'They all have more boys. They can choose to fight two on two, or ten on ten, or twenty on twenty, and there's always a winner and there's always a loser. They accept the referee's decision and they move on. They're like rutting stags. It's in their DNA.'
'So what kind of gangs are they?'
'The usual kind. The kind that makes big money out of something illegal.'
'What kind of something?'
'I don't know. But it's not gambling debts. It's not something theoretical on paper. It's something real. Something physical. With weight, and dimensions. It has to be. That's what the Duncans do. They run a transportation company. So they're trucking something in, and it's getting passed along from A to B to C to D.'
'Drugs?'
'I don't think so. You don't need to truck drugs south to Vegas. You can get them direct from Mexico or South America. Or California.'
'Drug money, then. To be laundered in the casinos. From the big cities in the East, maybe coming through Chicago.'
'Possible,' Reacher said. 'Certainly it's something very valuable, which is why they're all in such an uproar. It has to be the kind of thing where you smile and rub your hands when you see it rolling in through the gate. And it's late now, possibly, which is why there are so many boots on the ground up here. They're all anxious. They all want to see it arrive, because it's physical, and valuable. They all want to put their hands on it and babysit their share. But first of all, they want to help bust up the logjam.'
'Which is what?'
'Me, I think. Either the Duncans are late for some other reason and they're using me as an excuse, or this is something a stranger absolutely can't be allowed to see. Maybe the area has to be sanitized before it can come in. Have you ever been told to stay away from anywhere for periods of time?'
'Not really.'
'Have you ever seen any weird stuff arrive? Any big unexplained vehicles?'
'We see Duncan trucks all the time. Not so much in the winter.'
'I heard the harvest trucks are all in Ohio.'
'They are. Nothing more than vans here now.'
Reacher nodded. 'One of which was missing from the depot. Three spaces, two vans. So what kind of a thing is valuable and fits in a van?'
Jacob Duncan saw that Roberto Cassano's mind had been changed once and for all by the dead man in the Cadillac's trunk. Mancini's, too. Now they both accepted that Reacher was a genuine threat. How else could they react? The dead man had no marks on him. None at all. So what had Reacher done to him? Frightened him to death? Jacob could see both Cassano and Mancini thinking about it. So he waited patiently and eventually Cassano looked across the table at him and said, 'I apologize, most sincerely.'
Jacob looked back and said, 'For what, sir?'
'For before. For not taking you seriously about Reacher.'
'Your apology is accepted.'
'Thank you.'
'But the situation remains the same,' Jacob said. 'Reacher is still a problem. He's still on the loose. And nothing can happen until he's accounted for. We have three men looking for him. They'll work all night and all day if necessary. Just as long as it takes. Because we don't want Mr Rossi to feel we're in any way the junior partner in this new relationship. That's very important to us.'
Cassano said, 'We should go out too.'
'All of us?'
'I meant me and Mancini.'
'Indeed,' Jacob Duncan said. 'Perhaps you should. Perhaps we should turn the whole thing into a competition. Perhaps the prize should be to speak first when we sit down to renegotiate the profit share.'
'There are more of you than us.'
'But you are professionals.'
'You know the neighbourhood.'
'You want a fairer fight? Very well. We'll send our three boys home to bed, and I'll send my son out in their place. Alone. That's one against two. As long as it takes. May the best man win. To the victor, the spoils, and so on, and so forth. Shall I do that?'
'I don't care,' Cassano said. 'Do whatever you want. We'll beat all of you, however many you put out there.' He drained his glass and set it back on the table and stood up with Mancini. They walked out together, through the back door, to their car, which was still parked in the field, on the other side of the fence. Jacob Duncan watched them go, and then he sat back in his chair and relaxed. They would waste some long and fruitless hours, and then all in good time Reacher would be revealed, and Rossi would take the small subliminal hit, and the playing field would tilt, just a little, but enough. Jacob smiled. Success, triumph, and vindication. Subtlety, and finesse.
* * *
The road outside the dining room window stayed dark. Nothing moved on it. The two Cornhusker vehicles were still parked on the shoulder beyond the fence. One was an SUV and one was a pick-up truck. Both looked cold and inert. Overhead the moon came and went, first shining faintly through thin cloud, and then disappearing completely behind thicker layers.
The doctor said, 'I don't like just sitting here.'
'So don't,' Reacher said. 'Go to bed. Take a nap.'
'What are you going to do?'
'Nothing. I'm waiting for daylight.'
'Why?'
'Because you don't have street lights here.'
'You're going out?'
'Eventually.'
'Why?'
'Places to go, things to see.'
'One of us should stay awake. To keep an eye on things.'
'I'll do that,' Reacher said.
'You must be tired.'
'I'll be OK. You guys go get some rest.'
'Are you sure?'
'Positive.'
They didn't need much more persuading. The doctor looked at his wife and they headed off together, and then Dorothy Coe followed them, presumably to a spare room somewhere. Doors opened and closed and water ran and toilets flushed, and then the house went quiet. The heating system whirred and the taped-up football players muttered and grunted and snored on the hallway floor, but apart from that Reacher heard nothing at all. He sat upright on the hard chair and kept his eyes open and stared out into the dark. The duct tape bandage itched his face. He did OK for ten or twenty minutes, and then he slipped a little, like he knew he would, like he often had before, into a kind of trance, like suspended animation, half awake and half asleep, half effective and half useless. He was a less than perfect sentry, and he knew it. But then, practically all sentries were less than perfect. It was any army's most persistent problem.
Half awake and half asleep. Half effective and half useless. He heard the car and he saw its lights, but it was a whole stubborn second before he understood he wasn't dreaming.
FIFTY
THE CAR CAME IN FROM THE RIGHT, FROM THE EAST, PRECEDED BY headlight beams and road noise. It slowed to a walk and passed behind the parked Cornhusker pick-up, and then it rolled on and passed behind the parked SUV. Then it turned and nosed into the driveway, with a crunch and a squelch from its wheels on the gravel, and then it stopped.
And then Reacher saw it.
There was enough light scatter and enough reflection to identify it. It was the dark blue Chevrolet. The Italians. Reacher picked up the Remington. The car stayed where it was. No one got out. It was sixty yards away, half in and half out of the driveway mouth. Just sitting there, lights on, idling. A tactical problem. Reacher had three innocent non-combatants in a wood-frame house. There were two parked cars on the driveway and two on the road, for cover. There were two opponents and the house had windows and a door both front and back.
Not ideal conditions for a gun battle.
Best hope would be for the Italians to approach the front door on foot. Game over, right there. Reacher could swing the door open and fire point blank. But the Italians weren't approaching on foot. They were just sitting in the car. Doing nothing. Talking, maybe. And scouting around. Reacher could see dim flashes of white as necks craned and heads turned. They were discussing something.