Page 3 of Chain Reaction

He took the risk. He got up at seven, showered, dressed, returned his room key, and walked away. He headed north, the way he had come, past the Pentagon again, past his bank, and onward, this time through the cemetery. He made it to the turn, a steep three hundred yards to the Rock Creek building. He walked up the hill, and paused at the top.

The building was halfway down the other side, on the left, tucked almost out of sight. It had grown an impressive security fence. Otherwise it was largely unchanged. Maybe the window frames had been painted, the same color as before. Maybe a couple of times. It was a squat, solid structure, made of brick. He had done good work in it, with a good crew. The 110th MP. The special investigators. His best years, probably. He walked on, straight past it without looking again, another mile to go to breakfast.

—

The diner was still there. It looked more or less the same. A little older, a little cleaner. It had a new aluminum kitchen chimney, taller and wider than the old one. Maybe a new city ordinance, or an insurance requirement. The lot had been blacktopped, and parking spaces had been outlined with thick white paint. About a third of them were occupied, some by battered low-rent civilian vehicles, some by the kind of weird European models troops brought back from Germany, and one by an unmarked Dodge Charger, metallic blue paint waxed within an inch of its life, alloy wheels clean enough to eat off. The general’s ride, for sure. She was early.

He went inside. There was a line of booths at the windows on his left, which L-shaped to the right at the back of the room, and ran on out of sight. The counter followed the same geometry. Most of the patrons were at the counter, all men, hip to hip on the stools, talking morning talk, in low morning voices. Reacher checked the booths, looking for a woman alone in a four-top. Didn’t see one. Not on the left. He walked through the room, in the lane between the booths and the counter, dodging exiting customers and busy waitresses, all the way to the back of the room, where the L-shape turned right. He scanned the new line of booths ahead of him.

He saw a woman sitting alone. She was an inch or two above average height, small-boned and slender, dark hair pulled back, skin the color of honey, deep brown eyes, intelligence in her face, plus determination, and maybe a little mischief too.

He knew her.

He had met her. More than that. They had spent a lot of time together. Quality time. He remembered it fondly. Not all of it easy. Not their fault. Complications had gotten in the way. But parts of it had been spectacular. Truly. And it had ended well enough. As well as these things can. It had started one random day when he called his old office number, from memory, years after leaving, looking for some off-the-record information. A real Hail Mary. His old phone, on his old desk. She had answered it, because at that time she was his generations-later successor as commanding officer of the 110th MP.

Major Susan Turner, back then.

Now General Turner, apparently.

She saw him. She looked him up and down, and her gaze came to rest on his face, and she smiled. She still looked good. A little older, but it suited her. She was in blue jeans and a black T-shirt. They suited her too. He smiled back. He slid in, across the vinyl bench, opposite her.

“Hello, Reacher,” she said.

Her voice was just the same. A little low, a little husky, as intimate and inviting as ever.

“Hello, Turner,” he said. “Or should I say ma’am, and salute?”

She smiled again.

“Three promotions since I saw you last,” she said. “Living the dream. How have you been?”

“Living the dream too,” he said. “My version, anyway. No promotions involved.”

“You’re still on the road.” A statement, not a question.

“You’re still in the army.”

“I like it.”

“I did too,” Reacher said. “Mostly, I guess. But being on the road is better. You should have come with me. I wish you had.”

A waitress stopped by. She already had a jug of coffee in her hand. She filled their mugs. Turner ordered an omelet. Reacher ordered pancakes, syrup, bacon, toast, and two fried eggs.

Turner said, “Thank you.”

Reacher said, “For what?”

“I owe you my first promotion.”

“How so?”

“You know how. I was falsely accused, and you helped me prove it. They couldn’t ignore me after that.”

“No, you deserved it, whatever else happened. You ran a good unit. No doubt you got even better. Hence the next two promotions. They had nothing to do with me.”

“Living the dream,” she said again.

“Are you going to tell me about the new command?”