Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

and the wrench for the bolts. Jacked up the car and took the wheel off. Then they lined up the spare and lifted it into place. Bolted it carefully on. I was standing there next to the carton of money, shivering in the wind, wrapping my coat tight around me. Thrusting my hands deep in the pockets and stamping from foot to foot, trying to look like a guy who was getting cold standing around doing nothing.
    I waited until Picard stepped around to check the bolts were tight. He put his weight on the lever and I could hear the metal graunching. I came out with Morrison’s switchblade already open and sliced up one side of the air conditioner box. Then across the top. Then down the other side. Before Picard could line up his gun, the box fell open like a steamer trunk and the wind caught a hundred thousand dollar bills and blew them all over the highway like a blizzard.
    Then I dove over the concrete wall at the edge of the shoulder and rolled down the shallow bank. Pulled out the Desert Eagle. Shot at the guy with the raincoat as he came over the wall after me, but I missed my aim and just blew his leg away. Beyond him I saw a truck with dollar bills plastered all over its windshield run off the road and smash into the plain sedan behind the Bentley. Picard was batting away the snowstorm of cash and dancing over to the wall. I could hear tires shrieking as cars on the highway braked and swerved to avoid the wreckage of the truck. I rolled over and aimed up the bank and shot the second Hispanic guy. Caught him through the chest and he came crashing down toward me. The guy with the raincoat was rolling around at the top of the slope, screaming, clutching his shattered leg, trying to free the small automatic he’d shown me in New York. I fired a third time and shot him through the head. I could see Picard aiming his .38 down at me. All the time the wind was howling and cars were sliding to a stop on the highway. I could see drivers getting out and jumping around, snatching at the money swirling in the air. It was chaos.
    “Don’t shoot me, Picard,” I yelled. “You won’t get Hubble if you do.”
    He knew that. And he knew he was a dead man if he didn’t get Hubble. Kliner wouldn’t tolerate failure. He stood there with his .38 aimed at my head. But he didn’t shoot. I ran up the bank and circled the car, forcing him out toward the traffic with the Desert Eagle.
    “You don’t shoot me, either,” Picard screamed. “My phone call is the only way you’re going to save that woman. That’s for sure. You better believe it.”
    “I know that, Picard,” I yelled back. “I believe it. I’m not going to shoot you. Are you going to shoot me?”
    He shook his head over the .38.
    “I’m not going to shoot you, Reacher,” he said.
    It looked like a stalemate. We circled the Bentley with our fingers white on the triggers, telling each other we weren’t going to shoot.
    He was telling the truth. But I was lying. I waited until he was lined up with the wreckage of the truck and I was next to the Bentley. Then I pulled the trigger. The .44 shell caught him and smashed his huge bulk backward into the tangled metal. I didn’t wait around for a second shot. I slammed the trunk lid and jumped for the driver’s seat. Fired the car up and burned rubber. I peeled away from the shoulder and dodged the people running around after the dollar bills. Jammed my foot down and hurtled east.
    Twenty miles to go. Took me twenty minutes. I was gasping and shaky with adrenaline. I forced my heartbeat down and took big gulps of air. Then I yelled to myself in triumph. Screamed and yelled out loud. Picard was gone.

31
    IT WAS DARK WHEN I HIT THE OUTLYING AUGUSTA SUBURBS . I pulled off the highway as soon as the taller buildings started to thicken up. Drove down the city streets and stopped at the first motel I saw. Locked the Bentley up and dodged into the office. Stepped over to the desk. The clerk looked up.
    “Got a room?” I asked him.
    “Thirty-six bucks,” the guy said.
    “Phone in the room?” I asked him.
    “Sure,” he said. “Air-conditioning and cable TV.”
    “Yellow Pages in the room?” I asked him.
    He nodded.
    “Got a map of Augusta?” I said.
    He jerked his thumb over to a rack next to a cigarette machine. It was stuffed with maps and brochures. I peeled off thirty-six bucks from the roll in my trouser pocket. Dropped the cash on the desk. Filled in the register. I put my name down as Roscoe Finlay.
    “Room