Worth Dying For_ A Reacher Novel - Lee Child [136]
“There’s a deal going down here. We could cut you in. Make you rich.”
“I’m already rich.”
“You don’t look it. I’m serious. Lots of money.”
“I’ve got everything I need. That’s the definition of affluence.”
The guy paused a beat, and then he started up again, like a salesman. He said, “Tell me what I can do to make this right for you.”
“You can get in the back seat of your car.”
“Why?”
“Because my arms are sore and I don’t want to drag you.”
“No, why do you want us in the car?”
“Because we’re going for a drive.”
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you after you get in.”
The two men glanced at a spot in the air halfway between them, not daring to let their eyes meet, not daring to believe their luck. An opportunity. Them in the back, a solo driver in the front. Reacher tracked them with the Glock, all the way to the car. One got in on the near side, and the other looped around the trunk. Reacher saw him glance onward, at the road, at the open fields beyond, and then Reacher saw him give up on the impulse to run. Flat land. Nowhere to hide. A modern nine-millimeter sidearm, accurate out to fifty feet or more. The guy opened his door and ducked his head and folded himself inside. The Impala was not a small car, but it was no limousine in the rear. Both guys had their feet trapped under the front seats, and even though they were neither large nor tall, they were both cramped and close together.
Reacher opened the driver’s door. He put his knee on the seat and leaned inside. The guy who had spoken before asked, “So where are we going?”
“Not far,” Reacher said.
“Can’t you tell us?”
“I’m going to park next to the Ford you burned.”
“What, just up there?”
“I said not far.”
“And then what?”
“Then I’m going to set this car on fire.”
The two men glanced at each other, not understanding. The one who had spoken before said, “You’re going to drive with us in the back? Like, loose?”
“You can put your seat belts on if you like. But it’s hardly worth it. It’s not very far. And I’m a careful driver. I won’t have an accident.”
The guy said, “But …” and then nothing more.
“I know,” Reacher said. “I’ll have my back turned. You could jump me.”
“Well, yes.”
“But you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“You just won’t. I know it.”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Because you’ll be dead,” Reacher said, and he shot the first guy in the forehead, and then the second, a brisk double tap, no pause, bang bang, no separation at all. The rear window shattered and blood and bone and brain hit the remains of the glass, delayed, slower than the bullets, and the two guys settled peacefully, slower still, like afterthoughts, like old people falling asleep, but with open eyes and fat beads of purple welling out of the neat holes in their brows, welling and lengthening and becoming slow lazy trickles that ran down to the bridges of their noses.
Reacher backed out of the car and straightened up and looked north. Nine-millimeter Parabellums. Fine ammunition. The two slugs were probably hitting the ground right about then, a mile farther on, burning their way into the frigid dirt.
Reacher checked room seven and found a wallet in a coat. There was a Nevada driver’s license in it, made out in the name of Roberto Cassano, at a local Las Vegas address. There were four credit cards and a little more than ninety dollars in cash. Reacher took sixty and got in the Impala and drove forty yards and parked tight up against the shell of the Ford. He gave the sixty bucks to Vincent in the lounge, two rooms, one night, and then he borrowed rags and matches, and as soon as the fuse was set in the Chevy’s filler neck he hustled back to the Tahoe he had left on the shoulder. The first major flames were showing as he drove by, and he saw the fuel tank go up in his mirror, about four hundred yards later. The angle he was at and the way the fireball rose and then smoked and died made the motel sign look real, like it was a genuine working rocket, like it was blasting off for the infinite emptiness of space.
Eldridge Tyler heard the gunshots. Two faint pops, rapid, a double tap, very distant,