Part 53 (1/2)

”I saw you in Boston,” he said. ”On the street. A Sat.u.r.day night. Maybe two weeks ago.”

”Try again,” I said.

His face was completely blank. He didn't remember me. They diagnosed amnesia, Duffy had said. Certainly about the trauma, because that's almost inevitable. They figured he might be genuinely blank about the incident and the previous day or two.

”I'm Reacher,” I said. ”I need you to remember me.”

He glanced helplessly at Beck.

”Her name was Dominique,” I said.

He turned back to me. Stared at me. Eyes wide. Now he knew who I was. His face changed. Blood drained out and fury swarmed in. And fear. The.22 scars went pure white. I thought about aiming right between them. It would be a difficult shot.

”You really thought I wouldn't find you?” I said.

”Can we talk?” he said. Sounded like his mouth was dry.

”No,” I said. ”You've already been talking ten extra years.”

”We're all armed here,” Beck said. He sounded afraid. The three Arabs were staring at me. They had plaster dust stuck to the oil in their hair.

”So tell everybody to hold their fire,” I said. ”No reason for more than one casualty here.”

People eased away from me. Dust settled on the table. A slab of falling ceiling had broken a gla.s.s. I moved with the crowd and turned and adjusted the geometry to herd the bad guys together at one end of the room. At the same time I tried to force Elizabeth and Richard and the cook together at the other. Where they would be safe, by the window.

Pure body language. I turned my shoulder and inched forward and even though the table was between me and most of them they went where I wanted them. The little gathering parted obediently into two groups, eight and three.

”Everybody should step away from Mr. Xavier now,” I said.

Everybody did, except Beck. Beck stayed right at his shoulder. I stared at him. Then I realized Quinn had a grip on his arm. He was holding it tight just above the elbow.

Pulling on it. Pulling on it hard. Looking for a human s.h.i.+eld.

”These slugs are an inch wide,” I said to him. ”As long as I can see an inch of you, that won't work very well.”

He said nothing back. Just kept on pulling. Beck was resisting. There was fear in his eyes, too. It was a static little slow-motion contest. But I guessed Quinn was winning it. Inside ten seconds Beck's left shoulder was overlapping Quinn's right. Both of them were quivering with effort. Even though the Persuader had a pistol grip instead of a stock I raised it high to my shoulder and sighted carefully down the barrel.

”I can still see you,” I said.

”Don't shoot,” Richard Beck said, behind me.

Something in his voice.

I glanced back at him. Just a brief turn of my head. Just a flash. There and back. He had a Beretta in his hand. It was identical to the one in my pocket. It was pointed at my head.

The electric light was harsh on it. It was highlighted. Even though I had only looked for a fraction of a second I had seen the elegant engraving on the slide. Pietro Beretta. I had seen the dew of new oil. I had seen the little red dot that is revealed when the safety is pushed to fire.

”Put it away, Richard,” I said.

”Not while my father is there,” he said.

”Let go of him, Quinn,” I said.

”Don't shoot, Reacher,” Richard said. ”I'll shoot you first.”

By then Quinn had Beck almost all the way in front of him.

”Don't shoot,” Richard said again.

”Put it down, Richard,” I said.

”No.”

”Put it down.”

”No.”

I listened carefully to his voice. He wasn't moving. He was standing still. I knew exactly where he was. I knew the angle I would have to turn through. I rehea.r.s.ed it in my head.

Turn. Fire. Pump. Turn. Fire. I could get them both within a second and a quarter. Too fast for Quinn to react. I took a breath.

Then I pictured Richard in my mind. The silly hair, the missing ear. The long fingers. I pictured the big Brenneke slug blasting through him, crus.h.i.+ng, bludgeoning, the immense kinetic energy blowing him apart. I couldn't do it.

”Put it away,” I said.

”No.”

”Please.”

”No.”

”You're helping them.”

”I'm helping my dad.”

”I won't hit your dad.”

”I can't take that risk. He's my dad.”

”Elizabeth, tell him.”

”No,” she said. ”He's my husband.”

Stalemate.

Worse than stalemate. Because there was absolutely nothing I could do. I couldn't fire on Richard. Because I wouldn't let myself. Therefore I couldn't fire on Quinn. And I couldn't say I wasn't going to fire on Quinn because then eight guys would immediately pull guns on me. I might get a few of them, but sooner or later one of them would get me.

And I couldn't separate Quinn from Beck. No way was Quinn going to let go of Beck and walk out of the room alone with me. Stalemate.

Plan C.