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“Gun,” he said.

The guy was heaving big breaths in and out, and rubbing his throat.

“Now,” Reacher said.

The gun was not in the guy’s pocket. It was in a pancake holster on the right side of his belt. Under his barn coat. Reacher grabbed the guy’s wrist before he had the gun more than an inch out. Right-handed this time, with the weight of his right shoulder pinning the guy to his seat. He squeezed, hard enough to crack bone.

“Nice and slow,” he said.

Reacher took the gun from the guy with his left hand, and let go of his wrist with his right. The gun was a brand-new Colt Defender, three-inch barrel, walnut grips, nine-mil Luger, seven in the magazine, one in the chamber. A neat little thing. A thousand-dollar purchase. Way too fancy for the kind of guy who would give it up without a fight.

Reacher said, “Now your driver’s license and vehicle registration.”

“Are you a cop?” the guy asked, in a croaky voice, because of his throat.

“Not anymore,” Reacher said. “But I remember the moves, believe me. License and registration, right now.”

The guy dug in his pants pocket and came out with a wallet. Reacher took it. The guy leaned over and pulled out a bunch of creased papers from the glove box. Reacher took those too.

“Car key now,” Reacher said.

The guy pulled it out of the slot and handed it over.

“Phone,” Reacher said.

The guy dug in another pocket and came out with a phone. He handed it over. A plain-looking thing. A burner, like Reacher’s own.

“Plus your personal phone.”

“Don’t have one,” the guy said.

“Yes, you do,” Reacher said. “No one has just a work phone.”

The guy came out with a modern phone, like a small slab of glass.

Reacher took it.

“OK,” he said. “Now come with me. I’ll buy you breakfast. You can use the restroom and make yourself comfortable. You’ve had a long night.”

The guy just stared. Reacher folded the glove-box papers into four and slid them into one back pocket. He put the two phones in the other. He put the wallet in one front pocket, where his own phone already was. The other front pocket was already full of the five grand. He felt burdened down.

He kept the Colt in his right hand and the car key in his left.

He said, “Take it or leave it.”

The guy eased out of the truck, wary. He closed the door behind him. Reacher blipped the key and locked it. He put the key in a pocket and tucked the Colt in his waistband. He said, “Let’s go.”

—

They were the first customers of the day. From the inside the place looked like an old-style aluminum-and-glittery-vinyl coach diner had collided with a scrubbed-pine country restaurant. The counter was styled like the former, and the tables around the rim of the room looked like the latter. Like the MP he was, Reacher chose a corner table and sat with his back to the wall. Ahead of him were clear lines of sight and a full ninety-degree field of fire. Like a baseball diamond. Half left was the corridor to the restrooms and the fire exit. Half right was a view out the window to where the road from Denver came out from the smaller solar field. Safe enough, for the time being.

The guy from the pickup truck stood behind the chair opposite. Still wary. He said, “I guess I’ll go use the restroom first.”

“Not yet,” Reacher said. “Sit down. I have some questions.”

The guy paused a beat, and then he scraped his chair out and sat down.

Reacher said, “Tell me what you did two weeks ago.”