Reacher said nothing. Just stopped where the cop told him and wound his window down. The night air blew in, cold and wet. The cop bent down. Reacher handed him his military ID. The cop played his flashlight over it and handed it back.
“Who’s your passenger?” he asked.
“My prisoner,” Reacher said. He handed over the arrest warrant.
“He got ID?” the cop asked.
Reacher leaned over and slipped the wallet out from inside Penney’s jacket, two-fingered like a pickpocket. Flipped it open and passed it through the window. A second cop stood in Reacher’s headlight beams and copied the plate number onto a clipboard. Stepped around the hood and joined the first guy.
“Captain Reacher of the military police,” the first cop said.
The second cop wrote it down.
“With a prisoner name of Edward Hendricks,” the first cop said.
The second cop wrote it down.
“Thank you, sir,” the first cop said. “You drive safe, now.”
Reacher eased out from between the cruisers. Accelerated away into the rain. A mile later, he stopped again on the shoulder. Leaned over and unlocked Penney’s handcuffs. Put them back in his pocket. Penney rubbed his wrists.
“I thought you were going to turn me in,” he said.
Reacher shook his head. “Looked better for me that way. I wanted a prisoner in the car for everybody to see.”
Reacher handed the wallet back.
“Keep it,” he said.
“Really?”
“Edward Hendricks,” Reacher said. “That’s who you are now. It’s clean ID, and it’ll work. Think of it like a veteran’s benefit. One soldier to another.”
Edward Hendricks looked at him and nodded and opened his door. Got out into the rain and turned up the collar of his leather jacket and started walking north. Reacher watched him until he was out of sight and then pulled away and took the next turn west. Turned north and stopped again where the road was lonely and ran close to the ocean. There was a wide gravel shoulder and a low barrier and a steep cliff with the Pacific tide boiling and foaming fifty feet below it.
He got out of the car and opened the trunk and grasped the lapels of the jacket he had told Penney about. Took a deep breath and heaved. The corpse was heavy. Reacher wrestled it up out of the trunk and jacked it onto his shoulder and staggered with it to the barrier. Bent his knees and dropped it over the edge. The rocky cliff caught it and it spun and the arms and legs flailed limply. Then it hit the surf with a faint splash and was gone.
THE .50 SOLUTION
Most times I assess the client and then the target and only afterward do I set the price. It’s about common sense and variables. If the client is rich, I ask for more. If the target is tough, I ask for more. If there are major expenses involved, I ask for more. So if I’m working overseas on behalf of a billionaire against a guy in a remote hideout with a competent protection team on his side, I’m going to ask for maybe a hundred times what I would want from some local chick looking to solve her marital problems in a quick and messy manner. Variables, and common sense.
But this time the negotiation started differently.
The guy who came to see me was rich. That was clear. His wealth was pore-deep. Not just his clothes. Not just his car. This was a guy who had been rich forever. Maybe for generations. He was tall and grey and silvery and self-assured. He was a patrician. It was all right there in the way he held himself, the way he spoke, the way he took charge.
First thing he talked about was the choice of weapon.
He said, “I hear you’ve used a Barrett Model Ninety on more than one occasion.”
I said, “You hear right.”
“You like that piece?”
“It’s a fine rifle.”
“So you’ll use it for me.”
“I choose the weapon,” I said.
“Based on what?”
“Need.”
“You’ll need it.”
I asked, “Why? Long range?”
“Maybe two hundred yards.”
“I don’t need a Barrett Ninety for two hundred yards.”
“It’s what I want.”
“Will the target be wearing body armor?”
“No.”
“Inside a vehicle?”
“Open air.”
“Then I’ll use a three-oh-eight. Or something European.”
“I want that fifty-caliber shell.”
“A three-oh-eight or a NATO round will get him just as dead from two hundred yards.”
“Maybe not.”
Looking at him I was pretty sure this was a guy who had never fired a .50 Barrett in his life. Or a .308 Remington. Or an M16, or an FN, or an H&K. Or any kind of a rifle. He had probably never fired anything at all, except maybe a BB gun as a kid and workers as a adult.
I said, “The Barrett is an awkward weapon. It’s four feet long and it doesn’t break down. It weighs twenty-two pounds. It’s got bipod legs, for Christ’s sake. It’s like an artillery piece. Hard to conceal. And it’s very loud. Maybe the loudest rifle in the history of the world.”
He said, “I like that fifty-caliber shell.”
“I’ll give you one,” I said. “You can plate it with gold and put it on a chain and wear it around your neck.”
“I want you to use it.”
