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  The other map showed the United States. Portland itself was obliterated by a worn and greasy stain. I guessed people had put their fingertips on it to span their hands and calculate time and distance. A small person’s hand fully extended might represent a day’s driving. In which case Portland wasn’t the best location for a distribution center. It was a long way from everywhere else.

  The papers on the desks were incomprehensible to me. At best I could just about interpret details about dates and loads. I saw some prices listed. Some were high, some were low. Opposite the prices were codes for something. They could have been for rugs. They could have been for something else. But on the surface the whole place looked exactly like an innocent shipping office. I wondered if Teresa Daniel had worked in it.

  I listened to the voices some more. Now I was hearing anger and worry. I backed out to the corridor. Took the Glock out of my waistband and put it in my pocket with my finger inside the trigger guard. A Glock doesn’t have a safety catch. It has a sort of trigger on the trigger. It’s a tiny bar that latches back as you squeeze. I put a little pressure on it. Felt it give. I wanted to be ready. I figured I would shoot Duke first. Then the guy with the radio. Then Beck. Beck was probably the slowest and you always leave the slowest for last.

  I put my other hand in my pocket, too. A guy with one hand in his pocket looks armed and dangerous. A guy with both hands in his pockets looks relaxed and lazy. No threat. I took a breath and walked back into the room, noisily.

  “Hello?” I called.

  The back office door opened up fast. The three of them crowded together to look out. Beck, Duke, the new guy. No guns.

  “How did you get in here?” Duke asked. He looked tired.

  “Door was open,” I said.

  “How did you know which door?” Beck asked.

  I kept my hands in my pockets. I couldn’t say I had seen the painted sign, because it was Duffy who had told me the name of his operation, not him.

  “Your car’s parked outside,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “OK,” he said.

  He didn’t ask about my day. The new guy with the scanner must have described it already. Now he was just standing there, looking straight at me. He was younger than Beck. Younger than Duke. Younger than me. He was maybe thirty-five. He still looked dangerous. He had flat cheekbones and dull eyes. He was like a hundred bad guys I had busted in the army.

  “Enjoy the drive?” I asked him.

  He didn’t answer.

  “I saw you bring the scanner in,” I said. “I found the first bug. Under the seat.”

  “Why did you look?” he asked.

  “Habit,” I said. “Where was the second?”

  “In the back,” he said. “You didn’t stop for lunch.”

  “No money,” I said. “Nobody gave me any yet.”

  The guy didn’t smile.

  “Welcome to Maine,” he said. “Nobody gives you money here. You earn it.”

  “OK,” I said.

  “I’m Angel Doll,” he said, like he was expecting his name to impress me. But it didn’t.

  “I’m Jack Reacher,” I said.

  “The cop-killer,” he said, with something in his voice.

  He looked at me for a long moment and then looked away. I couldn’t figure out where he fit in. Beck was the boss and Duke was his head of security but this junior guy seemed very relaxed about talking right over their heads.

  “We’re in a meeting,” Beck said. “You can wait out by the car.”

  He ushered the other two back inside the room and shut the door on me. That in itself told me there was nothing worth hunting for in the secretarial area. So I wandered outside and took a good look at the security system on my way. It was fairly rudimentary, but effective. There were contact pads on the door and all the windows. They were small rectangular things. They had wires the size and color of spaghetti tacked all along the baseboards. The wires came together in a metal box mounted on the wall next to a crowded notice board. The notice board was full of yellowed paper. There was all kinds of stuff about employee insurance and fire extinguishers and evacuation points. The alarm box had a keypad and two small lights. There was a red one labeled armed and a green one labeled unarmed. There were no separate zones. No motion sensors. It was crude perimeter defense only.

