Page 109 of Chain Reaction

“You got something better to do?”

“Just finishing my lunch.”

“Please don’t tell me what you ordered.”

“I won’t.”

“As soon as possible would be good for Kennedy.”

“Where?”

“The old 110th building,” she said. “I’m sure you remember the way.”

—

Reacher walked north through Crystal City to the cemetery, and then he followed the same route he had taken the first morning, on his way to the old diner he remembered. He arrived at the turn, and climbed the hill, and walked down the other side to the building. There was a new miniature guardhouse next to the new gate in the new fence. In it was a uniformed MP behind a sliding glass window. He opened it as Reacher approached. Reacher took out his passport and handed it to the guy, who looked at it and handed it back and said, “Sir, please go ahead.”

The gate unlocked with a click and Reacher stepped inside. From there onward it was familiar territory. The concrete path, the steps up to the door, the green tubular handrails. The lobby had been painted but was otherwise unchanged. There was a long counter, like a police station in an old black and white movie. Behind the counter was another uniformed MP, stiff and suspicious. He said, “May I help you?”

“Jack Reacher for Sergeant Orla Kennedy.”

The MP looked down at his scratch pad and read a note. Reacher guessed it must have referenced Turner’s call, because the guy looked back up with a new and polite expression on his face. He said, “Sir, we’ve been expecting you. Sergeant Kennedy will be down in a moment.” He dabbed a couple of things on a touchscreen and then stood back, at ease.

Reacher stepped away and looked around the lobby. It was a Cold War building, from the 1950s, all brick, painted on the inside with thick shiny paint. Ribbed glass lamp shades hung down on long brass chains. They gave out icy light from new LED bulbs. There were no bulletin boards, no posted notices, no unit insignia anywhere on the walls. Reacher got no idea what happened there now. Maybe that was the point.

He heard footsteps on the stairs behind him and turned around to see a woman heading toward him. She was in her army green service uniform. For garrison or office environments. She was maybe forty, nearer the end of her service than the beginning. Wise eyes. Seen it all, done it all. The best kind of sergeant. Backbone of the military.

She said, “Major Reacher?”

“Not anymore,” he said. “Now I’m just Reacher.”

“I’m Orla Kennedy.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Come up to my office and we’ll discuss what we can do for you.”

He followed her up the stairs. Into the long second-floor corridor. Offices to the left, offices to the right. All full of memories. She stopped at Karla Dixon’s door. I met one of them again, much later. Nature took its course. She went in and showed him to the visitor chair and sat down at Dixon’s desk. Her desk now.

She said, very politely, “How may I assist you?”

Reacher said, “I guess it would help me frame my request if I knew who you are and what you do here.”

“The general didn’t tell you?”

“All I got was your name and location.”

“We’re a logistics company. Just a small cog in the G-99 machine.”

“What kind of logistics?”

“We retrieve certain categories of evidence and we store it here.”

“Including weapons?”

“Mostly weapons.”

“And you loan them out? What about the chain of custody?”