-scene photography. Then a hard rain started to fall, and a tarpaulin was draped over the Porsche, and they all waited in their cars for the meat wagon and the tow truck.

—

Reacher looked up and saw his sergeant standing in front of him. A silent approach. The guy had a sheet of paper in his hand. But he didn’t pass it over. He spoke instead. He said, “Sir, permission to ask a question?”

Which was a bad thing to hear, from a unit NCO. It wasn’t what it sounded like. It was a whole different announcement. Like a girlfriend saying, “Honey, we need to talk.”

Reacher said, “Fire away.”

“I’ve heard you don’t like my work and you’re having me posted elsewhere.”

“Incorrect on both counts.”

“Really?”

“Likes and dislikes dwell in the realm of emotion. Are you accusing me of having feelings, sergeant?”

“No, sir.”

“I assess your work coldly and rationally against a custom metric of my own design. Which is, are you a guy I could call in the middle of the night with an emergency?”

“Am I, sir?”

“Not even close.”

“So I’m to be posted.”

“Negative.”

“Sir, not to challenge your answer in any way, but I already know Sergeant Neagley has orders to proceed here without delay.”

Reacher smiled. “The NCO grapevine gets faster all the time.”

“She comes, I go. How else could it work?”

“It could work by you sticking around and learning something. That’s what’s going to happen. Neagley will report to me and you’ll report to Neagley. At times she’ll offer advice and encouragement about how to improve your performance.”

“We’re of equal rank.”

“Pretend she comes from a planet with double the gravity. Her rank is worth more than yours.”

“How long will she be here?”

“As long as it takes. You people need to think ahead. This reorganization is going to come out exactly ass-backward. You’re not going to be up on a hill, peering down on all you survey. You’re going to be deep in a hole, getting buried in paper. Because this is going to be the cover-your-ass unit. Everyone in the army is going to report everything, so whatever turns bad in the end is automatically our fault, because we didn’t follow it up at the time. So you need to develop a very aggressive attitude toward paperwork. If you hesitate, it will bury you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Therefore you also need to trust your intuition. You need to smell the ones that matter. No time for extensive study. Are you an aggressive person who trusts his intuition, sergeant?”

“Maybe not enough, sir.”

“What’s on the piece of paper you’re holding in your hand?”

“It’s a fax, sir. A history of Colonel Crawford’s postings.”

“Did you read it on the way in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And?”

“She’s in War Plans. Currently liaising with the special operations school at Fort Smith.”

“Which tells us what?”

“I don’t know how to put it.”

“In your own words, sergeant.”

“She’s a pointy-head.”

“The pointiest of all. War Plans is special. Regular pointy-heads can’t even get in the door. We’re talking needle sharp here. Shot to death. Should we be worried?”

“I think we should, sir.”

“Intuition,” Reacher said. “It’s a wonderful thing.”

“Any practical steps?”

“Start playing bad cop with the guys at Smith. Tell them we need more things sooner. In fact tell them we require a Xerox of everything. A complete file, as per protocol.”

“I think that’s one of the issues not yet decided.”

“Fake it till you make it, sergeant. Get them in the habit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And close the door on the way out.”

Which the guy did. Reacher dialed his phone. The Pentagon. A number on a desk outside an office with a window. Answered by a sergeant, inevitably.

Reacher said, “Is he there? It’s his brother.”

“Wait one, major.” Then a shout, muffled by a palm on the receiver: Joe, your brother is on line two. Then a click, and then Joe’s voice, asking, “Are you still in Central America?”

Reacher said, “No, they pulled me out and sent me to Benning. Some other guy got in a car wreck. So I’m a day late and a dollar short.”

“What’s at Benning?”

“It’s a new thing. A lot of incoming reports. Success or failure will depend on high-speed triage. Which is why I’m calling. I need background on a name at War Plans. It would take all day to get it anyplace else.”

“What’s happening at War Plans?”

“One of them died.”

“What exactly is it you’re doing at Benning?”

“The mission is to supervise all criminal investigations in the southeastern military districts. The likelihood is it will become a gigantic file cabinet.”

“Who was supposed to get the command?”

“A guy named David Noble. Never met him. Fell asleep at the wheel, probably. Too eager to get here.”

“So you got it.”

“Luck of the draw.”

“Who died from War Plans?”

“Caroline Crawford.”

“So you’ll be investigating that.”

“I expect someone will, eventually.”

“How did she die?”

“Shot on a lonely road.”

“Who by?”

“We don’t know.”

“She was a big star,” Joe said. “She was going all the way. Lieutenant general at least. The Joint Chiefs’ office, probably.”

“Doing what exactly?”

“There are three possible vectors for the Cold War. It could go hot, or it could stay the same, or the Soviet Union could fall apart under its own weight. Obviously a diligent planner looks at option three and asks, OK, what’s next? And small wars are next. Against half-assed nuisance countries, mostly in the Middle East. Caroline Crawford was working on Iraq. She was starting early and playing a real long game. A big gamble. But the payoff was huge. She would have owned the Middle East doctrine. That’s about as good as it gets, for a planner.”

Reacher said, “I assume all of that was behind closed doors. I assume I don’t need to go looking for Iraqi assassins.”

“Conventional wisdom would say the Iraqis didn’t know who she was. As you say, it was behind closed doors, and there were many of them, and they were all closed tight, and she was too junior to attract attention anyway.”

“Any other external enemies?”

“External to what?”

“The United States. Either the army or the general population.”

“I can’t think of one.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “Thanks. Are you well and happy?”

“What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“Crawford.”

“Nothing, probably. I’m sure there’s a jurisdiction thing. State Police will claim it. I think they opened a new mortuary, up in Atlanta. They’re proud of it. It’s like a new theater getting the best plays.”

“Yes, I’m well and happy. Do you have time to drive up and have dinner?”

“It’s about a thousand miles.”

“No, it’s about six hundred and ninety-three. That’s not far.”

“Maybe I’ll get there for a weekend.”

“Keep me in the loop about Crawford. If anything weird shows up, I mean. Part of my job.”

“I will,” Reacher said, and he hung up the phone. His sergeant knocked on the door and came in with a faxed report and a short stack of photographs. The guy put them neatly on the desk and said, “This all is from the MP XO at Smith. It’s everything they’ve got so far. We know what they know.”

“Did you read it on the way in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And?”

