Worth Dying For_ A Reacher Novel - Lee Child [118]
The man said, “Get on your knees.”
Jacob asked, “Who are you?”
The man said, “You killed my friend.”
“I didn’t.”
“One of you Duncans did.”
“We didn’t. We don’t even know who you are.”
“Get on your knees.”
“Who are you?”
The little man picked up his knife again and asked, “Which one of you is Seth?”
Seth Duncan paused a beat and then raised his good hand, like a kid in class.
The little man said, “You killed my friend and you put his body in the trunk of your Cadillac.”
Jacob said, “No, Reacher stole that car this afternoon. It was him.”
“Reacher doesn’t exist.”
“He does. He broke my son’s nose. And his hand.”
The gun didn’t move, but the little man turned his head and looked at Seth. The aluminum splint, the swollen fingers. Jacob said, “We haven’t left here all day. But Reacher was at the Marriott. This afternoon and this evening. We know that. He left the Cadillac there.”
“Where is he now?”
“We’re not sure. Close by, we think.”
“How did he get back?”
“Perhaps he took your rental car. Did your friend have the key?”
The little man didn’t answer.
Jacob asked, “Who are you?”
“I represent Mahmeini.”
“We don’t know who that is.”
“He buys your merchandise from Safir.”
“We don’t know anyone of that name either. We sell to an Italian gentleman in Las Vegas, name of Mr. Rossi, and after that we have no further interest.”
“You’re trying to cut everyone out.”
“We’re not. We’re trying to get our shipment home, that’s all.”
“Where is it?”
“On its way. But we can’t bring it in until Reacher is down.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. This kind of business can’t be done in public. You should be helping us, not pointing guns at us.”
The little man didn’t answer.
Jacob said, “Put the gun away, and let’s all sit down and talk. We’re all on the same side here.”
The little man kept the gun straight and level and said, “Safir’s men are dead too.”
“Reacher,” Jacob said. “He’s on the loose.”
“What about Rossi’s boys?”
“We haven’t seen them recently.”
“Really?”
“I swear.”
The little man was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “OK. Things change. Life moves on, for all of us. From now on you will sell direct to Mahmeini.”
Jacob Duncan said, “Our arrangement is with Mr. Rossi.”
The little man said, “Not anymore.”
Jacob Duncan didn’t answer.
Cassano and Mancini opted to try Jacob Duncan’s place first. A logical choice, given that Jacob was clearly the head of the family. They backed off the fence a couple of paces and walked parallel with it to a spot opposite Jacob’s kitchen window. The bar of yellow light coming out of it laid a bright rectangle on the gravel, but it fell six feet short of the base of the fence. They climbed the fence and skirted the rectangle, moving quietly across the gravel, Cassano to the right, Mancini to the left, and then they flattened themselves against the back wall of the house and peered in.
No one there.
Mancini eased open the door and Cassano went in ahead of him. The house was silent. No sound at all. No one awake, no one asleep. Cassano and Mancini had searched plenty of places, plenty of times, and they knew what to listen for.
They slipped back out to the yard and retraced their steps. They climbed back into the field and walked north in the dark and lined up again opposite Jasper’s window. They climbed the fence, staying out of the light. They flattened themselves against the wall and peered inside.
Not what they expected.
Not even close.
There was only one Iranian, not two. There was no happy conversation. No smiles. No bourbon toasts. Instead, Mahmeini’s man was standing there with a gun in one hand and a knife in the other, and all four Duncans were cowering away from him. The glass in the window was wavy and thin in places, and Jacob Duncan’s urgent voice was faintly audible.
Jacob Duncan was saying, “We have been in business