Gone Tomorrow

room and funneling up the staircase and out through the hole in the roof.
    Svetlana said, “Put your gun down.”
    I said, “You want the memory stick.”
    “You don’t have it.”
    “But I know where it is.”
    “So do we.”
    I said nothing.
    Svetlana said, “You don’t have it but you know where it is. Therefore you employed a deductive process. Do you think you are uniquely talented? Do you think that deductive processes are unavailable to others? We all share the same facts. We can all arrive at the same conclusions.”
    I said nothing.
    She said, “As soon as you told us you knew where it was, we set about thinking. You spurred us on. You talk too much, Reacher. You made yourself disposable.”
    Lila said, “Put the gun down. Have a little dignity. Don’t stand there like an idiot, holding an empty gun.”
    I stood still.
    Lila dropped her arm maybe ten degrees and fired into the floor between my feet. She hit a spot level with and exactly equidistant between the toecaps of my shoes. Not an easy shot. She was a great markswoman. The floorboard splintered. I flinched a little. The Sig’s silencer was louder than the H&K’s. Like a phone book smashed down, not dropped. A wisp of wood smoke drifted upward, where the friction of the bullet had burned the pine. The spent shell case ejected in a brassy arc and tinkled away.
    Five rounds left.
    Lila said, “Put the gun down.”
    I looped the strap up over my head. Held the gun by the grip down by my side. It was no longer any use to me, except as a seven-pound metal club. And I doubted that I would get near enough to either one of them for a club to be effective. And if I did, I would prefer bare-knuckle hand-to-hand combat. A seven-pound metal club is good. But a two-hundred-fifty-pound human club is better.
    Svetlana said, “Throw it over here. But carefully. If you hit one of us, you die.”
    I swung the gun slowly and let it go. It cartwheeled lazily through the air and bounced off its muzzle and clattered against the far wall.
    Svetlana said, “Now take off your jacket.”
    Lila pointed her gun at my head.
    I complied. I shrugged the jacket off and threw it across the room. It landed next to the MP5. Svetlana came out from behind the kitchen counter and rooted through the pockets. She found the nine loose Parabellum rounds and the part-used roll of duct tape. She stood the nine loose rounds upright on the counter, in a neat little line. She put the roll of tape next to it.
    She said, “Glove.”
    I complied. I bit the glove off and tossed it after the jacket.
    “Shoes and socks.”
    I hopped from foot to foot and leaned back against the wall to steady myself and undid my laces and eased my shoes off and peeled my socks down. I threw them one after the other toward the pile.
    Lila said, “Take your shirt off.”
    I said, “I will if you will.”
    She dropped her arm ten degrees and put another round into the floor between my feet. The bang of the silencer, the splintering wood, the smoke, the hard tinkle of the spent case.
    Four left.
    Lila said, “Next time I’ll shoot you in the leg.”
    Svetlana said, “Your shirt.”
    So for the second time in five hours I peeled my T-shirt off at a woman’s request. I kept my back against the wall and threw the shirt overhand into the pile. Lila and Svetlana spent a moment looking at my scars. They seemed to like them. Especially the shrapnel wound. The tip of Lila’s tongue came out, pink and moist and pointed between her lips.
    Svetlana said, “Now your pants.”
    I looked at Lila and said, “I think your gun is empty.”
    She said, “It isn’t. I have four left. Two legs and two arms.”
    Svetlana said, “Take your pants off.”
    I unbuttoned. I unzipped. I pushed the stiff denim down. I stepped out. I kept my back against the wall and kicked the pants toward the pile. Svetlana picked them up. Went through the pockets. Made a pile of my possessions on the kitchen counter next to the nine loose rounds and the roll of tape. My cash, plus a few coins. My old expired passport. My ATM card. My subway card. Theresa Lee’s NYPD business card. And my clip-together toothbrush.
    “Not much,” Svetlana said.
    “Everything I need,” I said. “Nothing I don’t.”
    “You’re a poor man.”
    “No, I’m a rich man. To have everything you need is the definition of affluence.”
    “The American dream, then. To die rich.”
    “Opportunity for all.”
    “We have more than you, where we come