The Hard Way

the
Intrepid,
the Lincoln Tunnel approaches.
    “I’m at Forty-second Street now,” Burke said.
    Reacher thought:
Are you talking to me? Or the voice?
    “Keep going,” the voice said.
    “Is Mrs. Lane OK?” Burke asked.
    “She’s fine.”
    “Can I talk to her?”
    “No.”
    “Is Jade OK, too?”
    “Don’t worry about either one of them. Just keep on driving.”
    American,
Reacher thought.
For sure.
Behind the wall of distortion he could hear the inflections of a native speaker. Reacher had heard more than his share of foreign accents, but this wasn’t one of them.
    “I’m at the Javits now,” Burke said.
    “Just keep going,” the voice said back.
    Young,
Reacher thought.
Or at least not old.
All the dirt and grit in the voice came from the electronic circuitry, not from the effects of age.
Not a big guy,
Reacher thought. The booming bass was artificial. There was a speed and a lightness there. No big chest cavity.
Or, maybe a fat guy.
Maybe one of those fat guys who have high-pitched voices.
    “How much farther?” Burke asked.
    “You low on gas?” the voice asked.
    “No.”
    “So what do you care?”
    The breathing came back, slow and steady.
Not close yet,
Reacher thought.
    “Coming up on Twenty-fourth Street,” Burke said.
    “Keep going.”
    The Village,
Reacher thought.
We’re going back to Greenwich Village.
The car was moving faster now. Most of the left turns into the West Village were blocked off, so there were fewer lights. And most of the traffic would be going north, not south. A clear run, relatively speaking. Reacher craned his neck and got an angle through the rear side window. He could see buildings with the evening sun reflected in their windows. They flashed past in a dizzy kaleidoscope.
    The voice asked, “Where are you now?”
    “Perry,” Burke said.
    “Keep going. But stand by now.”
    Getting close,
Reacher thought.
Houston? Are we going to take Houston Street?
Then he thought:
Stand by now? That’s a military term. But is it exclusively military? Is this guy ex-military, too? Or not? Is he a civilian? A wannabe?
    “Morton Street,” Burke said.
    “Left turn in three blocks,” the voice said. “On Houston.”
    He knows New York City,
Reacher thought.
He knows that Houston is three blocks south of Morton and he knows you say it House-ton, not like the place in Texas.
    “OK,” Burke said.
    Reacher felt the car slow. It stopped. It waited and inched forward. Then it sprinted to catch the light. Reacher rolled heavily against the rear seat.
    “East on Houston now,” Burke said.
    “Keep going,” the voice said.
    The traffic on Houston was slow. Cobblestones, stop signs, potholes, lights. Reacher paced it out in his head. Washington Street, Greenwich Street, Hudson Street. Then Varick, where he had come up out of the subway for his fruitless morning vigil. The car bounced over patches of frost heave and thumped into dips.
    “Sixth Avenue next,” Burke said.
    The voice said, “Take it.”
    Burke turned left. Reacher craned his neck again and saw the apartments above his new favorite café.
    The voice said, “Get in the right-hand lane. Now.”
    Burke dabbed the brake hard and Reacher jolted forward and hit the front seat. He heard the turn signal click. Then the car jumped right. And slowed.
    The voice said, “You’ll see your target on the right. The green Jaguar. From the first morning. Exactly halfway up the block. On the right.”
    “I already see it,” Burke said.
    Reacher thought:
The same place? It’s right there on the same damn fireplug?
    The voice said, “Stop and make the transfer.”
    Reacher felt the transmission slam into Park and he heard the click of the hazard lights start up. Then Burke’s door opened and noise blew in. The suspension rocked as Burke climbed out. There was honking on the street behind. An instant traffic jam. Ten seconds later the door next to Reacher’s head opened wide. Burke didn’t look down. Just leaned in and grabbed the bag. Reacher craned his neck the other way and looked at the Jaguar upside down. Saw a flash of dark green paint. Then the door shut in his face. He heard the Jaguar’s door open. Then he heard it shut again. He heard a faint hydraulic
thunk
from somewhere outside. Ten seconds after that Burke was back in his seat. He was a little out of breath.
    “The transfer is done,” he said. “The money is in the Jaguar.”
    The nightmare voice said, “Goodbye.”
    The phone clicked off. The car