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“Bisley wasn’t killed because of gravel.”

“You sure?”

“He was a cybersecurity specialist, not a geologist.”

“The Denver metro area has about three million people. How many legbreakers should that size of a population support?”

She nodded.

“More than just two brothers,” she said.

“Probably a hundred little organizations. A few of them good, some second-rate, some third. Meanwhile at the other end of the chain, our as-yet unknown suspect calls a lawyer at Lazarus Lorenzo and asks for a favor. The first question is why our suspect didn’t already know a bunch of legbreakers in Denver.”

“Maybe they’re new to this. At best inexperienced in these matters. Maybe something is spilling over into uncharted territory, maybe spiraling out of control.”

“OK, then the second question is why did Lazarus Lorenzo pick a second-rate crew, when they had ninety-nine others to choose from? Maybe because the second-rate crew knew Summertown. Their vehicle registrations link them to someone who might have been involved in the construction. Why did Lazarus Lorenzo accept second-rate professional performance in exchange for first-rate local knowledge? The job didn’t require first-rate local knowledge. It didn’t require any knowledge at all. There’s nothing in Summertown except two solar fields feeding five data centers. Plus a motel that a kid and his dad built for the engineers. Plus a diner directly opposite, plainly visible to the naked eye. It isn’t hard to find your way around. No one would need to stop and ask directions. It’s all right there. Most of it must be visible from outer space.”

“They knew the bar,” she said. “That took local knowledge.”

“Every crew knows a bar.”

“Rearview mirror,” she said.

“Something made Lazarus Lorenzo pick those guys.”

“OK, what exactly?”

“I don’t know. But it’s bugging me. Colorado might be in the rearview mirror now, but a buck gets ten it won’t stay that way.”

Their food arrived, and they stopped talking and started eating.

—

The walk back to the motel was quiet. No more conversation. No further discussion. Just two people, lost in private thoughts, wasting dead time ahead of something uncertain in the morning. We’ll listen out for whose pocket rings. Then we’ll improvise. A thin plan, Reacher thought. He was sure Turner agreed. But it was better than nothing. He hoped.

There was a car parked across the street from the motel, on the opposite curb. A dark sedan, long and low, still and silent. No exhaust. Turned off. Or maybe electric. Two silhouettes in the front. Two heads, four shoulders, all wide. Nothing more than that to see, through the evening gloom. The back of Reacher’s brain flashed a muted amber warning, but it didn’t make a whole big thing out of it. No one knew where they were. No one could. Not possible. A random cab, an arbitrary choice of lodging, both paid in cash. No problem. Must be something else entirely. Maybe a billionaire tech bro banging someone else’s girlfriend. Maybe she was Swiss, hence the choice of motel. Probably the guys in the car were his security detail. Probably a must-have for a top boy in Palo Alto, along with yoga coaches and vegan organic chefs and deep tissue masseurs and feng shui advisers.

They turned in at the curb cut and headed for their rooms. Turner said, “Meet at 0700 and go find breakfast?”

Reacher said, “Yes, ma’am,” and she went inside. He walked on to room twelve and opened the door. He flipped on the light and pulled the drapes. Not all the way. He left them six inches open. The parked car was still there, far away on the opposite curb. The back of his brain told him a faint amber alert might be no big deal, but neither was it the same thing as a green light to ignore everything and go to sleep. He flipped the light off again and sat on the bed in the dark, lined up with the crack in the curtains, the distant car barely visible in the misty gloom.

Nothing happened. The car just sat there, inert. Reacher watched it. The front of his brain told him there was nothing to worry about, so he should go to bed. The back of his brain said yeah, OK, but not just yet. In five more minutes, maybe. Or ten. Reacher listened to both voices. He considered himself a modern-day human, a reality dweller, a believer in science and evidence. Which inevitably meant he also believed in instinct. Science and evidence said helpful traits were passed down by evolution. Not just physical. By definition every living person had a thousand ancient ancestors who had felt something and gotten out just before the hyenas showed up. Those who didn’t weren’t anyone’s ancestors. They had been eaten. The sixth sense made a difference.

He waited.

Nothing happened. The car sat there, part of the darkness.

Eight minutes later it moved.

Chapter 11

The car crept forward along the far shoulder. Silent. Electric for sure. No lights. It turned a tight left and crossed both traffic lanes and rolled into the motel’s driveway. Ten yards later it was out of sight. No longer lined up with the crack in the curtains.

Hope for the best, plan for the worst. That was Reacher’s operating principle. His room door was on the right as he looked at it, hinged close to the side wall. No space to hide behind it. Not that a potential intruder would open it all the way. He would ease it through a stealthy forty-five degrees and slide in silently, leading with a gun. Probably right-handed. First focus would be the bed. No other reason to have waited so long. He would expect to see his target tucked up and falling asleep. Failing that, he would glance onward to the bathroom beyond. Some folks showered before bed. Part hygienic, part warm and relaxing.

Reacher got off the bed and put his back to the side wall, a couple of feet from the door hinge, where he might fit in the forty-five degree wedge he would be left with. He waited. Heard faint clicks and groans as two car doors opened. Heard the faint scrape of shoes on concrete. Then nothing.

Then a click as his door unlocked. The inner handle turned. The door opened an inch. Then another. Testing for squeaks. There were none. The door eased open forty-five degrees and stopped. A gun appeared, and a hand, and a wrist, and a shirt cuff, and a jacket sleeve. All pointed at the bed. The gun was a Glock 17. It had a long fat suppressor screwed to its muzzle. The hand was meaty. The wrist was thick. The shirt cuff was black. The jacket sleeve was black.