“You’re not happy unless everybody you meet wants to kill you, Cheech?” She didn’t mention the glaring omission in Neagley’s outburst. Sanchez. Neagley hadn’t asked why he was dead or how that happened. Which probably meant she knew the answers and Kim could take a pretty accurate guess, too. But she didn’t want to speculate aloud just yet.
Gaspar shrugged. “She’s too controlled. Too cool. We need her to make a few mistakes. She won’t do that as long as she thinks she’s in charge. And until she screws something up, we don’t have a chance in hell of getting anything useful out of her.”
“All true,” Kim replied. She pulled out the Boss’s untraceable cell phone. Pressed redial. “But I’m sure glad it’s your guts she hates and not mine.”
Gaspar smirked. “Don’t feel left out, Sunshine. Neagley can kill you without hating you first.”
The Boss picked up before the first ring completed, confirming her suspicion that he’d been following along with events as they unfolded, as usual.
Kim said, “What the hell is she talking about? And what do we do now?”
“I’ll do some checking,” he said. “Meanwhile, you need to hustle or you’ll lose her. They’re holding your flight to O’Hare on American. I sent your boarding passes to your smartphones. She’s arriving thirty minutes ahead of you on United.”
He paused briefly.
“Otto? Answer your damn phone when I call you, not just when you feel like it. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything useful. Until then, stay out of her way.”
Before Kim could retort, he’d disconnected. She jammed the phone into her pocket and told Gaspar, “Time to go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Saturday, November 13
8:56 p.m.
Chicago, IL
When the wheels touched the tarmac in Chicago, Kim felt the Boss’s cell phone vibrate in her pocket. She checked the screen. He’d sent two texts while she was in flight, unable to retrieve anything. The first message said, “Files available for download.” The second was, “Vehicle arranged as usual.”
They’d crossed into the Central time zone when they’d flown over Lake Michigan, but Kim’s body clock registered an hour later. She collected her equipment and nudged Gaspar awake as she trudged out past his seat. She waited at the jetway exit.
When he joined her, they made their way to the special reservation counter and identified their vehicle’s location, which, due to Gaspar’s requirements, took longer than it should have on a Sunday night.
Kim had lost every debate and given up arguing about transportation with Gaspar after the first day they worked together. He was persuaded that no vehicle on the planet was suitable for their purposes except the Crown Vic Police Interceptor. He liked the powerful V-8 engine and tough, body-on-frame construction. Rear-wheel drive was better for rough driving over curbs and potholes and other urban road hazards. Reduced spin-outs, too. Problem was, Ford had stopped production in 2012 and the big tanks were a challenge to procure. As usual, the Boss could do what mere mortal FBI Special Agents could not. Which meant Kim could look forward to riding in a giant-sized vehicle with severe duty shock absorbers that tossed her lightweight frame around like a rag doll. After fifty miles, she always felt like she’d gone ten rounds with an Olympic champion heavyweight.
Finally, bags stashed, Gaspar behind the wheel, they were on the road headed toward Lake Forest and the address contained in the Boss’s text. Neagley’s house. The GPS estimated thirty-four minutes to travel 25.5 miles, mostly North along I-294, to the tony Chicago suburb.
Kim had been to Lake Forest before. The area reminded her of Grosse Pointe, Michigan. She knew what they’d find before they arrived. Winding tarmac along Lake Michigan. Stately homes. Grass and gardens and brick pavers galore. She wondered how Neagley could afford to live there and why she’d want to. It seemed much more upscale than a retired soldier would be able to support or feel comfortable living in.
She set up the laptop and connected to the secure server to download the Boss’s encrypted file, which was larger than she’d expected. When she opened the zipped contents, she saw three individual files. One labeled “Berenson,” one “Dean,” and one “New Age Defense Systems.”
“Talk to me, Sunshine,” Gaspar said. “Otherwise, I’m gonna take a nap.”
“Just so you keep this bus between the ditches, Cheech.”
“You’re never going to get that Cheech Marin is Mexican and I’m Cuban, are you?”
“Susie Wong was Chinese and I’m only half-Vietnamese. Doesn’t seem to bother you.”
He grinned. “What have you got over there?”
“I’m scanning now. Looks like the important part is a defunct California defense contractor called New Age Defense Systems.”
