The Hard Way

and paused a second as Jackson and Taylor took a long hard look at the Mini from fifty yards away. Then it sped up again and skidded to a halt in its parking spot between the back of the house and the barns. The doors opened and Jackson and Taylor climbed out. Reacher stayed where he was and Jackson walked right up to him and said, “You’re trespassing. Dave Kemp told me what you want. You talked to him this morning. In the shop? And the answer is no. I’m not selling.”
    “I’m not buying,” Reacher said.
    “So why are you here?”
    Jackson was a lean and compact guy, not unlike Taylor himself. Same kind of height, same kind of weight. Same kind of generic English features. Similar accent. Better teeth, and lighter hair worn a little longer. But overall they could have been brothers, not just brothers-in-law.
    Reacher said, “I’m here to see Taylor.”
    Taylor stepped up and said, “What for?”
    “To apologize to you,” Reacher said. “And to warn you.”
    Taylor paused a beat. Blinked once. Then his eyes flicked left, flicked right, full of intelligence and calculation.
    “Lane?” he asked.
    “He’s less than an hour away.”
    “OK,” Taylor said. He sounded calm. Composed. Not surprised. But Reacher didn’t expect him to be surprised. Surprise was for amateurs. And Taylor was a professional. A Special Forces veteran, and a smart and a capable one. Precious seconds spent being surprised were precious seconds wasted, and Taylor was spending the precious seconds exactly like he had been trained to: thinking, planning, revising tactics, reviewing options.
    “My fault,” Reacher said. “I’m sorry.”
    “I saw you on Sixth Avenue,” Taylor said. “When I was getting in the Jaguar. Didn’t think much of it, but I saw you again last night. In the pub. So then I knew. I thought you’d be heading up to your room to call Lane. But it looks like he mobilized himself faster than I thought he would.”
    “He was already en route.”
    “Good of you to stop by and let me know.”
    “Least I could do. Under the circumstances.”
    “Does he have this precise location?”
    “More or less. I said Grange Farm. I stopped myself saying Bishops Pargeter. I said Fenchurch Saint Mary instead.”
    “He’ll find us in the phone book. There’s no Grange Farm in Fenchurch. We’re the nearest.”
    “I’m sorry,” Reacher said again.
    “When did you figure it all out?”
    “Just a little bit too late.”
    “What tipped you off?”
    “Toys. Jade packed her best toys.”
    “Did you meet her yet?”
    “Five minutes ago.”
    Taylor smiled. Bad teeth, but a lot of warmth there. “She’s a great kid, isn’t she?”
    “Seems to be.”
    “What are you, a private cop?”
    “I was a U.S. Army MP.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Reacher.”
    “How much did Lane pay you?”
    “A million bucks.”
    Taylor smiled again. “I’m flattered. And you’re good. But it was always only a matter of time. The longer nobody found my body, the more people would get to thinking. But this is a little quicker than I thought it would be. I thought I might have a couple of weeks.”
    “You’ve got about sixty minutes.”

----

    They gathered in the farmhouse kitchen for a council of war, all six of them, Taylor and Kate and Jade, and Jackson, and Pauling and Reacher. Jade was neither specifically included nor excluded. She just sat at the table and drew, crayons and butcher paper, the same bold colorful strokes Reacher had seen in her bedroom in the Dakota, and listened to the grown-ups talk. First thing Taylor said was, “Let’s light the fire again. It’s cold in here. And let’s have a cup of tea.”
    Pauling asked, “Do we have time for that?”
    “The British Army,” Reacher said. “They always have time for a cup of tea.”
    There was a wicker basket of kindling sticks near the hearth. Taylor stacked a bunch of them over a pyramid of crumpled newspaper and struck a match. When the flame had taken he added bigger logs. Meanwhile Jackson was at the stove, heating a kettle of water and stuffing tea bags into a pot. He didn’t seem very worried, either. Just calm and competent and unhurried.
    “What were you, back in the day?” Reacher asked him.
    “First Para,” Jackson replied.
    Reacher nodded. The 1st Parachute Regiment. The British equivalent of the U.S. Army Rangers, roughly. Air-mobile tough guys, not quite SAS, but close. Most SAS freshmen were 1st Para graduates.
    “Lane’s got six