“There are tire tracks and footprints. Probably a second vehicle was deployed as a barrier. The perpetrator seems to be a tall man with a long stride and large feet. Also noteworthy is the fact that JAG lawyers went with the MPs to the scene. And there were three gunshot wounds. Two in the chest and one in the head.”

“Good work, sergeant.”

The guy said, “Thank you,” and walked out, and a minute later Frances Neagley walked in.

—

Neagley was about the size of a male flyweight boxer, and could have beaten one easily, unless the referee happened to be watching. She was in woodland-pattern BDUs, newly washed and pressed. She had dark hair cut short, and a solid tan. She had spent the winter overseas. That was clear. She said, “I heard about the dead pointy-head.”

Reacher smiled. The NCO grapevine. He said, “How are you?”

“Grumpy. You pulled me out of an easy week at Fort Bragg. Practically a vacation.”

“Doing what?”

“Security for the special forces command. They don’t tend to need much. Not that it isn’t good to see you.”

“What do you know about Fort Smith?”

“It’s their version of pointy-heads. The theory and practice of irregular warfare. They call it a school.”

“Why would they have JAG lawyers permanently on base?”

“The theory, I suppose. Rules of engagement, and so forth. I imagine they’re pushing the envelope.”

“My brother says the dead pointy-head was staking out a whole new doctrine for the Middle East. She wanted to own Plan B. If we don’t get the big war, we get a bunch of small wars instead. Starting with Iraq, maybe. She was rolling the dice. And I guess special forces were rolling them right along with her. They don’t fit well with the big war. Their only play is small. Was anyone talking about that at Bragg?”

Neagley shook her head. “That kind of thing would have to start at Smith. It’s like espionage. You have to infiltrate the intellectual heart. Or like a political campaign. You have to build a constituency. You need key endorsements.”

“So if she wins, who loses?”

“No one loses. She wouldn’t divert resources away from the big war. It would be extra spending. The president is a Republican.”

“So she was a woman with no enemies.”

“She was rich,” Neagley said. “Did you know that?”

Reacher said, “No.”

“People say it was family money. She bought a sports car to celebrate her promotion.”

“What kind of sports car?”

“German.”

“A Volkswagen?”

“I don’t think so.”

Reacher leafed through the faxed report.

“A Porsche,” he said. “The POV she was found in.”

He scanned the rest of the report. Words, maps, charts. And the photographs. Mud, marks, wounds. He passed it all to Neagley. She scanned it in turn, the same way, words, maps, charts, mud, marks, and wounds.

She said, “Two in the chest and one in the head. That’s an execution.”

Reacher nodded. “The woman with no enemies. But not exactly. Because it can’t have been random. It wasn’t a robbery. Not just some punk. Even a hillbilly would have taken the car. He’d have driven it hard all night and burned it in the morning.”

“Two in the chest and one in the head is standard military practice. Under certain circumstances, in certain units. You can look it up.”

“Is it exclusively military?”

“Probably not.”

“And there are plenty of vets in the state of Georgia. We shouldn’t narrow it down too much. We shouldn’t put the blinders on.”

Neagley turned to the last page of the written report. She said, “We might as well put blindfolds on. It isn’t our case. The State Police has got it.”

“How many rich people are there in the army?”

“Very few.”

“How many are also smart enough to fast-track through one tough gig after another?”

“Very few.”

“So does this feel random to you?”

“Not with the execution-style placement, no.”

“So she was a specific target, deliberately ambushed.”

“You can see the tire marks in the mud. The guy parked across the road. Sawed back and forth a bit, to make it look good. Then he got out to wait. Big feet. That’s how to narrow it down. This guy wears size fifteen boots.”

Reacher took the paperwork back from her. He flipped forward to the maps. Not the kind of thing for sale at the gas station. Detailed government surveys, of woodland and streams and roads and tracks of every description and purpose, all Xeroxed and tiled together on slightly-overlapping pages.

He said, “But that road doesn’t really go anywhere. Maybe it’s just a firebreak. There’s no logical reason to be on that road. You’d have to detour to get there, and then get yourself back on track again afterward. Wherever you were going. Therefore there’s no logical way to predict she would use that road. The odds get worse and worse after the first big fork. She could have used any road. It’s ten to one at best. And who sets up a deliberate ambush on a ten-to-one chance? So it must have been random.”

“So let the State Police have it. They’ll chase it through the shoe size. This guy must be a basketball player. I mean, what size are your feet?”

“Eleven.”

“Is that big or small?”

“I don’t know.”

“We need a larger sample. What about Joe, for instance?”

Reacher didn’t answer.

Neagley said, “What?”

“Sorry, I was thinking.”

“What about?”

“About Joe and his footwear habits. He’s same as me, I think. Maybe eleven and a half.”

“And he’s an inch taller, as I recall, as well as better looking, so if we ballpark it we could round it up and say a size twelve is about right for guys about your height, and we could push it up to size fourteen, maybe, to allow for some genetic variation, which has to mean a guy who wears a size fifteen is not going to be any smaller than you, at least, and probably bigger, which makes him some kind of ape man who lives in the woods. Should be easy to spot. Should be easy to eliminate suspects. The State Police will handle it fine.”

“We’re supposed to supervise. The JAGs got us access.”

“I believe we’re already getting all of Fort Smith’s paperwork.”

“I think we need to be proactive.”

“In what way?”

“In whatever way works. It had to be random, but it can’t have been. There’s a whole span of assumptions right there, and at least one of them can’t be true. We’ll have to figure it out sooner or later. Because the State Police will ask. Also sooner or later. That’s for damn sure.”

“OK. We’ll do what we can. Plus the autopsy will be happening.”

—

Two hours later the autopsy reported exactly what everyone expected. Otherwise healthy. The fatal shot was probably the first, into the chest. Hard to be sure, for both pathologist and perpetrator, hence the two follow-ups. The vertical triangle. Chest, chest, head. Job done.

All three bullets had been recovered inside the Porsche. They were badly mangled, but they were almost certainly nine-millimeter Parabellum. The entry wound in the forehead was exactly nine millimeters wide. The angle was plausible, for a tall man firing downward into a stationary car. Which matched the earlier photographs. The big feet had walked close, then shuffled around, possibly during a moment of conversation, and then they had stepped back and braced. For the moment of truth. Recoil off the nine wasn’t terrible, but a sound footing was always a good idea. Range about eight feet, Reacher guessed. Ideal. Chest, chest, head. Hard to miss, at eight feet. No brass in the photographs. The guy had picked up his shell cases. And driven away, in the decoy vehicle.

