Page 143 of Chain Reaction

“Remember me?” Reacher said. “The military cop from the diner? You need to get down to EEF’s building right away. The shit is about to hit the fan. The story is all yours now.”

He clicked off and dropped the phone and the card down a storm drain. He took the pistol out of his waistband and gave it to Turner. He checked his pockets again. Nothing but his old passport, his new ATM card, his toothbrush, and the thin remnant of the Chief of Staff’s cash. Everything he needed, and nothing he didn’t. Good to go. They walked on, looping right, looping left, back toward Moffett Field and its giant freestanding buildings. The gate loomed up ahead, fifty yards through the gloom.

“Don’t come in,” she said. “I hate goodbyes. Especially at the airport.”

“I know,” he said. “You feel like you’re in a movie.”

“A sad one.”

“You can be sad it’s over, or happy it happened.”

“I’m both.”

“Me too, I guess.”

They walked on. Twenty yards. Thirty. They stopped. The airfield gate was dead ahead. The road looped left, onward into the darkness.

“Goodbye, Turner,” he said.

“Goodbye, Reacher.”

“Best of luck with everything.”

“Take care of yourself. I always want to know you’re out there somewhere, doing something.”

“I always will be,” he said.

She walked ahead to the gate. He went left, into the darkness.