Never Go Back

your life. So you can put my problem on the back burner for a spell, and you can move yours to the front.’
    ‘When did you make this plan?’
    ‘Some time ago. As I was entitled to. You’re in my unit, apparently. Therefore I’m your CO. We’re going to Los Angeles next.’
    ‘What was in the envelope?’
    She answered by spilling the contents on the bed.
    Two credit cards.
    And two driver’s licences.
    She paired them up and kept one of each for herself, and she passed the others to Reacher. A New York State driver’s licence, and a Visa credit card. The licence was made out to a guy named Michael Dennis Kehoe, forty-five years old, at a Queens address. Male, blue eyes, height six-six. He was an organ donor. The picture showed a square face and a wide neck. The Visa card was in the same name, Michael D. Kehoe.
    Reacher said, ‘Are they real?’
    ‘Mine are.’
    ‘And mine aren’t?’
    ‘They’re kind of real. They’re from the undercover locker.’
    Reacher nodded. The 110th sent people undercover all the time. They needed documents. The government supplied them, authentic in every way, except for never having been issued to an actual person.
    He asked, ‘Where are yours from?’
    ‘A friend of Leach’s. She said she knew someone who looked like me.’
    ‘So what’s your name now?’
    Turner answered by flipping the licence into his lap, like a card trick. Illinois, Margaret Vega, five-seven, brown eyes, thirty-one years old. Not an organ donor. The photograph showed a light-skinned Hispanic woman. At first glance a little like Turner, but not a whole lot.
    Reacher flipped the licence back.
    ‘And Ms Vega was happy to give up her DL?’ he said. ‘Just like that? And her credit card too?’
    ‘We have to return them. And we have to pay back any charges we make. Obviously I had to promise. But Billy Bob’s money can take care of that.’
    ‘That’s not the point. Ms Vega is way out on a limb now.’
    ‘I guess Leach can be persuasive.’
    ‘Only because she thinks you’re worth it.’
    ‘She had no friends who looked like you. Not even close. Which is why we had to use the locker. Probably Mr Kehoe was the target in a training scenario. He looks like the guy with the chainsaw in a slasher movie.’
    ‘Should work fine, then. When are we leaving?’
    ‘As soon as possible,’ Turner said. ‘We’ll catch an early flight.’
    They showered and dressed, and then packing was nothing more than jamming their new toothbrushes in their pockets, and putting on their coats. They left the drapes closed and the lights off, and Reacher hung the Do Not Disturb card on the outside handle, and then they hustled down the corridor to the elevator. It was just after five in the morning, and Turner figured the long-hauls to the West Coast would start around six. Not an infinite choice of carriers out of Pittsburgh International, but there would be at least several. Worst case, they could connect through San Francisco, or Phoenix, or Las Vegas.
    The elevator reached the lobby and they stepped out to a deserted scene. There was no one at the desk. No one anywhere. So Reacher dropped their key cards in the trash, and they headed for the door, where they got straight into a hesitant after-you-no-after-you thing with a lone guy who had chosen that exact moment to come in from the dark sidewalk outside. He was a compact man in a navy suit and a white shirt and a navy tie. He had a fresh haircut, short and conservative, and a pink face, recently shaved. Eventually they worked out a three-way pecking order. The guy held the door for Turner, who stepped out, and then Reacher hung back, and the guy stepped in, and finally Reacher stepped out.
    There were no taxis at the kerb. But there was a hotel shuttle bus, with its engine running and its door open. No driver at the wheel. Inside, maybe, taking a leak.
    Ten yards farther on a Crown Vic was parked in the fire lane. Dark blue, clean and shiny, with antennas on the trunk lid. Reacher turned and looked back at the hotel door. Deep in the lobby the guy who had come in was waiting for service at the desk. Navy suit. White shirt. Navy tie. Short hair, pink face, clean shave.
    Reacher said, ‘FBI.’
    Turner said, ‘They were tracking those names. Sullivan and Temple.’
    ‘He walked right past us. How long till his brain kicks in?’
    ‘He’s FBI, so it won’t be instantaneous.’
    ‘We could head back to the truck and drive ourselves.’
    ‘No, the truck