Lee Child - Jack Reacher 03 Tripwire

Tripwire

Hook Hobie owed the whole of his life to a secretnearly thirty years old. His liberty, his status, his money,everything. And like any cautious guy in his particularsituation, he was ready to do what was necessary toprotect his secret. Because he had a lot to lose. Thewhole of his life.

The protection he relied on for nearly thirty years wasbased on just two things. The same two things anybodyuses to protect against any danger. The same way anation protects itself against an enemy missile, thesame way an apartment dweller protects himself againsta burglar, the same way a boxer guards against aknockout blow. Detection and response. Stage one,stage two. First you spot the threat, and then you react.

Stage one was the early-warning system. It hadchanged over the years, as other circumstances hadchanged. Now it was well rehearsed and simplified. Itwas made up of two layers, like two concentrictripwires. The first tripwire was eleven thousand milesfrom home. It was an early-early warning. A wake-upcall. It would tell him they were getting close. Thesecond tripwire was five thousand miles nearer, but stillsix thousand miles from home. A call from the secondlocation would tell him they were about to get veryclose. It would tell him stage one was over, and stagetwo was about to begin.

Stage two was the response. He was very clear onwhat the response had to be. He had spent nearly thirty-years thinking about it, but there was only ever oneviable answer. The response would be to run. Todisappear. He was a realistic guy. The whole of his lifehe had been proud of his courage and his cunning, histoughness and his fortitude. He had always done whatwas necessary, without a second thought. But he knewthat when he heard the warning sounds from thosedistant tripwires, he had to get out. Because no mancould survive what was coming after him. No man. Noteven a man as ruthless as he was.

The danger had ebbed and flowed like a tide for years.

He had spent long periods certain it was about to washover him at any time. And then long periods certain itwould never reach him at all. Sometimes the deadeningsensation of time made him feel safe, because thirtyyears is an eternity. But other times it felt like the blink ofan eye. Sometimes he waited for the first call on anhourly basis. Planning, sweating, but always knowinghe could be forced to run at any moment.

He had played it through his head a million times. Theway he expected it, the first call would come in maybe amonth before the second call. He would use that monthto prepare. He would tie up the loose ends, close thingsdown, cash in, transfer assets, settle scores. Then,when the second call came in, he would take off.

Immediately. No hesitation. Just get the hell out, andstay the hell out.

But the way it happened, the two calls came in on thesame day. The second call came first. The nearertripwire was breached an hour before the farther one.

And Hook Hobie didn't run. He abandoned thirty yearsof careful planning and stayed to fight it out.

ONE

Jack Reacher saw the guy step in through the door.

Actually, there was no door. The guy just stepped inthrough the part of the front wall that wasn't there. Thebar opened straight out on to the sidewalk. There weretables and chairs out there under a dried-up old vinethat gave some kind of nominal shade. It was an inside-outside room, passing through a wall that wasn't there.

Reacher guessed there must be some kind of an irongrille they could padlock across the opening when thebar closed. If it closed. Certainly Reacher had neverseen it closed, and he was keeping some pretty radicalhours.

The guy stood a yard inside the dark room and waited,blinking, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom after thehot whiteness of the Key West sun. It was June, dead-on four o'clock in the afternoon, the southernmost partof the United States. Way farther south than most of theBahamas. A hot white sun and a fierce temperature.

Reacher sat at his table in back and sipped water from aplastic bottle and waited.

The guy was looking around. The bar was a low roombuilt from old boards dried to a dark colour. They lookedlike they had come from old broken-up

sailing ships. Random pieces of nautical junk werenailed to them. There were old brass things and greenglass globes. Stretches of old nets. Fishing equipment,Reacher guessed, although he had never caught a fishin his life. Or sailed a boat. Overlaying everything wereten thousand business cards, tacked up over everyspare square inch, including the ceiling. Some of themwere new, some of them were old and curled,representing ventures that had folded decades ago.

The guy stepped farther into the gloom and headed forthe bar. He was old. Maybe sixty, medium height, bulky.

A doctor would have called him overweight, butReacher just saw a fit man some way down the wrongside of the hill. A man yielding gracefully to the passageof time without getting all stirred up about it. He wasdressed like a northern city guy on a short-notice trip tosomewhere hot. Light grey pants, wide at the top,narrow at the bottom, a thin crumpled beige jacket, awhite shirt with the collar spread wide open, blue-whiteskin showing at his throat, dark socks, city shoes. NewYork or Chicago, Reacher guessed, maybe Boston,spent most of his summer in air-conditioned buildingsor cars, had these pants and this jacket stashed away inthe back of his closet ever since he bought them twentyyears ago, brought them out occasionally and usedthem as appropriate.

The guy reached the bar and went into his jacket andpulled a wallet. It was a small overloaded old item in fineblack leather. The sort of wallet that moulds itself tightaround the stuff crammed inside. Reacher saw the guyopen it with a practised flick and show it to thebartender and ask a quiet question. The bartenderglanced away like he'd been insulted. The guy put thewallet away and smoothed his wisps of grey hair intothe sweat on his scalp. He muttered something else andthe bartender came up with a beer from a chest of ice.

The old guy held the cold bottle against his face for amoment and then took a long pull. Belched discreetlybehind his hand and smiled like a small disappointmenthad been assuaged.

Reacher matched his pull with a long drink of water.

The fittest guy he had ever known was a Belgian soldierwho swore the key to fitness was to do whatever thehell you liked as long as you drank five litres of mineralwater every day. Reacher figured five litres was about agallon, and since the Belgian was a small whippy guyhalf his size, he should make it two gallons a day. Tenfull-size bottles. Since arriving in the heat of the Keys,he had followed that regimen. It was working for him. Hehad never felt better. Every day at four o'clock he sat at