Excerpt
Exit Strategy
Chapter 1Nathan Gilmour knew things that other people did not.
People, like his coworkers at the Port Administration in Baltimore.
Things, like the fact that the recent death of one of those coworkers was not an accident, despite what the police report said. It was not an accident, and the man who had died was not the intended victim. Gilmour himself was.
Gilmour knew that he was the one who should have paid with his life. There was no doubt about it. And if he stayed where he was and kept on following his orders, the killers would realize they’d screwed up, too. They would correct their mistake. There was no doubt about that, either. So Gilmour was left with no choice. He had to pull the plug.
Gilmour was sitting alone in the cramped office. The only other desk was lost under a heap of bouquets of flowers. Most of them were beginning to wilt. The air was heavy with their scent. Their stench, Gilmour thought. The stench of death. He began to breathe through his mouth and twisted his chair sideways to avoid the view out the window. He didn’t need to see the roof of the sagging white tent. It had been put up over the center of the spot where the shipping container had hit the ground after it fell from its crane. Or was dropped. The investigators were gone but the stain on the concrete was going to be there for months. Office gossip said the guy who had been crushed by the container wound up as flat as a piece of paper. Gilmour had known the guy for five months. He had shared his workspace with him. Had come to like him. And ultimately had gotten him killed. He shivered and pulled a phone out of his pocket. A very basic one. He flipped it open and keyed in a message.
911. Need to meet.
Gilmour entered a number. He hit Send. Noted the time—a minute after eleven in the morning—and settled in to wait for a reply. There was no way he was going to get any work done that day. Or any other day, in that place. Or in any other place, if his gambit failed.
The same time Nathan Gilmour was sending his text, Jack Reacher was stepping into a coffee shop. It was a large place, bright and busy, just a stone’s throw from Gilmour’s dockside office. Inside, it had exposed-brick walls, oak floors, and three parallel rows of ornate iron pillars holding up the ceiling. An old warehouse, Reacher guessed. Solid. Built to endure. The kind of place that had outlasted the industry it had been designed to serve and was now onto its second lease on life. Reacher imagined that the upper floors would be converted into chic apartments as the neighborhood got gentrified, if they hadn’t been already.
Reacher stood in line at the counter, ordered his coffee—black, no sugar—paid, and carried the mug to a small round table in the corner. Someone had left a newspaper, but that wasn’t why Reacher chose it. He settled there because it gave him a view of the whole room. He squeezed in behind the table and lowered himself onto the wooden chair. It wasn’t built for someone his size—six foot five, two hundred fifty pounds—and it wasn’t comfortable, but Reacher didn’t mind. He wasn’t planning to stay long. He had arrived in the city that morning on a Greyhound bus and would be leaving the same way either late that night or early the next day. He was there to catch a band he liked that was playing at a benefit for veterans. It was going to be an evening show, in the open air, it was late October, and Reacher didn’t have a coat. Buying one was next on his todo list. He figured he would take a refill of coffee or two—maybe three—then when the quantity of caffeine in his system was restored to a satisfactory level he would move on.
The coffee shop was three-quarters full. A handful of the other customers were also on their own. Two of them were reading books. The others were tapping away on laptops. Six people were crowded around a table for four in the center of the space. The rest of the tables were taken by couples. Most of the couples were focused on each other, or on their phones, but Reacher saw that two pairs had a different dynamic. One duo couldn’t keep their eyes off the entrance. The man had a beard, neatly trimmed. The woman had black hair pulled back in a French braid. They were both smartly dressed, like they were there for some kind of special occasion, and the expressions on their faces flip-flopped between anxiety and excitement. The final couple was watching them. They were older. Maybe in their late seventies. They looked pale and gray and hunched. Their clothes were worn and shabby and there was just a single mug between them on the table.
Reacher finished his coffee, wriggled free of his table, and strolled to the counter. He got his first refill and as he turned back another person walked into the shop. A man, maybe in his mid-forties, dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase. The smart couple that had been watching the entrance got halfway to their feet, the beginning of a smile taking hold on their faces. Then something about the newcomer’s expression hit them. Their smiles died a sudden death. They sunk back down onto their chairs. The man’s shoulders slumped. The newcomer joined them at their table and for a moment no one spoke. Then the man with the beard straightened up. He stuck out his chin and said, “If it’s bad news, tell us. Don’t leave us hanging.”
Reacher stayed back by the cluster of flasks at the end of the counter and made like he was considering adding cream to his coffee. He wanted to hear how the conversation unfolded.
The new guy said, “You have to remember what I told you. The futures market is like a violent storm over the ocean. An investment is like a ship trying to sail across that ocean. You’ve got high winds to take into account. Treacherous currents. Unpredictable tides. You can run aground. Get holed on the rocks. Hit delays. Maybe even sink.”
Reacher saw the old shabby guy shake his head and push his chair back like he was ready to stand up. The woman who was with him put her hand on his arm, stopping him.
The man with the beard said, “You told us you knew how to navigate all that storm stuff. You told us you were the best. That you could turn a profit inside twenty-four hours. Maybe even double our money.”
The new guy said, “True. I did say that.”
“So what are you telling us now? You lost our money?”
“I didn’t lose it.”
“What, then?”
“I didn’t double it.”
“So there’s some left?”
“Some?” The guy grinned. “You could say that. Because I didn’t double it. I tripled it.”
The man with the beard was silent for a long moment, then said, “Tripled? That would make . . .”
The new guy picked up his briefcase, set it on his lap, worked the locks, then upended it over the table. Bundles of banknotes cascaded out. Fifteen of them. One knocked over a cup. Two tumbled onto the floor. He said, “Fifteen thousand dollars in less than a day. And that’s after my commission. Like I told you, I am the best.”
Reacher saw the shabby couple lock eyes for a second. Some kind of silent understanding passed between them. They each nodded, very gently. They straightened up a little. Leaned slightly forward.
The man with the beard stared at the money. His jaw sagged open. The woman who was with him shrieked and threw her arms around him so hard they almost fell off their chairs. They yelled. They whooped. They high-fived. Everyone in the place was staring at them but they showed no sign of caring. The new guy smiled. He turned his briefcase the right way up and closed it. He got to his feet and was halfway to the door before the man with the beard noticed he was moving.
The man said, “Wait. You’re leaving?”
“Why not? My work is done. Enjoy your profit.”
“No. Your work’s not done.” He started to gather up the bundles of cash. “Take this back. Invest it for us. All of it. Just like last night.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m certain.”
“I can’t promise to triple it again.”
“But you could double it?”
The new guy returned to the table. “It’s possible.”
Reacher went back to his table and watched the man with the beard gather up the bundles of money. The man retrieved the two that had fallen, righted the tipped-over cup, shook the new guy’s hand, then put his arm around the woman’s shoulder and went with her toward the door. They were almost skipping. The new guy set his briefcase down, opened it, and stacked the money inside. He closed it again, locked it, and turned to leave.
