The Affair: A Reacher Novel

ambitions. I exploded backward at him, my whole body moving, my torso twisting, my elbow whipping back, and I caught him in the cheek, and then I used the bounce to jam forward once more, in search of the lone survivor. The sixth guy. He caught his heel on the curb and his arms came up like a scarecrow, which I took as an invitation to pop him in the chest, right in the solar plexus, which was like plugging him into an electrical outlet. He hopped and danced and went down in a heap.
    The guy I had hit on the ear was pawing at it like it was coming off. His eyes were closed, which made it not much of a fair fight, but those are always my favorite kind. I lined up and smacked a left hook into his chin.
    He went down like a dropped marionette.
    I breathed out.
    Six for six.
    End of story.
    I coughed twice and spat on the ground. Then I hustled north. I had a block to go and the clock in my head said it was already one minute past nine.

Chapter
42
    I pushed in through the diner door and found the place empty apart from the waitress and the old couple from Toussaint’s. They looked to be about halfway through their nightly marathon. The woman had a book, the man had a paper. Deveraux wasn’t there yet.
    I told the waitress I was expecting company. I asked her for a table for four. I figured the tables for two would be cramped for a long social engagement. She set me up in a spot near the front and I headed for the bathroom.
    I rinsed my face and washed my hands and forearms and elbows with hot water and soap. I ran wet fingers through my hair. I breathed in and breathed out. Adrenaline is a bitch. It doesn’t know when to quit. I flapped my hands and rolled my shoulders. I took a look in the mirror. My hair was OK. My face was clean.
    There was blood on my shirt.
    On the pocket. And above. And below. Not much, but some. A definite comma-shaped curl of droplets. Like it had been flung at me. Or like I had walked into a mist. Which I had. The second guy. I had hit him on the bridge of his nose. His nose had bled like a flushing toilet.
    I said, “Shit,” quietly, to myself.
    My old shirts were in the trash in my room.
    The stores were all closed.
    I edged closer to the sink and took another look in the mirror. The droplets were already drying. Turning brown. Maybe they would end up looking deliberate. Like a logo. Or a pattern. Like a single element taken from a swirling fabric. I had seen similar things. I wasn’t sure what they were called. Paisley?
    I breathed in, breathed out.
    Nothing to be done.
    I headed back to the dining room and got there just as Deveraux stepped in through the door.
    She wasn’t in uniform . She had changed her clothes. She was wearing a silver silk shirt and a black knee-length skirt. High heeled shoes. A silver necklace. The shirt was thin and tight and tiny. It was open at the top. The skirt sat at her waist. I could have spanned her waist with my hands. Her legs were bare. And slim. And long. Her hair was wet from the shower. It was loose on her shoulders. It was spilling down her back. No ponytail. No elastic band. She was smiling, all the way up to her amazing eyes.
    I showed her to our table and we sat down facing each other. She was small and neat, centered on her bench. She was wearing perfume. Something faint and subtle. I liked it.
    She said, “I’m sorry I’m late.”
    I said, “No problem.”
    She said, “You have blood on your shirt.”
    I said, “Is that what it is?”
    “Where did you get it?”
    “Across the street from the hotel. There’s a store.”
    “Not the shirt,” she said. “The blood. You didn’t cut yourself shaving.”
    “You told me not to.”
    “I know,” she said. “I like you like that.”
    “You look great too.”
    “Thank you. I decided to quit early. I went home to change.”
    “I see that.”
    “I live in the hotel.”
    “I know.”
    “Room seventeen.”
    “I know.”
    “Which has a balcony overlooking the street.”
    “You saw?”
    “Everything,” she said.
    “Then I’m surprised you didn’t break the date.”
    “Is it a date?”
    “It’s a dinner date.”
    She said, “You didn’t let them hit you first.”
    “I wouldn’t be here if I had.”
    “True,” she said, and smiled. “You were pretty good.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “But you’re killing my budget. Pellegrino and Butler are getting overtime to haul them away. I wanted them gone before the hotel folks finish their dinner. Voters don’t like mayhem