17 A Wanted Man

or on the way up, and therefore ambitious. He knew what worked with them, and he knew what didn’t. He had learned the right psychological approach.
    He said, ‘Connect me now or you’ll lose your job.’
    A pause.
    Then dead air.
    Then a new dial tone.
    Then the outer door swept open. Reacher heard the loud swish of its rubber seal and saw part of its bright white frame flash through the limits of the narrow gap. He got a glimpse of a blue shoulder. He heard the fast click of heels on tile.
    He hung up the phone.
    He stepped forward and grabbed the folded towels with one hand and pushed the lobby door with the other and tossed the towels behind him and came face to face with Don McQueen.

TWENTY-SEVEN
    REACHER AND MCQUEEN stepped mutely around each other, chest to chest, like guys do at restroom doors. McQueen went in and Reacher headed through the store to the coffee station, which was a complex push-button one-cup-at-a-time machine, a yard wide, all chrome and aluminium, brand new, probably Italian. Or French. European, certainly. It seemed to grind a separate batch of beans after each push of the button, and it was so slow that McQueen was out of the men’s room before Reacher was through with the last cup. Which was a good thing, in that McQueen was then more or less obligated to carry two cups back to the car, which meant his hands were full, and armed men with full hands were better than armed men with empty hands, in Reacher’s considered opinion.
    Reacher carried the other two cups, black no sugar, one for himself and one for Karen Delfuenso. Alan King was still out of the car. The car was still next to the pump. The readout showed that less than four gallons had gone in the tank.
    King said, ‘I’ll drive from here, Mr Reacher.’
    Reacher said, ‘Really? I haven’t done my three hundred miles yet.’
    ‘Change of plan. We’re going to head for the motel and hole up for the night.’
    ‘I thought you wanted to get to Chicago.’
    ‘I said our plans have changed. What part of that don’t you understand?’
    ‘Your call,’ Reacher said.
    ‘Indeed,’ King said. ‘So I’ll need the car key.’
    Four-dimensional planning
. Reacher was on the near side of the car, and King and McQueen were on the far side. Delfuenso was still in her seat. Her door was wide open. Her head was inches away from King’s right hand. It would take part of a second for King and McQueen to drop their cups of coffee. Part of another second for them to get to their guns. Reacher could throw his own cup like a scalding grenade at one head or the other, but not both. He could scramble around the trunk, or over it, but not fast enough.
    No chance.
    Geometry, and time.
    He rested his cup on the Chevy’s roof and fished in his pocket for the key.
    He held it out.
    Come and get it
.
    But King wasn’t the dumbest guy in the world. He said, ‘Just drop it on the seat. I’ll be right there.’
    Don McQueen got in the front. He twisted counterclockwise, like a friendly guy just checking all his pals were going to get properly settled and comfortable. But the position kept his right hand free and clear, close to his right pants pocket, close to the right side of his pants waistband.
    King was still near the gas cap, with his own right hand free and clear, still inches from Karen Delfuenso’s head.
    Geometry, and time.
    Reacher climbed in behind the driver’s seat, and leaned over and dropped the key.
    McQueen smiled at him.
    King closed Delfuenso’s door for her from the outside, and then he tracked around the trunk and closed Reacher’s door for him. He picked up the key and climbed in and scooted his seat six inches forward. He started the engine and eased back to the road and drove onward into the darkness, south, away from the Interstate, towards the promised motel.
    The FBI emergency response operator had stayed on the line and listened in to the aborted call to Omaha. He had heard the ring tone. He had heard the receiver go down. He was a rookie, hence the routine night duty. But he was a fast-tracked rookie, hence the D.C. assignment and the important post. He was fast-tracked because he was smart.
    He was smart enough to follow up.
    He called the Omaha field office and spoke to the duty agent. He asked, ‘Have you guys got something going on there tonight?’
    The agent in Nebraska yawned and said, ‘Kind of. There’s a single-victim knife-crime homicide in the back of beyond miles from anywhere, which