Never Go Back

‘But how does it relate? Afghanistan hadn’t even started when you were in Korea. Or when you saw the Big Dog.’

Reacher said nothing.

Edmonds said, ‘Oh.’

‘Correct,’ Reacher said. ‘You’re pretty quick, for a lawyer. This is about Major Turner, not me. Or maybe it’s about Major Turner and me, because what we’ve got here is someone laying down a challenge to two COs of the 110th Special Unit. Which means there are going to be winners and losers, and the smart money says you need to be with the winners, because being on the right side of history brings bounty beyond imagining, in this man’s army.’

‘Are you going to be the winners?’

‘Count on it. We’re going to beat them like rented mules. And we need to, captain. They killed two of our own in Afghanistan. And beat one of your colleagues half to death.’

Edmonds said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Turner was still in her robe, and she was showing no signs of going back to bed. Reacher asked her, ‘What was in the envelope?’

‘The other thing I asked Sergeant Leach for.’

‘Evidently. But what was it?’

‘We’re going to Los Angeles next.’

‘Are we?’

She nodded. ‘You need to take care of the Samantha situation.’

‘I’ll get to it.’

‘Worst case, we’re going to fail here, and they’re going to lock us up and throw away the key. I can’t let that happen to you. Not before you’ve met your daughter. You’d think about nothing else, for the rest of your life. So you can put my problem on the back burner for a spell, and you can move yours to the front.’

‘When did you make this plan?’

‘Some time ago. As I was entitled to. You’re in my unit, apparently. Therefore I’m your CO. We’re going to Los Angeles next.’

‘What was in the envelope?’

She answered by spilling the contents on the bed.

Two credit cards.

And two driver’s licences.

She paired them up and kept one of each for herself, and she passed the others to Reacher. A New York State driver’s licence, and a Visa credit card. The licence was made out to a guy named Michael Dennis Kehoe, forty-five years old, at a Queens address. Male, blue eyes, height six-six. He was an organ donor. The picture showed a square face and a wide neck. The Visa card was in the same name, Michael D. Kehoe.

Reacher said, ‘Are they real?’

‘Mine are.’

‘And mine aren’t?’

‘They’re kind of real. They’re from the undercover locker.’

Reacher nodded. The 110th sent people undercover all the time. They needed documents. The government supplied them, authentic in every way, except for never having been issued to an actual person.

He asked, ‘Where are yours from?’

‘A friend of Leach’s. She said she knew someone who looked like me.’

‘So what’s your name now?’

Turner answered by flipping the licence into his lap, like a card trick. Illinois, Margaret Vega, five-seven, brown eyes, thirty-one years old. Not an organ donor. The photograph showed a light-skinned Hispanic woman. At first glance a little like Turner, but not a whole lot.

Reacher flipped the licence back.

‘And Ms Vega was happy to give up her DL?’ he said. ‘Just like that? And her credit card too?’

‘We have to return them. And we have to pay back any charges we make. Obviously I had to promise. But Billy Bob’s money can take care of that.’

‘That’s not the point. Ms Vega is way out on a limb now.’

‘I guess Leach can be persuasive.’

‘Only because she thinks you’re worth it.’

‘She had no friends who looked like you. Not even close. Which is why we had to use the locker. Probably Mr Kehoe was the target in a training scenario. He looks like the guy with the chainsaw in a slasher movie.’

‘Should work fine, then. When are we leaving?’

‘As soon as possible,’ Turner said. ‘We’ll catch an early flight.’

They showered and dressed, and then packing was nothing more than jamming their new toothbrushes in their pockets, and putting on their coats. They left the drapes closed and the lights off, and Reacher hung the Do Not Disturb card on the outside handle, and then they hustled down the corridor to the elevator. It was just after five in the morning, and Turner figured the long-hauls to the West Coast would start around six. Not an infinite choice of carriers out of Pittsburgh International, but there would be at least several. Worst case, they could connect through San Francisco, or Phoenix, or Las Vegas.

The elevator reached the lobby and they stepped out to a deserted scene. There was no one at the desk. No one anywhere. So Reacher dropped their key cards in the trash, and they headed for the door, where they got straight into a hesitant after-you-no-after-you thing with a lone guy who had chosen that exact moment to come in from the dark sidewalk outside. He was a compact man in a navy suit and a white shirt and a navy tie. He had a fresh haircut, short and conservative, and a pink face, recently shaved. Eventually they worked out a three-way pecking order. The guy held the door for Turner, who stepped out, and then Reacher hung back, and the guy stepped in, and finally Reacher stepped out.