61 Hours

Plato looked at him blankly and said, ‘And?’
    ‘We want more money.’ A plan, obviously. Clearly discussed and pre-agreed with his buddy. Bar talk. Irresistible, over a third beer. Or a fourth. Show the guy the prize, and then yank it back and ask for more.
    Can’t fail.
    Plato asked, ‘How much more?’
    Good English, lightly accented, a little slow and indistinct because of a cold face and the jet whine in the background.
    The pump driver was used to talking over jet whine. He worked at an airport.
    He said, ‘The same again.’
    ‘Double?’
    ‘You got it.’
    Plato’s eyes flicked across three of his guys and came to rest on a fourth. He asked in Spanish, which because of the cold was slow enough for Reacher to follow: ‘Do you know how to work this equipment?’
    The fourth guy said, ‘I think so.’
    ‘Think or know?’
    ‘I’ve done it before. With the fuel, I mean. Many times. The de-icing, not so much. No call for it. But how hard can it be? It’s just a spray, for the wings.’
    ‘Tell me yes or no.’
    ‘Yes.’
    Plato turned back to the Rapid City guys. Put his gloved hands on his gun and raised it up and machine-gunned them both in the chest. Just like that. Full auto. First one, and then the other. Two brief bursts of fire, barely separated at all. Nine or ten rounds each. An impossibly fast cyclic rate. Shattering noise. Searing, vivid, foot-long muzzle flash. A hosing stream of ejected brass. The spent cases bounced and skittered away. The two guys went down in a mist of blood from their ripped bodies and a cloud of feathers from their torn jackets, first one, then immediately the other, with ragged bloody holes in their chests big enough to plunge a fist in. They fell side by side, dead before they hit the ground, their hearts torn apart. They thumped down and settled at once, rags and flesh, two small mounds close together.
    The gunsmoke whipped away in the wind and the sudden noise faded and the jet whine came back, low and steady.
    Twenty feet above them the pilot looked out the Boeing’s door.
    Reacher was impressed. Long bursts, tightly grouped. Great trigger control, great aim, and no muzzle climb at all. With gloves on, too. Plato had done this before. No question about that.
    No one spoke.
    Plato moved his thumb and tripped the release and the part-used magazine fell out and plinked against the concrete. Then he held his hand palm up and waited. The guy nearest to him scurried around and dug down in Plato’s own backpack and came out with a fresh magazine. He slapped it into Plato’s waiting palm. Plato clicked it into its housing, and tugged on it once to check it was secure, and then he turned to Reacher.
    He said, ‘You must be Chief Holland.’
    Reacher said, ‘Yes.’
    ‘Finally we meet.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why isn’t the door open and the equipment set up for me?’
    Reacher didn’t answer. He was thinking: what equipment?
    Plato said, ‘Your daughter is still under my direct control, you know.’
    Reacher said, ‘Where is she?’
    ‘She moved on with the rest of them. She’s living her dream.’
    ‘Is she OK?’
    ‘So far. But my threat against her still stands.’
    Reacher said, ‘My car broke down. The equipment is still in the trunk.’
    ‘Where’s your car?’
    ‘At the other end of the runway.’
    Plato didn’t answer directly. The sign of a good leader. No sense in fussing about what couldn’t be changed. He just turned to one of his men and said in Spanish, ‘Take the de-icing truck and fetch the equipment we need from the trunk of Chief Holland’s car.’
    The guy headed for the de-icer’s cab and Plato turned back to Reacher and asked, ‘Where is the key for the building?’
    Reacher took it out of his pocket and held it up. Plato stepped through his human cordon. Reacher rehearsed two possible moves. Drive the key through Plato’s eye, or drop it on the ground and drive a massive uppercut through Plato’s chin and snap his puny neck.
    He did neither thing. Plato had five MP5Ks right behind him. Within a split second seventy-five nine-millimetre rounds would be in the air. Most of them would miss. But not all of them.
    The de-icer truck crunched into gear and moved away.
    Plato stepped up next to Reacher. The top of his head was exactly level with Reacher’s breastbone. His chin was exactly level with Reacher’s waistband. A tiny man. A miniature tough guy. A toy. Reacher reassessed the uppercut. Bad idea. Almost impossible to