Page 91 of Chain Reaction

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Eventually Reacher got his SSSS boarding card. He folded it neatly in half and stowed it in his shirt pocket. He looked ahead at the security lines. They were moderately busy. Probably a long ten-minute shuffle. Maybe fifteen. Not great, not terrible. More easily endured with a cup of coffee on the go. He turned back to look for a place to get one. He saw a half-size retail unit set in the side wall. It was squeezed for space on one side by a luggage wrapping station, and on the other by a store that sold phone wires and outlet adapters. Because of its cramped size it sold coffee and muffins only. A very limited menu, but a very attractive proposition right then. It felt like a long time since breakfast.

Reacher set out toward it, sideways against the flow, easing left, easing right. He saw an arrow to a men’s room. Which also seemed like a good idea right then. He made the detour. It was a small plain facility at the end of a narrow dog-leg corridor. Nothing fancy. He guessed most people preferred to use the bathroom after they cleared security. He went in. There were three urinals, three sinks and three stalls. No one was using any of them. The place was empty.

Reacher took a leak and stepped away to the sink. He washed his hands and looked in the mirror. He concluded he needed a haircut and a shave. Otherwise satisfactory. His new shirt still looked good. He rinsed his hands and turned away to find a dryer. The door opened a crack and a guy stuck his head in. Checking for something. Maybe a maintenance worker, looking for drips or floods or other disasters.

But no.

The guy was a pale-skinned individual with ginger stubble and blond eyelashes. Instantly recognizable. Last seen sitting at the other table outside the coffee shop in Palo Alto. Part of Axel Brill’s private army. If they can see our diaries, they already know we’re heading home tonight. They had scrambled fast, to get them before they left. The O4 part of Reacher’s brain kicked in on autopilot and gave them a B-plus for speed and efficiency, but a C-minus for a poor choice of terrain. A public airport was far from ideal.

Which meant they were getting desperate.

The guy stepped all the way into the room. No more business suit. Now he was wearing jeans and a zipped-up bomber jacket at least a size too big. To hide a shoulder holster, no doubt. At first the guy’s face showed nothing but blank surprise at seeing Reacher again. It didn’t compute. A random guy from a coffee shop showing up again hours later and miles away? What were the odds?

Then a bunch of connections started clicking like dominoes. Reacher could see the guy’s brain working. Turner and Elwood have a guy with them. Identity unknown. No description other than size. This must be the guy. Then his face showed some kind of furious shame. We were sitting right next to him. He had just come out of the Sequoia Suites. Therefore Turner and Elwood were very close by. We blew it.

The guy stepped forward, wary. They faced each other. Reacher circled around, slow and watchful, like a wrestler at the start of a bout. The guy kept pace, always face to face, until their relative positions were reversed. Now Reacher was nearer the door. He backed up. He fumbled behind him. He found the handle. He found the lever.

He locked the door from the inside.

He said, “Just you and me now.”

The pale guy didn’t answer.

“The zipper was a mistake,” Reacher said. “I’ll break your wrist before you get it halfway down. But I can see your problem. You didn’t want to walk around the airport with your coat flapping open in the breeze.”

No answer.

“Make your move,” Reacher said. “I have a plane to catch.”

“Who are you?”

“Nobody,” Reacher said. “Just a guy passing through.”

No response.

“Make your move,” Reacher said again. “Give it your best shot. I can’t wait all day. I have to go meet my friends. They’re at the gate already. I guess you missed them.”

No answer.

He was right handed, Reacher knew. He had seen him lift his coffee cup off the tray. He would bring his left hand inward and upward, to grab the zipper tag, to haul it down, fighting bulges and creases in the oversized fabric, trying to get enough speed so the tag wouldn’t hang up at the bottom, so the jacket would fall open naturally, so the right hand could then mirror the left, a smooth inward and upward movement, to where the gun was warmly cradled under his arm.

But the guy didn’t do any of that. He must have made the same geometric calculations Reacher had made. He must have arrived at the same conclusions. He shoved both hands in his jacket pockets, as if he was making some kind of defiant gesture, or somehow signaling that he didn’t want to fight.

But it was neither of those things.

His right hand came out holding a switchblade.

Then his left hand came out holding a switchblade.

Reacher paused a beat.

“This is a new shirt,” he said. “It cost a lot of money. If you mess it up I’ll stick those blades in your eyes, one at a time.”

The guy didn’t answer. Instead he smiled, grimly, as if he was concentrating hard on something he was about to enjoy very much. Reacher didn’t like knives. He never had. Especially not two at once. That seemed excessive. Even unreasonable. But in his mind he heard himself say there’s no such thing as an unfair advantage, so he cast the thought aside and focused instead on the short-term imperative, which was don’t get cut.

The switchblade in the guy’s right hand snicked open.