“What kind of a name is that for a defense contractor? What do they do, hold hands and meditate before they develop bio-weapons? Sounds like something even Gandhi would hate.”
Kim barely listened to his babble as she scanned the information on the screen. “Highly classified. Went out of business five years ago. Suspected of trading with the enemy, it says here. Berenson and Dean both worked there. The suggestion was they maybe were part owners or held significant stock or something.”
“What were they suspected of trading with what enemy, exactly?”
“Looks like the only thing New Age developed and manufactured were missiles. Chiefly something called Little Wing, which is now obsolete. It was a man-portable, shoulder-launched, surface-to-air missile.”
“Five years ago, we had plenty of enemies interested in those. Still do.”
“Right,” Kim said, scanning down the reports. “Dean was the R&D guy. Berenson was in HR. Nothing about Sanchez or O’Donnell that I can see.” She stopped talking and read more quickly.
After a while, Gaspar said, “What?”
“Head of security at New Age was Tony Swan,” she said.
“One of Reacher’s team, now dead.”
“Right.”
“What else?”
“New Age was the sole source of Little Wing. The project was discontinued after two years when countermeasures were designed to defeat Little Wing. And everything else in the file about Little Wing was classified. Which could mean that the Boss saw it and decided not to send it along.” Kim closed the laptop for a moment and rubbed her eyes. She was running low on every one of her standard triple A’s: ambition, anxiety and adrenaline. Caffeine would give her a temporary recharge until she could get some much-needed sleep. “Is there anywhere we can stop for coffee?”
“Might be some all-night diners around here somewhere. But it is Sunday night, so maybe not. I’ll keep a look out. What happened to Dean and Berenson when New Age went OOB?”
“The file doesn’t say. Presumably they lost their jobs, maybe their investments.”
“Lots of people lose their jobs. Doesn’t make ’em homicidal,” he said.
“It feels like everything’s all connected, though. Swan and the other members of Reacher’s team died five years ago. Sanchez went missing, presumed dead, five years ago. New Age went belly up five years ago. Neagley hasn’t seen Reacher for years, she said. I’m guessing about five years, don’t you think? But I don’t see anything in this file to give us a clue.”
“You think Neagley knows whatever the connection is?” he asked.
“She knows a lot more about the situation than we do. For sure. I’m only sorry we can’t arrest her for obstruction. Or treason. Or even murder. I’d take robbing candy from a little old lady if it meant I could slap the cuffs on her and lock her up.”
Gaspar laughed. “Frances really got under your skin, didn’t she, Susie Wong?”
Kim frowned, but he ignored her. “If I could prove she’s the one who assaulted us, she’d be sitting in a cell already.”
“The Boss wouldn’t like that.”
“Who cares what the Boss likes? You?”
Gaspar said nothing and Kim couldn’t see him very well in the dim interior of the Crown Vic. He’d been the one who’d distrusted the Boss from the start. Kim had been more gullible initially. But not anymore.
After a while, Gaspar said, “Let’s recap. This is one of those assignments where missing the smallest detail could be, well, not good for our health, right?”
“Exactly.”
“So we know that the point of connection is New Age. We know the time frame was five years ago.”
“We know Sanchez and Swan were involved,” Kim contributed. “Because Orozco and Franz died around the same time, it’s reasonable to assume the rest of Reacher’s unit was involved, too. Including the big guy.”
Gaspar didn’t argue. But he didn’t say he agreed, either. He’d flipped on his turn signal and moved into the exit lane. Kim glanced up to see a sign indicating an all-night truck stop ahead. Her nostrils quivered. Coffee.
He said, “The question is what the hell kind of ‘trading with the enemy’ they were involved in that got them all not arrested, tried, and convicted, but maimed or killed. Some at the time. Some years later. Any clue?”
Kim sighed, ran her hand over the sleek cap of black hair that she’d pulled back and twisted into a chignon hours ago. She felt so weary of it all. Even six hours of uninterrupted sleep seemed like the holy grail. Something she could forever seek but never find.
She sighed again. “Oh, it has to be money, doesn’t it? Money and maybe ego. Everything else is too perishable to have gotten them killed so many years later. It’s hard to sustain any sort of rage for five years, in my experience. Cold, hard, hatred is another matter.”