  I didn’t wait by the car. I walked around a little, until I had gotten a feel for the place. The whole area was a warren of similar operations. There was a convoluted access road for trucks. I guessed it would operate as a one-way system. Containers would be hauled down from the piers to the north and unloaded into the warehouses. Then delivery trucks would be loaded in turn and take off south. Beck’s warehouse itself wasn’t very private. It was right in the middle of a row of five. But it didn’t have an outside loading dock. No waist-high platform. It had a roller door instead. It was temporarily blocked by Angel Doll’s Lincoln, but it was big enough to drive a truck through. Secrecy could be achieved.

  There was no overall external security. It wasn’t like a naval dockyard. There was no wire fencing. No gate, no barriers, no guards in booths. It was just a big messy hundred-acre area full of random buildings and puddles and dark corners. I guessed there would be some kind of activity all around the clock. How much, I didn’t know. But probably enough to mask some clandestine comings and goings.

  I was back at the Cadillac and leaning on the fender when the three of them came out. Beck and Duke came first and Doll hung back in the doorway. I still had my hands in my pockets. I was still ready to go for Duke first. But there was no overt aggression in the way anybody was moving. No wariness. Beck and Duke just walked over toward the car. They looked tired and preoccupied. Doll stayed where he was in the doorway, like he owned the place.

  “Let’s go,” Beck said.

  “No, wait,” Doll called. “I need to talk to Reacher first.”

  Beck stopped walking. Didn’t turn around.

  “Five minutes,” Doll said. “That’s all. Then I’ll lock up for you.”

  Beck didn’t say anything. Neither did Duke. They looked irritated, but they weren’t going to object. I kept my hands in my pockets and walked back. Doll turned and led me through the secretarial pen and into the back office. Through another door and into a glass-walled cubicle inside the warehouse itself. I could see a forklift on the warehouse floor and steel racks loaded with rugs. The racks were easily twenty feet high and the rugs were all tightly rolled and tied with string. The cubicle had a personnel door to the outside and a metal desk with a computer on it. The desk chair was worn out. Dirty yellow foam showed through at every seam. Doll sat down on it and looked up at me and moved his mouth into the approximate shape of a smile. I stood sideways at the end of the desk and looked down on him.

  “What?” I said.

  “See this computer?” he said. “It’s got taps into every Department of Motor Vehicles in the country.”

  “So?”

  “So I can check license plates.”

  I said nothing. He took a handgun out of his pocket. A neat move, fast and fluid. But then, it was a good pocket gun. It was a Soviet-era PSM, which is a small automatic pistol built as smooth and slim as possible, so it won’t snag on clothing. It uses weird Russian ammunition, which is hard to get. It has a safety catch at the rear of the slide. Doll’s was in the forward position. I couldn’t remember whether that represented safe or fire.

  “What do you want?” I asked him.

  “I want to confirm something with you,” he said. “Before I go public with it and move myself up a rung or two.”

  There was silence.

  “How would you do that?” I asked.

  “By telling them an extra little thing they don’t know about yet,” he said. “Maybe I’ll even earn myself a nice big bonus. Like, maybe I’ll get the five grand they earmarked for you.”

  I pressed the Glock’s trigger lock in my pocket. Glanced to my left. I could see all the way through to the back o
ffice window. Beck and Duke were standing by the Cadillac. They had their backs to me. They were forty feet away. Too close.

  “I dumped the Maxima for you,” Doll said.

  “Where?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. Then he smiled again.

  “What?” I said again.

  “You stole it, right? At random, from a shopping mall.”

  “So?”

  “It had Massachusetts plates,” he said. “They were phony. No such number has ever been issued.”

  Mistakes, coming back to haunt me. I said nothing.

  “So I checked the VIN,” he said. “The vehicle identification number. All cars have them. On a little metal plate, top of the dash.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “It came back as a Maxima,” he said. “So far, so good. But it was registered in New York. To a bad boy who was arrested five weeks ago. By the government.”

  I said nothing.

  “You want to explain all that?” he said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Maybe they’ll let me waste you myself,” he said. “I might enjoy that.”

  “You think?”

  “I’ve wasted people before,” he said, like he had something to prove.