A skilled worker.

An execution.

Neagley said, “The career gossip sounds fairly normal, for a pointy-head. She was a classroom superstar at West Point. A decent physical soldier, but mostly a geek. Therefore always destined for the back rooms. Smooth acceleration all the way. Really blossomed in War Plans. It suited her somehow. She became her own person. She loosened up a little. Even started spending some of her money. Maybe she felt awkward before. That was when she first got the fancy uniforms.”

Reacher said, “Do we know anything about the money yet? As in, where it originally came from?”

“You think this is a financial crime?”

“Who knows, with rich people? They’re different from you and me.”

“I’ve got a call in, to the family. Difficult today, obviously. With her being dead, and so on. There are protocols involved and procedures to follow. We’ll probably end up talking to the family lawyer. But that’s fine. These things can be complicated. We’ll need him anyway.”

“Anything useful from the State Police?”

“They’re looking for a tall guy with big feet. Not necessarily active-duty military. Their minds are open. They acknowledge they have a lot of veterans. Plus a lot of kids who have seen every execution style in history on cable TV. And who have guns. And vehicles.”

“Motive?”

“They say robbery. Casting a net and seeing what showed up. Like fishing on a lazy afternoon.”

“On a road to nowhere?”

“They say people take that road sometimes. She took it that day, obviously.”

“Low probability.”

“But a quiet and undisturbed location.”

“They didn’t steal anything.”

“They panicked and ran.”

“Does the State Police really believe any of that?”

“No. It’s a polite hypothetical. They’re bending over backward to be fair, because JAG is right there at their elbows. But I hear deep down they’re sure it’s a soldier. They’re assuming romantic, because they haven’t been told exactly how pointy her head was.”

“Could it be romantic?”

“There’s no evidence of boyfriends past or present. Or girlfriends.”

“The woman with no enemies. She wins, no one loses. Extra spending. It’s all good. Except it isn’t. One of those facts is wrong. Which one is it?”

“You said it was random, Reacher. It was a road to nowhere. You just told me that.”

“What was the decoy vehicle? Do they know?”

“The tire tracks were generic Firestones. On a million domestic products. Up to mid-size cars, and mid-range pick-up trucks. And before you ask, yes, the army uses them extensively. I checked, and there’s a set on the car I drove down in.”

“You drove from Bragg?”

“It’s not that far. Normal people like driving more than you do.”

Reacher said, “They’re going to ask us for a list of shoe sizes at Fort Smith. That’s what’s coming next.”

“Smith is all special forces. Those guys run smaller than normal. I bet they’re all size nine.”

“That’s not the point. We can’t give them something like that. Not without lawyers. They’ll be talking for months. This thing is going to turn into a nightmare.”

—

Thirty minutes later the fine print from the autopsy came in on the fax machine, and then the telex chuntered into life with a new report from Fort Smith. The pathologist in Atlanta had weighed and measured and poked and prodded and X-rayed. Crawford had been slender but well toned. All her organs were in perfect working order. She had long-healed childhood breaks to her right collar bone and her right forearm. She had recent cosmetic dentistry. Toxicology was clear, and there was no evidence of recent sex, and she had never been pregnant. Heart and lungs like a teenager. Nothing wrong with her at all, except for the bullets.

The telex from Smith showed some initiative. The MPs out there had done some good work, on a timeline for Crawford’s first week on post. Seven completed days. A lot of talking. A lot of meetings. Different agendas, different constituencies. Not just officers. She had talked to NCOs and enlisted men. She had eaten in the mess two nights, and gone out five. She had taken recommendations from the mess stewards. Which was smart. They had long-term postings, and could be relied upon to know the local joints. Which were mostly an hour away, at least, on the roads through the woods. Reacher checked back with the maps, and traced them all. Barbecue, bars, a family restaurant, and even a movie theater. No place had an obvious linear way to get there. Every destination could be arrived at by a number of different looping routes. The roads had been made for forestry purposes, not ease of transportation. There had been speculation that the low-slung Porsche wouldn’t handle them well. But Crawford had reported no problems. She had gone out and come back safe, five straight times. A young staff officer, for once outside the D.C. bubble, making the most of things. Reacher had seen it before.

Neagley came in and said, “The protocol office can’t find the parents. They think the father might be deceased. But they’re not sure. And they don’t have a number for the mother. Or an address. They’re still looking.”

Then the soft sergeant trailed in behind her, with a torn-off telex in his hand.

The Georgia State Police had made an arrest.

Not a soldier.

Not a military veteran.

—

Reacher called Fort Smith direct for the skinny. The suspect was a black man who lived alone in a cabin on the muddy shore of a lake forty miles north and west of the post. He was six feet seven inches tall, and wore size fifteen shoes. He drove a Ford Ranger pick-up truck with Firestone tires, and he owned a nine-millimeter handgun.

He denied everything.

Reacher looked up at the soft sergeant standing in front of him and said, “You’re in charge now, soldier. Sergeant Neagley and I are going to Smith.”

—

Neagley drove, in her pool car from Bragg. It was a green Chevrolet, with Firestone tires. The trip was about a hundred and ten miles, more or less due east from Benning. Most of the scenery was woods. New spring-green leaves flashed by in the sun. Reacher said, “So we’ll call this the casting-the-net theory. Like fishing on a lazy afternoon. Once in a while the guy comes down from the lake and sets up on a back road and catches something. Like Robin Hood. Or an ogre from under a bridge. When the moon is full. Or whenever he needs to eat. Or something. Like a fairytale.”

“Or maybe he comes down every day. But catches something only once in a while. Either way is possible. These are the Georgia woods. Think about carjacking in LA. Or getting mugged in New York City. Routine. Maybe this is the local version. Adapted to the environment.”

“Then why did the carjacker not jack her car? Why did he execute her very clinically instead?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did she stop in the first place?”

“He was blocking the road.”

“She didn’t need to come close and talk to the guy. Being in War Plans doesn’t make her a total idiot. She went to West Point. She’s a woman driving alone. She should have stood back a hundred yards and made a threat assessment.”

“Maybe she did.”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes. She did. She was a woman driving alone.”

