Chapter 8
The coffee shop was in Arlington, three blocks from the Metro station.
Reacher stood outside, watching through the window. He'd arrived twenty minutes early, which was his habit. Twenty minutes gave you time to see who else was watching, who else was waiting, who didn't belong.
"Reacher?" the man said.
Reacher turned and looked. It was Simmons, the young ATF agent, wearing Carhartt work pants and a faded flannel shirt under a canvas jacket. Brown hair that needed a cut, a few days of stubble on his jaw. He could have been a construction worker, a farmer, a guy who fixed engines in his driveway.
He didn't look like a federal agent. Which was the whole point.
"Need coffee?" Reacher said.
"I’m good to go."
"Where's the vehicle?"
"Two blocks over. Didn't want to park too close." Simmons gestured with his chin. "This way."
They walked without talking. The morning was cold, the sky overcast, the kind of November day that promised winter was coming whether you were ready or not.
Reacher carried a duffel bag over his shoulder. Inside were several changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a razor, and his weapons.
Simmons led him to a side street where an old Ford F-150 sat at the curb. It was maybe fifteen years old, dark green, with rust spots on the wheel wells and a dent in the tailgate. The kind of truck you saw in every small town in America, driven by men who used it for actual work.
"Nice," Reacher said.
"ATF rented it special," Simmons said. "Figured we shouldn't roll up in a Crown Vic or a Suburban."
"I just hope it can make it to Michigan."
Simmons unlocked the doors and Reacher tossed his duffel in the back.
The truck's interior smelled like old coffee and cigarettes, though Reacher didn't see any evidence that Simmons smoked.
Probably the rental company hadn't cleaned it very well.
The seats were worn, the dashboard cracked from sun exposure, the radio an old AM/FM unit.
Simmons started the engine. It turned over rough, coughed once, then settled into a steady rumble. "She runs better than she looks," he said. "Checked her out yesterday. Oil's good, tires are decent, tank's full. We got about ten hours ahead of us, give or take."
"You know the route?"
"Yep. Up through Pennsylvania and into Ohio then north into Michigan. We're headed to a town called Grayling. Population about eighteen hundred. Middle of nowhere, which is the point."
Reacher nodded. He'd looked at the map. Grayling was in the northern part of the Lower Peninsula, surrounded by state forest. The kind of place where you could disappear if you wanted to. The kind of place where a militia could train without drawing attention.
They drove out of Arlington, through the morning traffic, onto the highway heading west. Simmons drove like someone who'd spent time behind the wheel, relaxed but attentive, keeping the truck at a steady sixty-five in the right lane.
He didn't seem in a hurry. Reacher appreciated that. Hurrying drew attention.
For the first hour, neither of them spoke much.
Simmons focused on the road, navigating through the traffic around DC, getting clear of the suburbs.
Reacher watched the landscape change through the window.
The buildings thinned out, replaced by trees, then farmland, then the rolling hills of Virginia.
The sky stayed gray, threatening rain but not delivering.
Somewhere past Front Royal, Simmons said, "So you're Treasury."
"That's right."
"How'd that happen? You don't seem like a Treasury guy."
"What does a Treasury guy seem like?"
"I don't know. Accountant. Suit and tie. Guy who gets excited about tax law."
"I'm not that kind of Treasury guy."
"Yeah, I figured." Simmons glanced over at him. "Winthrow said you were Army before. Intelligence."
"That's right."
"How long?"
"A few years."
"And now you're chasing militias for Treasury?"
"Now I'm chasing whoever needs chasing."
Simmons smiled a little. "Fair enough."
"What’s your story?"
"Mine's not very interesting."
“Most people’s aren’t.”
They drove in silence for another few miles. The highway cut through the mountains, the road rising and falling, the trees pressing close on both sides. Reacher could see the leaves were mostly gone now, the branches bare and dark against the gray sky. Winter was coming fast this year.
"I'm from Tennessee," Simmons said eventually. "Little town called Crossville. You ever been?"
"No."
"Not many people have. It's in the Cumberland Plateau, about halfway between Nashville and Knoxville. Population maybe ten thousand, if you count the whole county. My dad worked at a lumber mill. My mom was a teacher. I grew up hunting and fishing, helping my dad cut firewood, that kind of thing."
