Running Blind (The Visitor)

case smacking home. But the Chinese guy didn’t notice. Too dizzy. Too shocked. He just pressed himself to the wall like he was trying to back right through it. Put all his weight on one foot, unconsciously preparing for the bullet that would blow his leg away.
    “You’re making a mistake, pal,” he whispered.
    Reacher shook his head. “No, we’re making a move, asshole.”
    “Who’s we?”
    “Petrosian,” Reacher said.
    “Petrosian? You’re kidding me.”
    “No way,” Reacher said. “I’m serious. Real serious. This street is Petrosian’s now. As of today. As of right now. All of it. The whole street. You clear on that?”
    “This street is ours.”
    “Not anymore. It’s Petrosian’s. He’s taking it over. You want to lose a leg arguing about it?”
    “Petrosian?” the guy repeated.
    “Believe it,” Reacher said, and slammed him left-handed in the stomach. The guy folded forward and Reacher tapped him above the ear with the butt of the gun and dropped him neatly on top of his partner. He clicked the trigger to free the slide and put the gun back in his pocket. Picked up the satchel and tucked it under his arm. Walked out of the alley and turned north.
    He was already late. If his watch was a minute slow and the Navy guy’s was a minute fast, then the rendezvous was already gone. But he didn’t run. Running in the city was too conspicuous. He walked away as fast as he could, stepping one pace to the side for every three paces forward, threading his way along the sidewalks. He turned a corner and saw the blue car, USNR painted discreetly on its flank. He saw it moving away from the curb. Saw it lurching out into the traffic stream. Now he ran.
    He got to where it had been parked four seconds after it left. Now it was three cars ahead, accelerating to catch the light. He stared after it. The light changed to red. The car accelerated faster. Then the guy chickened out and hit the brakes. The car slammed to a neat stop a foot into the crosswalk. Pedestrians swarmed out in front of it. Reacher breathed again and ran to the intersection and pulled open the passenger door. Dumped himself into the seat, panting. The driver nodded to him. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t offer any kind of an apology for not waiting. Reacher didn’t expect one. When the Navy says three hours, it means three hours. One hundred and eighty minutes, not a second more, not a second less. Time and tide wait for no man . The Navy was built on all kinds of bullshit like that.
    THE JOURNEY BACK to Trent’s office at Dix was the exact reverse of the journey out. Thirty minutes in the car through Brooklyn, the waiting helicopter, the raucous flight back to McGuire, the lieutenant in the staff Chevy waiting on the tarmac. Reacher spent the flight time counting the money in the satchel. There was a total of twelve hundred dollars in there, six folded wads of two hundred each. He gave the money to the load-masters for their next unit party. He tore the satchel along its seams and dropped the pieces through the flare hatch, two thousand feet above Lakewood, New Jersey.
    It was still raining at Dix. The lieutenant drove him back to the alley and he walked to Trent’s window and rapped softly on the glass. Trent opened it up and he climbed back inside the office.
    “We OK?” he asked.
    Trent nodded. “She’s just been sitting out there, quiet as a mouse, all day. Must be real impressed with our dedication. We worked right through lunch.”
    Reacher nodded and handed back the empty gun. Took off his jacket. Sat down in his chair. Slipped his ID around his neck again and picked up a file. Trent had moved the stack right to left across the desk, like it had been minutely examined.
    “Success?” Trent asked.
    “I think so. Time will tell, right?”
    Trent nodded and looked out at the weather. He was restless. He had been trapped in his office all day.
    “Let her in, if you want,” Reacher said. “Show’s over now.”
    “You’re all wet,” Trent said. “Show’s not over until you’re dried out.”
    It took twenty minutes to dry out. He used Trent’s phone and called Jodie’s numbers. The private office line, the apartment, the mobile. No reply, no reply, out of service. He stared at the wall. Then he read an unclassified file about proposed methods of getting mail to the Marines if they had to go serve in the Indian Ocean. The time he spent on it put him lower in his chair and put a glazed look on his face. When Trent