“In which case we conclude the guy was no threat. She drove right up to him, with her window open. Would she do that, for a weird six-seven stranger she had never seen before? With a broken-down pick-up truck? I’m sure she saw all the movies. With the chainsaws and the banjo music.”

“OK, she felt safe with the guy. Maybe she knew him. Or thought she knew him. Or knew his type.”

“Exactly,” Reacher said. “Which would make him active-duty military. Probably in uniform. Possibly even with a military vehicle. Not too far below in rank. Or maybe equal or even higher. For her to feel truly comfortable. This was a whole complicated performance. I want to get the right guy. Otherwise what’s the point? And I’ve always found a big part of getting the right guy is not getting the wrong guy.”

“They’re going to say this guy has the right tires.”

“So do a million other people.”

“He has the right bullets.”

“So do a million other people.”

“He has the right feet.”

—

Neagley had read a lot of research into first impressions, those merciless subliminal split seconds where one human judges another, on a million different things, all at once like a computer, all leading to an instant and inevitable yes-no answer: Should I stay or should I go? Sadly the State Police’s suspect scored very low on that test. Neagley knew her own sense of threat assessment was likely to be more robust than Crawford’s, by an order of magnitude, but even so she would have kept her distance and approached warily, and only after locking her doors and getting her gun out.

They saw the guy in a holding cell at the county police station, which was ten minutes from Smith. He had some kind of growth disorder. Pituitary, maybe. A hormone imbalance. He should have been average size, but the long bones in his arms and legs had been racked out way longer than nature could have intended, and his hands and feet were equally huge, and his face was very long, with a chisel of a chin below it, and a narrow-domed forehead above.

Reacher asked, “Has he lawyered up?”

The county sheriff said, “He waived. He believes innocent men don’t need lawyers.”

“That’s groundwork for an insanity plea.”

“No, I think he means it.”

“Then it might be true. It sometimes is.”

“He’s got the feet and the gun and the tires. That’s a rare combination.”

“A guy with hands that big prefers a shotgun.”

“He told us he owns a nine.”

“He might. But does he use it?”

“Think I should ask him? What else is he going to say?”

“Did you match the footwear?”

“It was raining again almost immediately. Photographs were all we got. No casts. Not that we could have gotten casts anyway. Wrong kind of mud. More like liquid peat. Too spongy. I apologize on behalf of the state of Georgia for the poor quality of our mud. Not what you expect, I know. But spongy or not, we measured the prints with a ruler. They were size fifteen. Just like the boots he was wearing when they brought him in.”

“So you can’t match the tires either. Not exactly. For nicks or wear.”

“The photograph is clear as to brand.”

“Has he said where he was at the time?”

“Home alone. No witnesses.”

“So it’s a closed case?”

“The State Police is expressing considerable satisfaction in the outcome. But no case is closed until the grand jury says so.”

“Are they still looking?”

“Not as hard. What’s your problem, major?”

“This guy lives alone in a cabin. You know why that is? People are scared to look at him. He’s repellent. That’s all he’s ever heard, ever since he was a little kid. These growth things start early. So when it came time to earn some coin, why would he choose the role of smooth-talking conman, lulling passing drivers into a false sense of security? Why would he expect to succeed at that, given the way he’s been looked at all his life? I think he’s ugly, but I think he’s innocent. In fact I think he’s innocent because he’s ugly.”

“Lots of people look a little funny. Doesn’t stop them working.”

“Does this happen often? Is it a big thing here? Sticking people up by faking breakdowns?”

“I never heard of it before.”

“So this guy invented it, too?”

“He’s got the feet and the gun and the tires,” the county guy said. “That’s a rare combination.”

—

They gave Reacher Caroline Crawford’s room, in the Fort Smith visiting officers’ quarters. The MPs had taken all her possessions out, as part of the investigation, and the stewards had cleaned the place up. Some of the surfaces were still damp. Neagley was in NCO accommodation. They met first thing the next morning in her mess for coffee and breakfast, and then they headed to the MP office to look at maps. The local commander was a captain named Ellsbury. He was a squared-away individual running a tight ship, and rightly proud of it. He produced every kind of map there was, including the government surveys they had seen before, plus large-scale topographical sheets bound into an atlas, and even a Triple-A giveaway of the southern part of the state.

Reacher started at the far end of a random potential journey, at what the government survey labeled a bar, and what the much older topographical sheets called a Negro Night Club. It was about thirty miles out. An hour by car, probably, given the prevailing conditions. There was no really direct way to get there. An intending patron departing Fort Smith would have to leave the county road at the first fork, and then thread through the woods on any one of ten potential routes, all looping and curving, none obviously better than another. The road Crawford had used had nothing to recommend it. Not in terms of efficiency. It might even have added unnecessary distance. A mile or two.

Reacher said, “Why would the guy with the big feet set up there? He could go days without seeing traffic. And nine times out of ten what traffic he saw would be soldiers. From here. What kind of a business plan is that? He decides to make a living by mugging Delta Force and Army Rangers? Good luck with that career choice.”

“Why would anyone set up there?” Ellsbury said. “But we know someone did.”

“You think the guy they got did it? Two to the chest and one to the head? That’s a learned technique. Center mass, skip left, center mass again, skip up, one to the head just in case they get over the chest wounds. It’s relatively precise. It’s been practiced.”

“They practice it here. But no one is unaccounted for ahead of when she left. It wasn’t one of ours lying in wait.”

“And I doubt it was a guy with a skeletal disorder that probably hurts his fine motor control, either.”

“He’s got the tires and the gun and the feet. He’s a weird black guy who lives alone in a hut. This is 1989, but it’s Georgia. Sometimes it’s still 1959. This guy will do. He won’t be the first and he won’t be the last.”

“I want to see that road for myself,” Reacher said.

—

Neagley drove, with Reacher in the front and Ellsbury in the back. Off the county road at the first fork, into the capillary network, and then finally onto a not-quite two-lane blacktop ribbon through the trees, mostly straight and sunlit, bordered by fine black mud washed smooth again by the rain. Ellsbury peered ahead between the seats, and pointed Neagley to a spot about three hundred yards after a slight bend. He said, “That’s the scene.”