Reacher nodded but didn't say anything. He'd learned that if you stayed quiet, people kept talking.
"I was the first person in my family to go to college," Simmons continued.
"Went to UT Knoxville on a partial scholarship, studied criminal justice.
Figured I'd come back home, be a deputy sheriff or something.
But then I did an internship with ATF my senior year, and it clicked.
I liked the work. And I was good at it."
"What made you good at it?"
"I can blend in. I don't look like a cop.
I don't talk like a cop. I can walk into a bar in rural Kentucky or a gun show in Alabama, and people think I'm one of them.
Because in a lot of ways, I am. I grew up around guns.
I know how to talk about them, how to handle them.
I understand the culture. That makes me useful. "
"Undercover work."
"Yeah. That's mostly what I do. I've been inside biker gangs, militia groups, illegal gun trafficking rings.
I've bought weapons from people who would've killed me if they knew I was ATF.
It's a rush, you know? Walking that line.
Knowing that if you slip up, if you say the wrong thing or ask the wrong question, you're done. "
Reacher said nothing.
"It’s the only way to get these guys,” Simmons continued. “You can't just knock on their door and ask them to stop breaking the law. You have to get inside, earn their trust, gather evidence. It takes time."
"How long have you been working the Michigan militia?"
"A few months. I've met with the CI once. He's been inside for a while and got busted for a bag of weed. We took the opportunity to flip him.”
"Are you sure he flipped, or is he just trying to avoid jail?"
"I don't know. That's what we're going to find out."
They crossed into West Virginia, then Pennsylvania. The landscape flattened out some, the mountains giving way to rolling hills and farmland. They stopped once for gas and coffee at a rest area.
Reacher used the bathroom, stretched his legs, bought a cup of black coffee that tasted like it had been sitting on the burner for six hours. Simmons did the same, then bought a sandwich wrapped in plastic that looked like it had been made sometime last week.
"You want anything to eat?" Simmons asked.
"I'm good."
"You sure? It's a long drive."
"I'm sure."
They got back in the truck and kept going.
The afternoon wore on, the sky staying gray, the temperature dropping.
Reacher watched the mile markers tick by, the towns with their water towers and grain silos, the fields brown and empty after the harvest. America looked the same everywhere, he thought.
Different details, same basic structure.
Small towns struggling to survive, people working hard for not much money, the government far away and mostly irrelevant.
"So what's your story?" Simmons asked after a while. "You said you were Army. Where'd you grow up?"
"All over."
"Military brat?"
"Yeah. We moved every couple of years. Lived in a dozen different places before I turned eighteen."
"That must've been tough. Never putting down roots."
"It was normal for me. I didn't know anything else."
"Where all did you live?"
"Okinawa, the Philippines, Korea, Germany, a bunch of bases stateside. We moved around."
"I heard you went to West Point?"
"That's right."
"Why?"
Reacher shrugged. "It seemed like the thing to do."
"And then the Army."
"Yeah."
“What about family? You married? Kids?"
"No."
"Girlfriend?"
"No."
"So you're just a lone wolf, huh? No attachments, no ties. We’re the same in that regard, although I’ve got my eye on a cute waitress at my local bar. A redhead. Feisty."
"Most of them are."
They drove through Ohio as the afternoon turned to evening. The sky darkened, the temperature dropped further, and Simmons turned on the heater. It blew lukewarm air that smelled like dust and old upholstery.
"So what’s Kinsman like?" Simmons asked.
"The man I knew was solid. He saved my life," Reacher said.
"Where?"
"Classified."
"Come on, man. You can tell me."
"No, I can't."
"Combat, huh?"
"Yeah."
Simmons seemed to understand that was all he was going to get. He turned his attention back to the road, and they drove in silence for a while longer.
They crossed into Michigan as the sun set, what little light there was fading behind the clouds. The landscape changed again, more trees, more water, the land flatter and more open.
They passed through small towns with names like Monroe and Dundee and Tecumseh, places that looked like they'd been bypassed by the modern world. Empty storefronts, closed factories, houses that needed paint.
"We're about two hours out," Simmons said. "We'll get there around eight, maybe eight-thirty."
"What's the plan?"
"We're meeting the CI at a property outside Grayling. It's isolated, off the main roads."
"When did you talk to him?"
"Two days ago."