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Axel Brill’s flip phone rang. The one Saxby Cameron had gotten him from a Walmart a hundred miles away. The one he used solely for the guy at Lazarus Lorenzo. The concierge, he called him privately. Very discreet. You could ask him for anything.
Brill said, “You got her?”
“She’s not there. My guys just called me. From inside the suite. It’s empty. They’re awaiting further instructions.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“They must have stepped out. After the cameras were cut. You wouldn’t have seen them go.”
“This is another hit and run, isn’t it? Are they messing with me? Is this a contest now? Are they trying to get in my head?”
“Take a breath, Mr. Brill. Listen to me. They never heard of you. You’re invisible to them. They have no idea about any of this. They don’t even know what they’re looking for. They stepped out, that’s all. Maybe went for a walk. They’ll come back. They have to. The woman left her suitcase. They’re working there today. So I suggest I tell my guys to sit tight for an hour. Just wait in the room. Like an ambush. This could work to your advantage.”
“Not an hour,” Brill said. “Tell them two hours. Tell them four. Whatever it takes. Tell them twenty-four. I need this done, once and for all.”
—
In his mind Reacher pictured the three guys and tried to predict their walk back to the lobby and out to their car. How long in the suite? Four minutes, he figured. The first minute for a quick and dirty scan through every room, then the next three for closer checks through closets and under the bed and behind the sofa. Then the decision. Which was easy. No point sticking around. Doing it all again wasn’t going to make their targets materialize out of thin air. So, back out to the corridor, their suppressors unscrewed, everything stowed in their pockets, their jackets tugged down, their shoulders squared up, and off they go, back the way they came.
Soup to nuts, six minutes, absolute maximum.
By then they could have done it four times over.
They weren’t coming out.
They were staying in the room.
Turner said, “You took history at West Point, right?”
Reacher said, “Some.”
“Remember Helmuth von Moltke?”
“Nineteenth century Prussian military strategist.”
“Who said no plan survives first contact with the enemy.”
“Technically that’s a paraphrase. Actually he said no plan of operations extends with any certainty beyond the first contact with the main hostile force.”
“Same thing.”
“Shit happens. We deal with it.”
“I need to get to the airport. My phone is in there. I can’t lose it. Like an infantryman can’t lose his rifle. Like an officer can’t have sex with a subordinate. Absolutely prohibited. Inexcusable. A court martial offense.”
“OK, we’ll go get it.”
“We’ll be walking into an ambush.”
“We know that ahead of time. They don’t know we know. Gives us an advantage.”
“Their driver will see us go in. He’s their lookout, presumably. He’s probably got his phone on the dash. An open line, on speaker. He’ll warn them.”
“We’ll go around the block and in through the fire door. Where we came out.”
“Can’t do that. Fire doors are one-way only. For security.”
“There’s a technique. They’re designed to yield to a firefighter’s crowbar.”