There was plenty of scope for a threat assessment. Neagley pretended to see the broken-down vehicle, and lifted off and coasted, and she could have stopped two hundred yards out, or a hundred, or fifty, or wherever she wanted. She came to rest right where Ellsbury said it happened. There was nothing to see. The mud was dull and flat and uniform, lightly pocked by rain spatter. But the marks in the photographs had told the story. A vehicle had been parked right there, across the not-quite two traffic lanes, and a guy had gotten out and waited near the front, probably pretending to look under the hood.

They all got out, making fresh marks in the mud, deep and oozing where it was thick, and spongy and blotted where it wasn’t. The air smelled of rain and sun and earth and pine. Reacher looked back, and looked ahead.

He said, “OK, I’ve seen enough.”

Then he looked ahead again.

A car was coming. Black and white. A cop car. State Police. A spotlight on the pillar, and a bubble on the roof, like a little red hat. One guy behind the wheel. Otherwise empty.

The car came to a stop symmetrical with Neagley’s, nose to nose in the other traffic lane. The trooper climbed out. A young guy, with fair hair and a red face. Built like a side of beef. He had small deep-set eyes. They made him look mean.

He said, “The army is supposed to inform us before interfering with the crime scene.”

Reacher said, “Are you working this case?”

“Just taking a look, out of curiosity.”

“Then get lost.”

“Get what?”

“Lost.”

The guy stepped closer and looked at Reacher’s chest. U.S. Army. Reacher. He said, “You’re the boy who don’t like our work.”

Reacher said, “I’m the boy?”

“You think we got the wrong guy.”

“You think you got the right guy?”

“Sure I do. It’s scientific. Plenty of people have Firestone tires, and plenty have nine-millimeter ammunition, but not many have size fifteen feet, so when you put it all together it’s like three cherries on a slot machine.”

“Will the guy get a lawyer?”

“Of course. The public defender.”

“Does the public defender have a pulse?”

“Of course.”

“Doesn’t that worry you? You think the three-cherries argument will stand up to the slightest scrutiny? Were you out sick the day they taught thinking?”

“Now you’re being unpleasant.”

“Not yet,” Reacher said. “You’ll notice the difference.”

“This is a public road. I could arrest you.”

“Theoretically possible. Like I could get a date with Miss America.”

“You planning to resist?”

“Maybe I’ll arrest you instead.”

“For what?”

“I’m sure we could figure something out. A bit of this, and a bit of that. We could get three cherries of our own.”

The guy said, “Try it.”

He stepped up and squared his shoulders. Local civilian hotheads with guns in their pockets and points to prove.

Reacher said, “Sergeant, arrest this man.”

Neagley stepped up.

Face to face with the trooper.

She said, “Sir, I’m going to lean forward and take your weapon from its holster.”

The guy said, “Little lady, I don’t think you are.”

Neagley said, “If you impede me in any way, you will be handcuffed.”

The guy shoved her in the chest.

Which was a mistake on several different levels. Military discipline could not allow assaults by detainees. And Neagley hated physical contact. No one knew why. But it was a recognized issue. She couldn’t bear to be touched. She wouldn’t even shake hands. Not even with a friend. Thus a glove laid on her in anger was beyond the pale, and liable to produce a reaction.

For the trooper the reaction resulted in a broken nose and a kick in the balls. She came off the back foot and drove the heel of her hand into the guy’s face, from below, an arching blow like a flyweight boxer thumping the heavy bag, and there was a puff of blood in the air, and the guy skittered back on his heels, and she punted him another six feet with the kick, and he went down on his ass with his back against the front wheel of his car, huffing and puffing and squealing.

Reacher said, “Feel free to make an official complaint. I’ll swear out a witness statement. About how you got your clock cleaned by a girl. You want that in the record?”

The guy didn’t, apparently. He just flapped his hands, mute.

Get lost.

In the car on the way back to base Neagley said, “I agree the guy was an idiot.”

Reacher said, “But?”

“Why me? Why didn’t you do it?”

“Like they say in England, why buy a dog and bark yourself?”

—

Back on the base Ellsbury’s sergeant had a phone message for Neagley. She returned the call and came out and said, “They found an address for Crawford’s parents. Plural. Now they think the father is still alive. But the phone number doesn’t get them past the servants’ quarters. They can’t even establish whether the Crawfords are home or not right now. I guess the butler is too discreet. They want someone to do a drive-by, to get the lay of the land.”

Reacher said, “Where is it?”

“Myrtle Beach.”

“That’s in South Carolina.”

“Which is an adjacent state. I think we should volunteer.”

“Why?”

“Why not? It’s a done deal here.”

—

Neagley drove. An adjacent state, but still hundreds of miles. They took I-16 to I-95, and headed north, and then jumped off cross-country for the final short distance, in the middle of the afternoon. They had an address but no street map, so they asked at gas stations until they got pointed in the right direction, which turned out to be a ritzy enclave between an inland waterway and the ocean. A manicured road ran through it, with little dead-end streets coming off it left and right like ribs. The Crawfords’ street was on the ocean side. Their house was a big mansion facing the sea, on a deep lot with a private beach.

It looked closed up.

The windows were shuttered from the inside. Painted surfaces, reflecting blindly through the glass. Neagley said, “They’re obviously away. In which case we should go talk to the butler. We shouldn’t take no for an answer. Evasion is easy on the phone. Face to face is harder.”

“Works for me,” Reacher said.

They drove in, on a long cobblestone driveway, their Firestone tires pattering, and they paused briefly at the front door, but it was blank and bolted, so they followed the cobblestones around to the back, where a back door was also blank and bolted. The servants’ entrance, currently not in use.

“So where is the servant?” Reacher said. “How discreet can one man be?”

There was a garage block. Most of the bays had doors, but one was a pass-through to a utility yard in back. There was a car parked in the pass-through. An old compact, all sun-faded and dinged up with age. A plausible POV for a butler.

There was an apartment above the garage bays. All dormer windows and gingerbread trim, slimy from the salt air. There was an external staircase leading to the door.

Reacher said, “This place is so upscale even the downstairs people are upstairs.”

He went first, with Neagley at his shoulder, and he knocked on the door. The door was opened immediately. As if they were expected. Which they were, Reacher supposed. Their car had made a certain amount of noise.

A woman. Maybe sixty years old, and careworn. A housedress. Knuckles like walnuts. A hard worker. She said, “Yes?”

Reacher said, “Ma’am, we’re from the U.S. Army, and we need to know Mr. and Mrs. Crawford’s current location.”

