Free The Midnight Line by Lee Child Page A

memory. It was twenty-seven minutes ago. The guy had stopped at the desk, in his suit and tie, with a leather traveling bag in one hand, and a leather briefcase in the other. He paid his bill, and headed out to his car, which was in the covered lot. It was a black SUV, with Illinois plates. Bramall loaded his bags, and then got in and drove off, toward the Interstate, but whether he then turned east or west was anyone’s guess.
    â€œDo you have his cell phone number?” Reacher asked.
    The woman glanced at her screen. Left-hand column, Reacher thought, maybe two-thirds of the way up.
    The woman said, “I really can’t give it out.”
    Reacher pointed at the base of the wall behind her.
    â€œIs that a cockroach?” he said.
    Not a word hotel keepers liked to hear.
    She turned to look. He leaned over the desk and bent his neck. Left-hand column, two-thirds of the way up. Ten digits. Not a prodigious feat of memory.
    He straightened up.
    She turned back.
    â€œI didn’t see anything,” she said.
    â€œFalse alarm,” Reacher said. “Sorry. Maybe just a shadow.”
    Reacher found a pay phone in the lobby of an all-day Chinese restaurant. It was a chromium instrument mounted on a wall of red velvet. Not as glamorous as it looked from a distance. The chrome was pitted and the velvet was threadbare and tacky with grease.
    Reacher dialed Bramall’s cell number. It rang and rang. It wasn’t picked up. No big surprise. The guy was probably on the Interstate. Probably a safety first type of person. Probably had to be, to survive a lifetime in the FBI.
    No answer.
    A recorded voice came on, inviting Reacher to leave a message.
    He said, “Mr. Bramall, my name is Reacher. We waited in line together last night for sandwiches and we were briefly in the breakfast place at the same time this morning. I infer you were watching Arthur Scorpio’s place in connection with a missing persons inquiry. I was watching it in connection with trying to trace the source of a piece of stolen property. I think we should put our heads together, to figure out exactly what we both know. Just in case there’s more here than meets the eye. Could be useful for one of us, if not both. You can’t call me back because I don’t have a phone, so I’ll try you again at a later time. Thank you. Goodbye.”
    He hung up.
    He stepped out from the velvet lobby to the concrete sidewalk.
    Arthur Scorpio’s black sedan stopped at the curb.
    Right next to him, level with his hip.
    The window buzzed down.
    The front-door sentry said, “Get in the car.”

Chapter 10
    The guy had a gun. A revolver. It looked like a worn-out Chief’s Special. A .38 five-shooter by Smith & Wesson. Short barrel. It looked small in the guy’s hand. His right hand. He was half-twisted behind the wheel, aiming half-sideways through the open passenger window, with a bent arm and a cramped right shoulder.
    â€œIn the car,” he said again.
    Reacher stood still. He had choices. Life was full of them. Easiest thing would be just walk away. Straight ahead along the sidewalk, in the same direction the car had been driving. A right-handed shooter in a left-hand-drive car would have a practical problem with that kind of geometry. His windshield was in the way. Couldn’t shoot through it. The bullet would deflect and miss. And afterward there would be a hole in the windshield. Not a smart thing to have. Rapid City was no doubt a tough old town, but it wasn’t South-Central LA. Morning gunfire would get called in. Especially downtown, near the hotels and the restaurants. Police cruisers would show up fast. Questions about a bullet hole in a windshield would be hard to answer.
    So the guy would have to move. He would have to shift the transmission, and take his foot off the brake, and shrug off his seatbelt, and flip up the armrests, and shuffle his ass across the front bench, and hang his right arm out