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“You got rifles?”

“Assault rifles in room five, marksman rifles in room four, sniper rifles in room three, and shotguns in room two.”

“Any M110A1s?”

“We have several.”

“I’ll take one.”

“You a marksman?”

“I get by,” Reacher said. “Plus an M590 pump-action, if you have one.”

“I think we have six.”

“OK, I’ll take two, just in case.”

“You want grenades?”

“We won’t need them. It’s all open terrain. No bunkers, no foxholes.”

“Understood,” Kennedy said, for the third time. “A total of fifteen items plus ammunition by break of day tomorrow. It will be done.”

Which from a sergeant like her was a promise you could take to the bank.

“Thanks for your help,” Reacher said. “Much appreciated.”

He walked out of his old lair, through the new gate, past the new guardhouse, back to the street, mostly feeling pretty good about life, except for picturing Hennessy three thousand miles to the west, in a lock-up garage or a storage unit, combing through his own illicit stash, picking and choosing his own useful things.

—

Reacher skirted around the top of the cemetery and took the route that would lead past his bank to the Pentagon beyond. He called Turner as he walked. She answered and he said, “All done with Sergeant Kennedy.”

“Copy that,” Turner said. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

“How? We can’t take that stuff on a plane.”

“Depends what kind of plane. I’ll be done here in an hour. Can you meet me at South Parking?”

“I’m walking back from Rock Creek right now. I’ll be passing by. I’m about ten minutes out.”

“Great,” she said. “Come on in and I’ll show you how an O7 lives.”

She clicked off and he put his phone back in his pocket and kept on walking. He got the same view he had gotten the first morning. The back of the strip mall in the distance, his bank on the right, the Pentagon in the haze beyond it. The same traffic, the same acres of parked cars. The same weather, like walking through a warm bath.

—

The Pentagon’s main public entrance was in the southeast facade. There was a visitor pass waiting for him, on a lanyard, which he hung around his neck. The pass said Must Be Accompanied in bright red letters. Turner had sent an E4 corporal to escort him. The guy led him through the D-ring corridors to an oak door with Brigadier General Turner painted on it in neat gold script. The door opened to an outer office, which led to a receptionist’s office, which led to the inner sanctum. The whole place hummed with the low hush of busy people doing urgent things quietly.

Turner was back in uniform and on the phone. With a friend, by the tone. Maybe a friend who had just agreed to do her a favor. There was a hint of thanks, pal in the pitch of her voice, but the actual words were never spoken. So not a giant favor. Something easily done, but even so, something that still needed asking for. Her office was wide and deep and big enough to divide into rooms and sell for eight million dollars in Palo Alto. The decor was standard military, but it was executed to a high-end civilian standard. As good as the Four Seasons. Colors were deep and smooth and even, edges were crisp, oak accents gleamed with polish.

Turner got off the phone.

She said, “What did you think of your old building?”

“It hasn’t changed much,” he said. “A lick of paint here and there. Still kind of deniable, still hiding in plain sight.”

“The modern world,” she said. “These days the army has hundreds of logistics companies that don’t actually do any logistics. Budgets are small and the concept is boring, so no one looks at them twice.”