“Does it concern their daughter?”

“At this point, until I know their whereabouts, I’m not at liberty to say what it concerns.”

The woman said, “You better come in and speak to my husband.”

Who was not the butler. Not if the shows Reacher had seen on TV were true. This was a hangdog fellow, thin and bent over from labor, with big rough hands. A gardener, maybe.

Reacher said, “What’s your phone number?”

They told him, and Neagley nodded. Reacher said, “Are you the only people here at the moment?”

They said yes, and Reacher said, “So I believe the army has already called you. For some reason yours is the only number we have.”

The hangdog guy said, “The family is away.”

“Where?”

The woman said, “We should know what this is about.”

“You can’t filter their news. You don’t have that right.”

“So it is about their daughter. It’s bad news, isn’t it?”

The room was small and cramped. The ceiling was low, because of the eaves. The furniture was plain, and not generous in quantity. Storage was inadequate, clearly. Essential paperwork was stacked on the dining table. Bills, and mail. The floor was bare board. There was a television set. There was a shelf with three books, and a toy frog painted silver. Or an armadillo. Something humped. Maybe two inches long. Something crouching.

“Excuse me,” Reacher said.

He stepped closer.

Not a frog. Not an armadillo. A toy car. A sports coupe. Painted silver. A Porsche.

Reacher stepped over to the dining table. Picked up a piece of opened mail.

A bank statement. A savings account. Almost a hundred dollars in it.

It was addressed to H & R Crawford, at the address the army had, and the phone number was the same.

Not filtering the news.

Reacher said, “Sir, ma’am, I very much regret it’s my duty on behalf of the Commander in Chief to inform you your daughter was the victim of an off-post homicide two evenings ago. The circumstances are still being investigated, but we do know her death must have been instantaneous and she can have felt no pain.”

—

Like most MPs Reacher and Neagley had delivered death messages before, and they knew the drill. Not touchy-feely like neighbors. The army way was appropriately grim, but with the stalwart radiation of wholesome sentiments such as courage and service and sacrifice. Eventually the parents started asking them questions, and they answered what they could. Career good, luck bad. Then Neagley said, “Tell us about her,” which Reacher assumed was a hundred percent professional interest, but which also played well in the psychological context.

The woman told the story. The mother. It came right out of her. She was the cook. The hangdog guy was a groundskeeper. The father. Caroline was their daughter. An only child. She had grown up right there, above the garages. She hadn’t enjoyed it. She wanted what was in the big house. She was ten times smarter than them. Wasn’t fair.

Reacher said, “She gave the impression she had family money.”

The hangdog guy said, “No, that was all hers. She gets paid a fortune. It’s a government job. Those people look after each other. Pensions, too, I expect. All kinds of benefits.”

“No legacies? No inheritances?”

“We gave her thirty-five dollars when she went to West Point. It was all we had saved. That’s all she ever got. Anything else, she earned.”

Reacher said, “May I use your phone?”

They said yes, and he dialed the Pentagon. A number on a desk outside an office with a window. Answered by a sergeant.

Reacher said, “Is he there? It’s his brother.”

Joe’s voice came on the line.

Reacher said, “Name a good steakhouse in Alexandria open late.”

Joe did.

Reacher said, “I’ll meet you there at nine o’clock tonight.”

“Why?”

“To keep you in the loop.”

“With Crawford? Is there something weird?”

“Many things. I need to run an idea by you.”

—

Neagley drove. Back on I-95. Hundreds of miles. As far as from Fort Smith to Myrtle Beach, all over again. They stayed on the left of the Potomac and got to Alexandria ninety minutes after dark. They were five minutes late to the restaurant. There was a guy near the door, doing nothing. Plain clothes. Almost convincing.

Neagley went in and got a table for one. Then Reacher went in and sat with Joe. White linen, dim candlelight, ruby wines, a hushed atmosphere. There was another guy in plain clothes all alone at a table, on the other side of the room from Neagley. Symmetrical.

Joe said, “I see you brought your attack dog with you.”

Reacher said, “I see you brought two of yours.”

“Crawford is serious shit. Immediate action might be required.”

“That’s why Neagley is here.”

They ordered. Onion soup and a rib-eye for Reacher, foie gras and a filet mignon for Joe. Fries for both, red wine for Joe, coffee for Reacher. Plus tap water. No small talk.

Reacher said, “I was worried about the road from the beginning. It doesn’t go anywhere. Stupid place to set a trap. Can’t have been random. But deliberate makes no sense either. She had a choice of three or four destinations, and about forty different ways of getting there. Then I figured it out. A truly smart guy would ignore the destinations. He wouldn’t try to predict how she would get from A to B or C or D. He would figure all roads were equal. At least in terms of transportation. But not equal in other ways. Not emotionally, for instance. Sometimes I forget that normal people like driving more than I do. So a smart guy would ask, which road would she use just for the hell of it? A young woman with a brand-new sports car? No contest. That was a great road. Straightaways, nice bends, trees, sunshine, the smell of fresh air. Great noise, too, probably. A windows-down kind of a road. A smart guy would be able to predict it.”

Joe said, “A smart guy with military training.”

“Because of the triple shot? I agree. It’s a high-stress moment. That was automatic. Muscle memory. Years at the gun range. The guy was one of ours.”

“But which one of ours, and why?”

“This is where it gets highly speculative. She wasn’t rich. I know that now. I should have known long ago. It was right there in the fine print from the autopsy. She had recent cosmetic dentistry. A rich girl would have had it years before. As a teenager. So, no family money. I met her parents. They had thirty-five dollars in her college fund. There are no rich uncles. They think she earned it all. Government job. They think she earned a fortune. But we know she didn’t. Ten light colonels couldn’t afford a brand-new Porsche. But she got one. With what?”

“You tell me.”

“She was in War Plans. Suppose she was selling information to a foreign government? Iraq, maybe. They’d pay a fortune. She’s writing the plan. They’d be getting it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Possible,” Joe said. “Theoretically. As a worst-case scenario.”

“Are we going to have a problem with Iraq?”

“Likely,” Joe said. “He wants Kuwait. Next year, or the year after. We’ll have to throw him out. Probably stage in Saudi, put the Navy in the Gulf. The whole nine yards.”

