Bad Luck and Trouble

success. But she was one out of nine. A hit rate a fraction better than eleven percent, for some of the finest graduates the army had ever produced.
    Not good.
    You’re well out of it, Dixon had said.
    I usually feel that way, he had replied.
    All that we’ve got that you don’t is suitcases, O’Donnell had said.
    But what have I got that you don’t? he had replied.
    He finished the meal a little closer to an answer than before.

    After Barstow came Victorville and Lake Arrowhead. Then the mountains reared in front of them. But first, this time to their right, were the badlands where the helicopter had flown. Once again Reacher told himself he wouldn’t look, but once again he did. He took his eyes off the road and glanced north and west for seconds at a time. Sanchez and Swan were out there somewhere, he guessed. He saw no reason to hope otherwise.
    They passed through an active cell and Neagley’s phone rang. Diana Bond, all set to leave Edwards at a moment’s notice. Reacher said, “Tell her to meet us at that Denny’s on Sunset. Where we were before.” Neagley made a face and he said, “It’s going to taste like Maxim’s in Paris after that place we just stopped.”
    So Neagley arranged the rendezvous and he kicked the transmission down and climbed onto Mount San Antonio’s first low slopes. Less than an hour later they were checking in at the Dunes Motel.

    The Dunes was the kind of place where no room went even close to three figures for the night and where guests were required to leave a security deposit for the TV remote, which was issued with great ceremony along with the key. Reacher paid cash from his stolen wad for all four rooms, which got around the necessity for real names and ID. They parked the cars out of sight of the street and regrouped in a dark battered lounge next to a laundry room, as anonymous as four people could get in Los Angeles County.
    Reacher’s kind of place.
    An hour later Diana Bond called Neagley to say she was pulling into the Denny’s lot.

54
    They walked a short stretch of Sunset and stepped into the Denny’s neon lobby and found a tall blonde woman waiting for them. She was alone. She was dressed all in black. Black jacket, black blouse, black skirt, black stockings, black high-heeled shoes. Serious East Coast style, a little out of place on the West Coast and seriously out of place in a Denny’s on the West Coast. She was slim, attractive, clearly intelligent, somewhere in her late thirties.
    She looked a little irritated and preoccupied.
    She looked a little worried.
    Neagley introduced her all around. “This is Diana Bond,” she said. “From Washington D.C. via Edwards Air Force Base.”
    Diana Bond had nothing with her except a small crocodile purse. No briefcase, not that Reacher expected notes or blueprints. They led her through the shabby restaurant and found a round table in back. Five people wouldn’t fit in a booth. A waitress came over and they ordered coffee. The waitress came back with five heavy mugs and a flask, and poured. They each took a preliminary sip, in silence. Then Diana Bond spoke. She didn’t start with small talk. Instead she said, “I could have you all arrested.”
    Reacher nodded.
    “I’m kind of surprised you haven’t,” he said. “I was kind of expecting to find a bunch of agents here with you.”
    Bond said, “One call to the Defense Intelligence Agency would have done it.”
    “So why didn’t you make that call?”
    “I’m trying to be civilized.”
    “And loyal,” Reacher said. “To your boss.”
    “And to my country. I really would urge you not to pursue this line of inquiry.”
    Reacher said, “That would give you another wasted journey.”
    “I’d be very happy to waste another journey.”
    “Our tax dollars at work.”
    “I’m pleading with you.”
    “Deaf ears.”
    “I’m appealing to your patriotism. This is a question of national security.”
    Reacher said, “Between the four of us here, we’ve got sixty years in uniform. How many have you got?”
    “None.”
    “How many has your boss got?”
    “None.”
    “Then shut up about patriotism and national security, OK? You’re not qualified.”
    “Why on earth do you need to know about Little Wing?”
    “We had a friend who worked for New Age. We’re trying to complete his obituary.”
    “He’s dead?”
    “Probably.”
    “I’m very sorry.”
    “Thank you.”
    “But again, I would appeal to you not to press this.”
    “No