Running Blind (The Visitor)

paragraph wasn’t in it. What Trent didn’t know was that Reacher had never even written it. Then ten years had passed and the two men hadn’t really spoken since. Not until the previous morning, when Reacher had made the first of his urgent calls from Jodie’s apartment.
    “Hello, Colonel,” Reacher said. “This is Agent Harper, from the FBI.”
    Trent was politer than his lieutenant. His rank meant he had to be. Or maybe he was just more impressed by tall damp blondes dressed like men. Either way, he shook hands. And maybe held on to the shake longer than was necessary. And maybe smiled, just a fraction.
    “Pleased to meet you, Colonel,” Harper said. “And thanks in advance.”
    “I haven’t done anything yet,” Trent said.
    “Well, we’re always grateful for cooperation anyplace we can get it, sir.”
    Trent released her hand. “Which is a strictly limited number of places, I expect.”
    “Fewer than we’d like,” she said. “Considering we’re all on the same side.”
    Trent smiled again.
    “That’s an interesting concept,” he said. “I’ll do what I can, but the cooperation will be limited. As I’m sure you anticipated. We’re going to be examining personnel records and deployment listings that I’m just not prepared to share with you. Reacher and I will do it on our own. There are issues of national and military security at stake. You’re going to have to wait out here.”
    “All day?” she said.
    Trent nodded again. “As long as it takes. You comfortable with that?”
    It was clear she wasn’t. She looked at the floor and said nothing.
    “You wouldn’t let me see confidential FBI stuff,” Trent said. “I mean, you don’t really like us any more than we like you, right?”
    Harper glanced around the room. “I’m supposed to watch over him.”
    “I understand that. Your Mr. Blake explained your role to me. But you’ll be right here, outside my office. There’s only one door. The sergeant will give you a desk.”
    A sergeant stood up unbidden and showed her to an empty desk with a clear view of the inner office door. She sat down slowly, unsure.
    "You’ll be OK there,” Trent said. "This could take us some time. It’s a complicated business. I’m sure you know how paperwork can be.”
    Then he led Reacher into the inner office and closed the door. It was a large room, windows on two walls, bookcases, cabinets, a big wooden desk, comfortable leather chairs. Reacher sat down in front of the desk and leaned back.
    “Give it two minutes, OK?” he said.
    Trent nodded. “Read this. Look busy.”
    He handed over a thick file in a faded green folder from a tall stack. Reacher opened it up and bent to examine it. There was a complicated chart inside, detailing projected aviation-fuel requirements for the coming six-month period. Trent walked back to the door. Opened it wide.
    “Ms. Harper?” he called. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
    Reacher glanced over his shoulder and saw her staring in at him, taking in the chairs, the desk, the stack of files.
    “I’m all set, right now,” she called back.
    “OK,” Trent said. “You want anything, just tell the sergeant.”
    He closed the door again. Walked to the window. Reacher took off his ID tag and laid it on the desk. Stood up. Trent unlatched the window and opened it as wide as it would go.
    “You didn’t give us much time,” he whispered. “But I think we’re in business.”
    “They fell for it right away,” Reacher whispered back. “A lot sooner than I thought they would.”
    “But how did you know you’d have the escort?”
    “Hope for the best, plan for the worst. You know how it is.”
    Trent nodded. Stuck his head out of the window and checked both directions.
    “OK, go for it,” he said. “And good luck, my friend.”
    “I need a gun,” Reacher whispered.
    Trent stared at him and shook his head again, firmly.
    “No,” he said. “That, I can’t do.”
    “You have to. I need one.”
    Trent paused. He was agitated. Getting nervous.
    “Christ, OK, a gun,” he said. “But no ammunition. My ass is already way out on a limb on this thing.”
    He opened a drawer and took out a Beretta M9. Same weapon as Petrosian’s boys had carried, except Reacher could see this one still had its serial number intact. Trent took the clip out and thumbed the bullets back into the drawer, one by one.
    “Quiet,” Reacher whispered urgently.
    Trent nodded and clicked the empty clip back into the grip.