Gone Tomorrow

and washed my face and drank some water from the tap and stood for a moment in front of the mirror.
    Then I emptied my pockets. I kept my cash, and my passport, and my ATM card, and my subway card, and Theresa Lee’s NYPD business card. I kept my toothbrush. I kept the phone that had rung. I dumped the other two phones in the trash, with the emergency charger, and the business card from the four dead guys, and the notes Theresa Lee had made from her partner’s messages.
    I dumped the DVD, too.
    And the Radio Shack memory stick, pink sleeve and all.
    I didn’t need a decoy anymore.
    Then, cleansed, I headed out to see if Springfield was still around.
    He was. He was in the lobby bar, in a chair, with his back to a right-angle corner. He had a glass of water on the table in front of him. He was relaxed, but he was watching everything. You can take the man out of Special Forces, and so on and so forth. He saw me coming. I sat down next to him. He asked, “Was it folk music?”
    “Yes,” I said. “It was folk music.”
    “On a DVD?”
    “There was some dancing, too.”
    “I don’t believe you. You’ve gone all pale. Afghan folk dancing is pretty bad, I know, but it ain’t that bad.”
    “It was two guys,” I said. “They had their bellies slit open and their guts lifted out.”
    “Live on camera?”
    “And then dead on camera.”
    “Soundtrack?”
    “Silent.”
    “Who were the guys?”
    “One was a taxi driver from Kabul and the other was Susan Mark’s son.”
    “I don’t take taxis in Kabul. I prefer my own transportation. But it sucks for USC. They’re down a defensive tackle. Hard to find. I checked him out. Great feet, they say.”
    “Not anymore.”
    “Are the Hoths on the tape?”
    I nodded. “Like a confession.”
    “Doesn’t matter. They know we’re going to kill them anyway. Doesn’t really matter what we kill them for.”
    “It matters to me.”
    “Wise up, Reacher. That was the whole point of sending you the package. They want to make you mad and suck you in. They can’t find you. So they want you to come find them.”
    “Which I will.”
    “Your future plans are your business. But you need to take care. You need to understand. Because this has been their tactic for two hundred years. That’s why their abuse was always within earshot of the front lines. They wanted to bring out the rescue parties. Or provoke revenge attacks. They wanted a never-ending supply of prisoners. Ask the British. Or the Russians.”
    “I’ll take plenty of care.”
    “I’m sure you’ll try. But you’re not going anywhere until we’ve finished with you, about the train.”
    “Your guy saw what I saw.”
    “It’s in your interests to help us.”
    “Not so far. All I have is promises.”
    “All charges will be dropped when we have the memory stick in our possession.”
    “Not good enough.”
    “You want it in writing?”
    “No, I want the charges dropped now. I need some freedom of action here. I can’t be looking out for cops the whole time.”
    “Freedom of action for what?”
    “You know what.”
    “OK, I’ll do what I can.”
    “Not good enough.”
    “I can’t give you guarantees. All I can do is try.”
    “What are the chances you can succeed?”
    “None at all. But Sansom can.”
    “Are you authorized to speak for him?”
    “I’ll have to call him.”
    “Tell him no more bullshit, OK? We’re past that stage now.”
    “OK.”
    “And talk to him about Theresa Lee and Jacob Mark, too. And Docherty. I want a clean slate for all of them.”
    “OK.”
    “And Jacob Mark is going to need counseling. Especially if he sees a copy of that DVD.”
    “He won’t.”
    “But I want him looked after. The ex–husband, as well. Molina.”
    “OK.”
    “Two more things,” I said.
    “You drive a hard bargain, for a guy with nothing to offer.”
    “Homeland Security traced the Hoths coming in from Tajikistan with their crew. Three months ago. Some kind of a computer algorithm. I want to know how many people were in the party.”
    “To estimate the size of the opposing force?” “Exactly.” “And?”
    “I want to meet with Sansom again.” “Why?”
    “I want him to tell me what is on that memory stick.” “Not going to happen.”
    “Then he doesn’t get it back. I’ll keep it and take a look for myself.”
    “What?”
    “You heard me.”
    “You’ve actually got the stick?”
    “No,” I said. “But I know where it is.”

Chapter 65
    Springfield asked ,