Never Go Back: (Jack Reacher 18)

its door locks clunked open. Ahead on the left, about a hundred yards away, a car was crawling towards them, at a cautious on-post kind of speed, with its headlights on against the gloom. Reacher and Turner split up, Reacher going right, Turner going left, down the flanks of the green car, Reacher to the passenger’s door, Turner to the driver’s door. They opened up and climbed in together, no fumbling, no hesitation. The approaching car was getting nearer. They closed their doors, slam, slam, like overworked staffers with minutes between vital appointments, and Turner put the key in the slot and started the engine.
    The oncoming car turned in to the lot, and rolled towards them, from the left, its headlight beams lighting them up.
    ‘Go,’ Reacher said. ‘Go now.’
    Turner didn’t. She got it in reverse gear and touched the gas, but the car went nowhere. It just reared up against the parking brake. Turner said, ‘Shit,’ and fumbled the lever down, but by then it was too late. The oncoming car was right behind them. It stopped there, blocking them in, and then its driver turned the wheel hard and crawled forward again, aiming to park in the empty slot right next to them.
    Its driver was Captain Tracy Edmonds. Reacher’s lawyer. Working with HRC. Candice Dayton. His second appointment of the afternoon.
    Reacher slumped right down in his seat, and cradled his face in his hand, like a man with a headache.
    Turner said, ‘What?’
    ‘That’s my other lawyer. Captain Edmonds. I scheduled back-to-back meetings.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I wanted to be certain I was out of my cell when your lawyer showed up.’
    ‘Don’t let her see you.’
    ‘That’s the least of our problems. The shit will hit the fan about a minute after she goes inside, don’t you think?’
    ‘You should have figured one lawyer would be enough.’
    ‘Would you have?’
    ‘Probably not.’
    Alongside them Edmonds jacked back and forth a couple of times until she was all neat and straight in her allotted space. She flicked her lights off and Turner flicked hers on and backed straight out and cut the wheel hard. Edmonds opened her door and climbed out of her car. Reacher swapped hands on his face. Turner rattled the lever into a forward gear and straightened up and took off, slowly. Edmonds waited patiently for her to complete the manoeuvre. Turner waved a thank-you gesture and hit the gas.
    ‘South gate,’ Reacher said. ‘Don’t you think? I figure all these guys will have come in from the north.’
    ‘Agreed,’ Turner said. She rolled on south, brisk but not suicidal, all the way through the complex, past buildings large and small, turning here and there, slowing here and there, waiting at stop signs, peering left and right, moving on again, until finally the last of the base fell away behind them, and then they were into the exit road, heading for the first guard-shack barrier.
    The first of three.

TWENTY

    THE FIRST BARRIER was easy. Act like you’re supposed to be there . Turner collected Reacher’s borrowed ID from him, and held it with hers, fanned in her hand like a pair of threes, and she slowed to a walk, and buzzed her window down, and popped the trunk as she eased to a stop, the whole performance a natural, flowing sequence, as if she did it every single day of her life.
    And the sentry in the shack responded to the performance perfectly, like Reacher guessed she hoped he would. He spent less than a second glancing at the fanned IDs, and less than a second glancing into the open trunk, and less than a second slamming it shut for them.
    Turner nudged the gas, and rolled forward.
    And breathed out.
    Reacher said, ‘Edmonds has to be inside by now.’
    ‘Got any bright ideas?’
    ‘Any sign of a problem, just hit the gas. Straight through the barrier. Busting up a piece of metal with stripes on it can’t get us in much more trouble.’
    ‘We might run over a sentry.’
    ‘He’ll jump out the way. Sentries are human, like anyone else.’
    ‘We’ll dent an army car.’
    ‘I already dented an army car. Last night. With two guys’ heads.’
    ‘You seem to have a thing about denting army property with heads,’ she said. Warm, husky, breathy, intimate. ‘Like the desk in my office.’
    He nodded. He had told her the story on the phone. From South Dakota. An old investigation, and a little resulting frustration. A short story, made long. Just to keep her talking. Just to hear more of her voice.
    She asked, ‘Who