“So he wants that plan. And he pays for it, word for word. From a woman who maybe didn’t want to be poor anymore. Scuttlebutt says she came out of her shell in War Plans. Finally started spending some of her money. Except maybe it wasn’t finally. Maybe that was the first money she ever had.”

Joe said nothing.

Reacher said, “Counterintelligence must have been keeping an eye on such things. But for some reason they missed her, and so it went on for a long time. It became the legend. Family money. The richest woman. It was hiding in plain sight. Then something changed. Suddenly they figured her out.”

Joe said, “How?”

Reacher said, “Could be a number of reasons. Could be dumb luck.”

“Or?”

“Could be counterintelligence got a new commander. Maybe the new commander brought with him the missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle. Suddenly two plus two made four. Which would be dumb luck of a different kind. But it happens.”

Joe said nothing.

Reacher said, “But let’s freeze the action right there. Let’s look at it from the new commander’s point of view. Right then he’s the only one with all the pieces. He’s the only one who can see the whole picture. In the world. It’s a lonely position. No one else knows. But it’s all about who else knows. Because no one else must know. It’s only Iraq, but who will believe that? You’ll have mass panic. Every plan will be called compromised. The Soviet strategy will fall apart. Nothing will be believed ever again. So it’s vital no one else knows. Literally. Not ever. No one. Two can’t keep a secret. But she has to be stopped. And treason gets the death penalty. The new commander concludes he has to do it himself. It’s the only way to contain it. Almost a historic moment. The world will be saved. That big of a deal. But the world will never know. So it’s ironic, and strategically astute, and noble and ethical. Like a patriotic duty.”

Joe said nothing.

Reacher said, “I imagine a new commander of such a unit would be smart enough to figure out the thing with the sports car and the road.”

Joe said, “The guy had size fifteen feet.”

“He had a maximum size fifteen. You can’t make your footprints smaller, but you can make them bigger. I figure I could put on a tennis shoe, something tight, and get my whole foot inside a size fifteen boot. Tight and solid. Not like clown shoes. I could stomp around making footprints like an astronaut on the moon. You know where I got that idea?”

Joe said, “No.”

“The second time we lived on Okinawa. You were six. Maybe seven. You got into a thing where you would get up early in the morning and clump around in Dad’s boots. I didn’t know why. Maybe it’s a first-born thing. Maybe you were trying to fill his shoes, literally. But I would hear you. And once you got him in trouble with Mom for making marks on the rug. That’s where I got the idea.”

“Lots of people must have done that.”

“How many grew up to be recently promoted commanders of counterespionage units?”

Joe said nothing.

Reacher said, “Thinking back, you did pretty well on the phone. You must have been very shocked. But you didn’t forget to ask the obvious questions, like who died. And you asked how, which was good, and I said shot on a lonely road, but then you should have asked shot on a lonely road how, because a sniper in the trees was just as plausible as a stationary ambush. On the back roads. But you didn’t ask shot on a lonely road how. You could have scripted that part a little better. And you got nervous. You wouldn’t let it go. You asked me what I was going to do about her. And you totally blew it with the six hundred and ninety-three miles. You’re a pedantic guy, Joe. You wouldn’t get it wrong. And I’m sure you didn’t. You figured Benning was on a level with a distance you knew for sure. The same radius. And the distance you knew for sure was your office to Fort Smith. Because you’d just driven it. Twice. There and back.”

Joe said, “Interesting hypothetical. What would a hypothetical policeman do about it?”

“He would feel hypothetically better without a guy in the lobby and a guy in the room.”

“Just Neagley?”

“She’s driving the car. She’s entitled to eat.”

“Crawford is serious shit.”

Reacher said, “Relax. The hypothetical policeman doesn’t see a problem. He’s a real-world person. I’m sure his analysis would have been the same as the hypothetical unit commander’s. But there’s a problem. I suppose the hypothetical size fifteens were supposed to be a dealbreaker, a cold case forever, but they didn’t work. They’re railroading a guy. Size fifteen feet, the same ammo as the hypothetical unit commander doing it himself, and the same tires, all a pure coincidence, but they’re calling it three cherries on a slot machine. The guy is going down.”

“What should a hypothetical unit commander do about that?”

“I’m sure there’s a code word. Probably through the office of the president. Things get shut down. Guys get let go.”

Joe said nothing.

“Then cases stay cold forever.”

Joe said, “OK.”

Then he said, “You’re a hell of a policeman, to figure all that out.”

Reacher said, “No, I’m a hell of a policeman to not quite figure it out, but get you to confirm it for me anyway. And I’m proud of you. It had to be contained. No choice. You did well. Good thinking, and almost perfect performance.”

“Almost?”

“The three shots were bad. An obvious execution. You should have made it messy. The throat, maybe. Everyone assumes a round in the throat is a miss from someplace else. Automatic amateur hour. You can add a head shot if it makes you feel better, but make it weird, like in the eye or the ear.”

“That sounds like the voice of experience.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing in Central America?”

They talked about other things for the rest of the meal. Gossip, people they knew, things they had read, politics, and family. Joe was worried about their mother. She wasn’t herself.

—

Reacher and Neagley got back to Smith late the next day. Ellsbury’s sergeant told them the State Police’s suspect had been released without charge, that day at noon, and driven home. The case itself had been withdrawn from all concerned, and assigned as a bedding-in trial for a brand-new investigative unit deep inside the Pentagon. No one had ever heard of it. Conclusions would be announced within a year or two, if available.

Then another telex came in. Apparently Major David Noble had recovered from his automobile accident, and was anxious to assume his intended command. Reacher was posted back to Central America. And Neagley back to Bragg, because Noble was bringing his own sergeant. The reorganization lasted less than a year. No one ever heard of it again.

Possibly the finest professional achievement of Joe Reacher’s military career was to get the war plan for Iraq changed without ever revealing why. And a year and a half later, when boots hit the desert sand in Kuwait, it all worked out fine, all over in a hundred hours, Plan B or not.

If you enjoyed Lee Child’s Small Wars, read on for a thrilling preview of

Make Me

A Jack Reacher Novel

Coming in hardcover and eBook from

Delacorte Press

September 2015

Chapter 1

Moving a guy as big as Keever wasn’t easy. It was like trying to wrestle a king-size mattress off a waterbed. So they buried him close to the house. Which made sense anyway. The harvest was still a month away, and a disturbance in a field would show up from the air. And they would use the air, for a guy like Keever. They would use search planes, and helicopters, and maybe even drones.