Gaspar’s eyebrows jumped up. “Missiles aren’t perishable.”
“Sure they are. They’re a strategic weapon. And they’ve pretty much been replaced by drones and newer missiles, haven’t they?”
Gaspar pulled the Crown Vic perpendicular to the curb in front of the truck stop. It was one of those all-in-one places where truckers could sleep or get a donut for breakfast or a beer before bed to go with their sandwich. Kim didn’t speculate about what else might be available for the right price. All she cared about was a caffeine jolt, which, for her, was the second best alternative to solid shuteye. She unlatched her seatbelt and rooted around in her pockets for the necessary cash.
“Let’s say you’re right that the missiles themselves are not the current motivator, at least,” he said. “I agree about the rage thing and nothing says this is a vengeance thing to me, either. So let’s focus on your best guess. Who has the money? And who wants it?”
Kim opened her door and stepped out into the cold dark. Gaspar did the same. Their gazes met over the hood. “Excellent questions. I’ll think about that. And you think about why you agreed with Neagley when she said she’d tried to contact Reacher for us. After I make a pit stop and buy a quart of stiff black caffeine, you can talk first.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Saturday, November 13
10:21 p.m.
Chicago, IL
The coffee cup Kim returned to the Crown Vic with was at least a quart-sized one. She also had collected a nutritious dinner: a bag of donuts and a large pouch of peanut M&Ms. She settled into the Crown Vic’s seat, pulled out the alligator clamp she kept in her pocket and anchored it firmly to the shoulder harness to keep it from cutting her head off at her neck. She inhaled the coffee’s aroma like a coonhound sniffing prey and tore the M&Ms open with her teeth.
“Protein first. Then dessert,” she said.
“
Bon appetit!
” Gaspar hoisted his cold cola and sleeve of chocolate cookies in a one-hand salute. With the other, he slid the key into the ignition, buckled his own belt, and reached down to start the engine.
“Hold on a minute,” Kim said. “I want to know the answer to my question. When Neagley said she’d tried to contact Reacher, you confirmed. Why?”
Gaspar stretched, yawned, delayed. “I was just trying to make peace between you two.”
“No you weren’t. You believed her.” Kim continued to munch on her candy as if his answer didn’t matter. But they both knew it did.
He shrugged. “We’ve got to find out what she’s up to, don’t we? Maybe she lied. Maybe not. Either way, why not say we believe her? Makes her feel a little less confident in her privacy methods and at the same time, suggests we know more about her actions than she thought. Diabolical, hmm?”
Kim reached over and pulled the keys from the ignition before he realized what she intended to do. The heavy V-8 engine died without so much as an extra whimper. “The woman’s a whack-job. She’s dangerous. And maybe crazy. I’m not going any further until I know what you know.”
He looked down at the steering wheel and then returned his gaze to hers, some decision reached, she figured. He said, “Remember I told you that Reacher’s bank records showed very few deposits except for his pension?”
She realized they were on treacherous ground whenever the bank records were mentioned, and that their conversation was being monitored, as always. Still, she was a little afraid of Neagley. Her gut told her she needed to know, even if the Boss overheard. She trusted Gaspar to protect whatever he needed to protect.
She sipped to delay her final decision a moment more. The coffee was strong and hot and hit her stomach like a jolt of nauseous energy added to the sugar from the candy. She was starting to feel wired.
Kim nodded. “I remember.”
“Well, I found four deposits,” he said, quietly. “The first three happened five years ago. The first was $1,030.00. Five weeks later, two more deposits made on the same day, $101,810.18 and $10,012. The first one came from a bank in Chicago. The last two from a bank in New York.”
She thought about it. Obviously, if the bank deposits were somehow used to contact Reacher back when he collected money from Western Union offices, people close to him might know about the arrangement. Maybe Neagley and Dixon improvised, or maybe Reacher suggested the covert connection. Either way, Gaspar was probably right. They’d found no other way to locate Reacher. Follow the money. Always the best plan, in Kim’s experience.
She sipped, munched, considered carefully. She returned the keys to the ignition and Gaspar started the engine. She punched the on button for the radio and turned up the volume, then looked at Gaspar and mouthed, “And the fourth was Tuesday?”