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“You gave that order too late. She was already in G-99’s custody. She was already talking to them. That’s on you, Mr. Brill.”

“What terrain of your choosing?”

“That will depend on what Mrs. Bisley told them. What was on Bisley’s mind? What might he have mentioned to his wife? That’s what they went there to ask her.”

“I’m not going to discuss that, bro. It’s a very important commercial secret. You were supposed to eliminate her so it wouldn’t spread any further than it already has.”

“I need to know what’s going on,” Hennessy said. “Or I can’t help you.”

Brill said nothing.

Cameron said, “We can’t discuss the specific issue that seems to have caught Mr. Bisley’s attention. You understand, I’m sure. But happily we don’t need to. All you need to know is the inevitable final location. Which we will tell you when the time is right. I’m no expert, but I imagine it’s good terrain from your point of view. It’s a very defined area, it’s flat and open, and the permanent population is four people. Two run a motel, and two run a diner. The nearest police department is more than fifty miles away. I imagine you’ll find it ideal. You won’t be disturbed.”

—

Turner opened the door to the food delivery wearing nothing except Reacher’s new T-shirt. It was twice as wide as it needed to be, and long enough to hit mid-thigh. Maybe a little higher than mid. A pretty much perfect length, Reacher thought, especially when assessed from behind. He was wearing nothing except his pants, zipped up but not buttoned. The delivery guy didn’t seem to care about either of them. He had probably seen worse. Or better, depending on his point of view.

They ate in the kitchen, on stools at the counter. The house was pleasant, but bland. Plenty of beige and cream. Everything was neutral. As anonymous as a room in a chain hotel. There was nothing of her in it. It was a temporary stop. A place to sleep, nothing more. Like the places Reacher had grown up in. His mother had always made an effort, for the family, with flowers sometimes, and pictures tacked up on the wall, but he knew she wouldn’t have bothered if she had lived alone.

He asked Turner, “Where would you live, if you had a free choice?”

“I like warm,” she said. “I like the ocean. I like chill people. I like weird stuff going on around me.”

“California, then.”

“La Jolla, maybe. Or Malibu. Or Santa Barbara. What about you?”

“I do have a free choice. But clearly I’m slow at actually choosing.”

“I think you’ll always be a nomad.”

“There’s plenty I still want to see.”

“Where first?”

“Aurora, Colorado,” he said.

“You’re obsessed.”

“No, it’s what comes next. I don’t like a detailed itinerary ahead of time.”

“That’s for sure. Your bank went through your last four weeks for me. You were all over the map. I was lucky your card expired.”

“No, I was,” he said.

“We both were.”

—

They went to sleep early. The AC had dried the sheets. They remade the bed and snuggled close. Reacher’s absolute favorite feeling. Warm, comfortable, completely spent, deeply relaxed, intertwined with another beating heart. Drifting off. Not alone. The rare intimacy, the rare connection. He felt right then his life was perfect. No way to improve it.

—

They woke early, too. Just after six o’clock. Still dark outside. They made coffee, and showered, and dressed. Reacher had no decision to make about what to wear. The same as yesterday. Turner thought ahead to the Colorado landscape and chose colors to suit. Like camouflage. Shades of tan and sand. Boots, jeans, shirt, jacket. She packed a small bag with her travel requirements. Reacher reclaimed his toothbrush from her bathroom and put it in his pocket. He took out the phone he had taken from the guy in the airport and gave it to her for safe keeping. Just in case it might prove useful. She put it in her bag. They sat at the kitchen counter and poured the last of the coffee. They waited until the first pale streaks showed in the sky. Break of day, Sergeant Kennedy had promised. They walked through the mud room to the garage and got in the car.

Rush hour had already started. Heading toward the old 110th building meant heading the same way as everyone else going to work. It was slow. But they got there before the sun was up. Turner parked on the curb and Reacher went in alone. The same ritual. First the guardhouse, then the lobby. Kennedy was waiting there for him. At her feet were four black duffels. Strong nylon material, lumpy with content. The muzzles of the long guns strained against the fabric. Three little Os, all in a line.

“Need a hand?” Kennedy said.