They started at midnight, which they thought was safe enough. They were in the middle of ten thousand acres of nothingness, and the only man-made structure their side of any horizon was the railroad track to the east, but midnight was five hours after the evening train and seven hours before the morning train. Therefore, no prying eyes. Their backhoe had four spotlights on a bar above the cab, the same way kids pimped their pick-up trucks, and together the four beams made a wide pool of halogen brightness. Therefore, visibility was not a problem either. They started the hole in the hog pen, which was a permanent disturbance all by itself. Each hog weighed two hundred pounds, and each hog had four feet. The dirt was always chewed up. Nothing to see from the air, not even with a thermal camera. The picture would white out instantly, from the steaming animals themselves, and their steaming piles and pools of waste.

Safe enough.

Hogs were rooting animals, so they made sure the hole was deep. Which was not a problem either. Their backhoe’s arm was long, and it bit rhythmically, in fluent articulated seven-foot scoops, the hydraulic rams glinting in the electric light, the engine straining and roaring and pausing, the cab falling and rising, as each bucket-load was dumped aside. When the hole was done they backed the machine up and turned it around and used the front bucket to push Keever into his grave, scraping him, rolling him, covering his body with dirt, until finally it fell over the lip and thumped down into the electric shadows.

Only one thing went wrong, and it happened right then.

The evening train came through five hours late. The next morning they heard on the AM station that a broken locomotive had caused a jam a hundred miles south. But they didn’t know that at the time. All they heard was the mournful whistle at the distant crossing, and then all they could do was turn and stare, at the long lit cars rumbling past in the middle distance, one after the other, like a vision in a dream, seemingly forever. But eventually the train was gone, and the rails sang for a minute more, and then the tail light was swallowed by the midnight darkness, and they turned back to their task.

—

Twenty miles north the train slowed, and slowed, and then eased to a hissing stop, and the doors sucked open, and Jack Reacher stepped down to a concrete ramp in front of a grain elevator as big as an apartment house. To his left were four more elevators, all of them bigger than the first, and to his right was an enormous metal shed the size of an airplane hangar. There were vapor lights on poles, set at regular intervals, and they cut cones of yellow in the darkness. There was mist in the nighttime air, like a note on a calendar. The end of summer was coming. Fall was on its way.

Reacher stood still and behind him the train moved away without him, straining, grinding, settling to a slow rat-a-tat rhythm, and then accelerating, its building slipstream pulling at his clothes. He was the only passenger who had gotten out. Which was not surprising. The place was no kind of a commuter hub. It was all agricultural. What token passenger facilities it had were wedged between the last elevator and the huge shed, and were limited to a compact building, which seemed to have both a ticket window and benches for waiting. It was built in a traditional railroad style, and it looked like a child’s toy, temporarily set down between two shiny oil drums.

But on a sign board running its whole length was written the reason Reacher was there: Mother’s Rest. Which he had seen on a map, and which he thought was a great name for a railroad stop. He figured the line must cross an ancient wagon train trail, right there, where something had happened long ago. Maybe a young pregnant woman went into labor. The jostling could not have helped. Maybe the wagon train stopped for a couple of weeks. Or a month. Maybe someone remembered the place years later. A descendant, perhaps. A family legend. Maybe there was a one-room museum.

Or perhaps there was a sadder interpretation. Maybe they had buried a woman there. Too old to make it. In which case there would be a commemorative stone.

Either way Reacher figured he might as well find out. He had no place to go, and all the time in the world to get there, so detours cost him nothing. Which is why he got out of the train. To a sense of disappointment, initially. His expectations had been way off base. He had pictured a couple of dusty houses, and a lonely one-horse corral. And the one-room museum, maybe run part-time and volunteer by an old guy from one of the houses. Or the headstone, maybe marble, behind a square wrought-iron fence.

He had not expected the immense agricultural infrastructure. He should have, he supposed. Grain, meet the railroad. It had to be loaded somewhere. Billions of bushels and millions of tons each year. He stepped left and looked through a gap between structures. The view was dark, but he could sense a rough semicircle of habitation. Houses, obviously, for the depot workers. He could see lights, which he hoped were a motel, or a diner, or both.

He walked to the exit, skirting the pools of vapor light purely out of habit, but he saw that the last lamp was unavoidable, because it was set directly above the exit gate. So he saved himself a further perimeter diversion by walking through the next-to-last pool of light, too.

At which point a woman stepped out of the shadows.

She came toward him with a distinctive burst of energy, two fast paces, eager, like she was pleased to see him. Her body language was all about relief.

Then it wasn’t. Then it was all about disappointment. She stopped dead, and she said, “Oh.”

She was Asian. But not petite. Five-nine, maybe, or even five-ten. And built to match. Not a bone in sight. No kind of a willowy waif. She was about forty, Reacher guessed, with black hair worn long, jeans and a T-shirt under a short cotton coat. She had lace-up shoes on her feet.

He said, “Good evening, ma’am.”

She was looking past his shoulder.

He said, “I’m the only passenger.”

She looked him in the eye.

He said, “No one else got out of the train. So I guess your friend isn’t coming.”

“My friend?” she said. A neutral kind of accent. Regular American. The kind he heard everywhere.

He said, “Why else would a person be here, except to meet the train? No point in coming otherwise. I guess normally there would be nothing to see at midnight.”

She didn’t answer.

BY LEE CHILD

Killing Floor

Die Trying

Tripwire

Running Blind

Echo Burning

Without Fail

Persuader

The Enemy

One Shot

The Hard Way

Bad Luck and Trouble

Nothing to Lose

Gone Tomorrow

61 Hours

Worth Dying For

The Affair

A Wanted Man

Never Go Back

Personal

Make Me

Stories

Second Son

Deep Down

High Heat

Not a Drill

Small Wars

About the Author

LEE CHILD is the author of nineteen New York Times bestselling Jack Reacher thrillers, ten of which have reached the #1 position. All have been optioned for major motion pictures; the first, Jack Reacher, was based on One Shot. Foreign rights in the Reacher series have sold in almost a hundred territories. A native of England and a former television director, Lee Child lives in New York City.

leechild.com

Facebook.com/LeeChildOfficial

@LeeChildReacher

To inquire about booking Lee Child for a speaking engagement, please contact the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau at speakers@penguinrandomhouse.com.