  “How many?” I said.

  “Enough.”

  I glanced through the back office window. Let go of the Glock and took my hands out of my pockets, empty.

  “The New York DMV list must be out-of-date,” I said. “It was an old car. Could have been sold out of state a year ago. You check the authentication code?”

  “Where?”

  “Top of the screen, on the right. It needs to have the right numbers in it to be up-to-date. I was a military cop. I’ve been in the New York DMV system more times than you have.”

  “I hate MPs,” he said.

  I watched his gun.

  “I don’t care who you hate,” I said. “I’m just telling you I know how those systems work. And that I’ve made the same mistake. More than once.”

  He was quiet for a beat.

  “That’s bullshit,” he said.

  Now I smiled.

  “So go ahead,” I said. “Embarrass yourself. No skin off my nose.”

  He sat still for a long moment. Then he swapped the gun from his right hand to his left and got busy with the mouse. He tried to keep one eye on me while he clicked and scrolled. I moved a little, like I was interested in the screen. The New York DMV search page came up. I moved a little more, around behind his shoulder. He entered what must have been the Maxima’s original plate number, apparently from memory. He hit search now. The screen redrew. I moved again, like I was all set to prove him wrong.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Right there,” I said, and started to point at the monitor. But I was pointing with both hands and all ten fingers and they didn’t make it to the screen. My right hand stopped at his neck. My left took the gun out of his left. It dropped on the floor and sounded exactly like a pound of steel hitting a plywood board covered with linoleum. I kept my eyes on the office window. Beck and Duke still had their backs to me. I got both hands around Doll’s neck and squeezed. He thrashed around wildly. Fought back. I shifted my grip. The chair fell over under him. I squeezed harder. Watched the window. Beck and Duke were just standing there. Their backs to me. Their breath was misting in front of them. Doll started clawing at my wrists. I squeezed harder still. His tongue came out of his mouth. Then he did the smart thing and gave up on my wrists and reached up behind him and went for my eyes. I pulled my head back and hooked one hand under his jaw and put the other flat against the side of his head. Wrenched his jaw hard to the right and smashed his head downward to the left and broke his neck.

  I stood the chair upright again and pushed it in neatly behind the desk. Picked up his gun and ejected the magazine. It was full. Eight bottle-necked 5.45 millimeter Soviet Pistol shells. They’re roughly the same size as a .22, and they’re slow, but they’re supposed to hit pretty hard. Soviet security forces were supposed to be happy enough with them. I checked the chamber. There was a round in it. I checked the action. It had been set to fire. I reassembled the whole thing and left it cocked and locked. Put it in my left-hand pocket.

  Then I went through his clothes. He had all the usual stuff. A wallet, a cell phone, a money clip without much money in it, a big bunch of keys. I left it all there. Opened the rear personnel door to the outside and checked the view. Beck and Duke were now hidden from me by the corner of the building. I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. There was nobody else around. I walked over to Doll’s Lincoln and opened the driver’s door. Found the trunk release. The latch popped quietly and the lid rose an inch. I went back inside and dragged the body out by the collar. Opened the trunk all the way and heaved it inside. Latched the lid down gently and closed the driver’s door. Glanced at my watch. The five minutes were up. I would have to finish the garbage disposal later. I walked back through the glass cubicle, through the back office, through the secretarial pen, through the front door, and outside. Beck and Duke heard me and turned around. Beck looked cold and annoyed by the delay. I thought: so why stand still for it? Duke was shivering a little and his eyes were watering and he was yawning. He looked exactly like a guy who hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours. I thought: I see a triple benefit in that.

  “I’ll drive,” I said. “If you want.”

  He hesitated. Said nothing.

  “You know I can drive,” I said. “You just had me driving all day. I did what you wanted. Doll told you all about it.”

  He said nothing.

  “Was it another test?” I asked.

  “You found the bug,” he said.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “You might have acted different if you hadn’t found the bug.”

