Worth Dying For_ A Reacher Novel - Lee Child [84]
Reacher said, “Tell me your name.”
The guy’s chin and his lips and his nose were all jammed hard down on the blacktop. He said, “John,” like a gasp, like a grunt, just a soft expulsion of breath, quiet and indistinct.
“Not Brett?” Reacher asked.
“No.”
“That’s good.” Reacher shifted his weight, turned the guy’s head, jammed the Glock in his ear, saw the whites of his eyes. “Do you know who I am?”
The guy on the ground said, “I do now.”
“You know the two things you really need to understand?”
“What are they?”
“Whoever you think you are, I’m tougher than you, and I’m more ruthless than you. You have absolutely no idea. I’m worse than your worst nightmare. Do you believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Really believe it? Like you believe in Mom and apple pie?”
“Yes.”
“You know what I did to your buddies?”
“Yes.”
“What did I do?”
“You finished them.”
“Correct. But here’s the thing, John. I’m prepared to work with you, to save your life. We can do this, if we try. But if you step half an inch out of line, I’ll kill you and walk away and I’ll never think about you again and I’ll sleep like a baby the whole rest of my life. We clear on that?”
“Yes.”
“So you want to try?”
“Yes.”
“Are you thinking about some stupid move? Are you quarterbacking it right now? You planning to wait until my attention wanders?”
“No.”
“Good answer, John. Because my attention never wanders. You ever seen someone get shot?”
“No.”
“It’s not like the movies, John. Big chunks of disgusting stuff come flying out. Even a flesh wound, you never really recover. Not a hundred percent. You get infections. You’re weak and hurting, forever.”
“OK.”
“So stand up now.” Reacher got up out of his crouch and moved away, pointing the gun, aiming it two-handed at arm’s length for theatrical effect, tracking the guy’s head, a big pale target. First the guy went fetal for a second, and then he gathered himself and got his hands under him and jacked himself to his knees. Reacher said, “See the yellow car? You’re going to go stand next to the driver’s door.”
The guy said, “OK,” and got to his feet, a little unsteady at first, then firmer, taller, squarer. Reacher said, “Feeling good now, John? Feeling brave? Getting ready? Going to rush over and get me?”
The guy said, “No.”
“Good answer, John. I’ll put a double tap in you before you move the first muscle. Believe me, I’ve done it before. I used to get paid to do it. I’m very good at it. So move over to the yellow car and stand next to the driver’s door.” Reacher tracked him all the way around the Malibu’s hood. The driver’s door was still open. Reacher had left it that way, for the sake of a speedy exit. The guy stood in its angle. Reacher aimed the gun across the roof of the car and opened the passenger door. The two men stood there, one on each side, both doors open like little wings.
Reacher said, “Now get in.”
The guy ducked and bent and slid into the seat. Reacher backed off a step and aimed the gun down inside the car, a low trajectory, straight at the guy’s hips and thighs. He said, “Don’t touch the wheel. Don’t touch the pedals. Don’t put your seat belt on.”
The guy sat still, with his hands in his lap.
Reacher said, “Now close your door.”
The guy closed his door.
Reacher asked, “Feeling heroic yet, John?”
The guy said, “No.”
“Good answer, my friend. We can do this. Just remember, the Chevrolet Malibu is an OK mid-range product, especially for Detroit, but it doesn’t accelerate for shit. Not like a bullet, anyway. This gun of mine is full of nine-millimeter Parabellums. They come out of the barrel doing nine hundred miles an hour. Think a four-cylinder GM motor can outrun that?”
“No.”
“Good, John,” Reacher said. “I’m glad to see all that education didn’t go to waste.”
Then he looked up across the roof of the car, and he saw light in the mist to the south. A high hemispherical