Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

yards behind the Bentley. Then Picard looked at me.
    “This guy Lennon?” he said. “He’s not another damn Treasury spook working for your brother, right?”
    “Friend of Hubble’s,” I said.
    “Like hell,” he said. “We checked, he’s got no friends in Augusta. Hell, he’s got no friends anywhere. He thought Kliner was his damn friend, giving him a job and all.”
    Picard started chuckling to himself in the passenger seat. His giant frame was shaking with mirth.
    “Like Finlay thought you were his friend, right?” I said.
    He shrugged.
    “I tried to keep him away,” he said. “I tried to warn him off. So what should I do? Get myself killed on his behalf?”
    I didn’t answer that. We cruised on in silence. The plain sedan sat steady, a hundred yards back.
    “We need gas,” I said.
    Picard craned over and peered at the needle. It was nudging the red.
    “Pull over at the next place,” he said.
    I saw a sign for gas near a place called Madison. I pulled off and drove the Bentley over to the pumps. Chose the furthest island and eased to a stop.
    “Are you going to do this for me?” I asked Picard.
    He looked at me in surprise.
    “No,” he said. “What the hell do you think I am? A damn pump jockey? Do it yourself.”
    That was the answer I wanted to hear. I got out of the car. Picard got out on the other side. The plain sedan pulled up close by and the two guys got out. I looked them over. They were the same two I’d scuffled with in New York, on that crowded sidewalk outside Kelstein’s college. The smaller guy had his khaki raincoat on. I nodded amiably to the two of them. I figured they had less than an hour to live. They strolled over and stood with Picard in a knot of three. I unhooked the nozzle and shoved it in the Bentley’s tank.
    It was a big tank. Well over twenty gallons. I trapped my finger under the trigger on the nozzle so that it wouldn’t pump at full speed. I held it in a casual backhand grip and leaned against the car as the gas trickled in. I wondered whether I should start whistling. Picard and the two Hispanics lost interest. There was a breeze coming up and they shuffled about in the slight evening chill.
    I slipped Eno’s flatware out of my pocket and pressed the tip of the knife into the tire tread next to my right knee. From where Picard was standing, it looked like I was maybe rubbing my leg. Then I took the fork and bent one of the tines outward. Pressed it into the cut I’d made and snapped it off. Left a half inch sticking into the tire. Then I finished up pumping the gas and latched the nozzle back into the pump.
    “You paying for this?” I called to Picard.
    He looked around and shrugged. Peeled a bill off his roll and sent the guy in the raincoat off to pay. Then we got back into the car.
    “Wait,” Picard said.
    I waited until the plain sedan had started up behind me and flashed its headlights twice. Then I moved out and accelerated gently back onto the highway and settled into the same steady cruise. Kept on going and the signs started flashing past. Augusta, seventy miles. Augusta, sixty miles. Augusta, forty miles. The old Bentley hummed along. Rock steady. The two guys followed. The setting sun behind me was red in the mirror. The horizon up ahead was black. It was already night far out over the Atlantic Ocean. We drove on.
    The rear tire went flat about twenty miles out from Augusta. It was past seven thirty and it was getting dark. We both felt the rumbling from the wheel and the car wouldn’t track straight.
    “Shit,” I said. “Flat tire.”
    “Pull over,” Picard said.
    I slowed to a stop well over on the shoulder. The plain sedan pulled over and stopped behind us. We all four got out. The breeze had freshened up to a cold wind blowing in from the east. I shivered and popped the trunk. Picked up my jacket and put it on, like I was grateful for the warmth.
    “Spare wheel’s under the trunk floor,” I said to Picard. “Want to help me get this box out?”
    Picard stepped over and looked at the box of dollar bills.
    “We burned the wrong house,” he said, and laughed.
    He and I heaved the heavy box out and set it on its end on the highway shoulder. Then he pulled his gun out and showed it to me. His huge jacket was flapping in the wind.
    “We’ll let the little guys change the wheel,” he said. “You stand still, right there, next to the box.”
    He waved the two Hispanics over and told them to do the work. They found the jack