  “Why would I? I just wanted to get back here, fast and safe. I was exposed, ten straight hours. It was no fun for me. I’ve got more to lose than you, whatever you’re into.”

  He said nothing to that.

  “Your call,” I said, like I didn’t care.

  He hesitated a fraction more and then exhaled and handed me the keys. That was the first benefit. There’s something symbolic about handing over a set of keys. It’s about trust and inclusion. It moved me closer to the center of their circle. Made me less of an outsider. And it was a big bunch of keys. There were house keys and office keys as well as the car keys. Maybe a dozen keys in total. A lot of metal. A big symbol. Beck watched the whole transaction and made no comment about it. Just turned away and settled himself in the back of the car. Duke dumped himself in the passenger seat. I got in the driver’s seat and started the engine. Arranged my coat around me so that both of the guns in my pockets were resting in my lap. I was ready to pull them out and use them if a cell phone rang. It was a fifty-fifty chance that the next call these guys got would be because someone had found Doll’s body. Therefore the next call these guys got would also be their last. I was happy with odds of six hundred or six thousand to one, but fifty-fifty was a little too rich for me.

  But no phones rang the whole way home. I drove smoothly and gently and found all the right roads. I turned east toward the Atlantic. It was already full dark out there. I came up on the palm-shaped promontory and drove out onto the rock finger and aimed straight for the house. The lights were blazing all along the top of the wall. The razor wire glittered. Paulie was waiting to open the gate. He glared at me as I drove past. I ignored him and hustled up the driveway and stopped on the carriage circle right next to the door. Beck got straight out. Duke shook himself awake and followed him.

  “Where do I put the car?” I asked.

  “In the garage, asshole,” he said. “Around the side.”

  That was the second benefit. I was going to get five minutes alone.

  I looped all the way around the carriage circle again and headed down the south side of the house. The garage block stood on its own inside a small walled courtyard. It
had probably been a stable back when the house was built. It had granite cobblestones in front of it and a vented cupola on the roof to let the smell out. The horse stalls had been knocked together to make four garages. The hayloft had been converted into an apartment. I guessed the quiet mechanic lived up there.

  The garage on the left-hand end had its door open and was standing empty. I drove the Cadillac inside and killed the motor. It was gloomy in there. There were shelves filled with the kind of junk that piles up in a garage. There were oil cans and buckets and old bottles of wax polish. There was an electric tire compressor and a pile of used rags. I put the keys in my pocket and slid out of the seat. Listened for the sound of a phone in the house. Nothing. I strolled over and checked the rags. Picked up a thing the size of a hand towel. It was dark with grime and dirt and oil. I used it to wipe an imaginary spot off the Cadillac’s front fender. Glanced around. Nobody there. I wrapped Doll’s PSM and Duffy’s Glock and her two spare magazines in the rag. Put the whole bundle under my coat. It might have been possible to get the guns into the house. Maybe. I could have gone in the back door and let the metal detector beep and looked puzzled for a second and then pulled out the big bunch of keys. I could have held them up like they explained everything. A classic piece of misdirection. It might have worked. Maybe. It would depend on their level of suspicion. But whatever, getting the guns out of the house again would have been very difficult. Assuming there were no panic phone calls anytime soon the chances were I would be leaving with Beck or Duke or both in the normal way and there was no guarantee I would have the keys again. So I had a choice. Take a chance, or play it safe? My decision was to play it safe and keep the firepower outside.

  I walked out of the garage courtyard and wandered around toward the back of the house. Stopped at the corner of the courtyard wall. Stood still for a second and then turned ninety degrees and followed the wall out toward the rocks like I wanted to take a look at the ocean. It was still calm. There was a long oily swell coming in from the southeast. The water looked black and infinitely deep. I gazed at it for a moment and then ducked down and put the wrapped guns in a little dip tight against the wall. There were scrawny weeds growing there. Somebody would have to trip over them to find them.