Reacher said, “This is what the pointy-heads would call a wide range of baseline assumptions. Anywhere from no one in the room to a Guards regiment.”
“What’s your guess?”
“I don’t care,” he said again. “As long as Trulenko is one of them.”
“Seriously.”
“It’s a ratio. Depends how many nerds they have. There could be dozens packed in there. Rows and rows of them.”
“No,” Vantresca said. “This is the custom shop. This is the skunk works. The drones are elsewhere. In the cloud.”
“Or in their mom’s basement,” Hogan said.
“Wherever,” Vantresca said. “Trulenko is an artist. It’s him, and a small handful of others. Maybe one or two. Maximum.”
“OK,” Reacher said. “Then either four guards in the room, or one. Probably the close protection part of Situation C calls for a crew of four within arm’s-length contact at all times. Worst case, they’re maintaining discipline on that. Best case, Abby is right and Trulenko doesn’t like it. In which case maybe they came to a private arrangement. I saw it happen, time to time. Typically the watch leader sits in the corner like part of the furniture. Maybe they become friends. You could sell the movie rights. Meanwhile the other three from the crew go hang out someplace else, with whoever else Situation C has called for.”
“Which is it, one or four?”
The back of his brain said, one.
Out loud he said, “Four.”
They peered around the next corner, and Barton pointed out the corresponding door, that down on five had led to the big suites in back.
Chapter 50
The short end of the elevator core was at Reacher’s left shoulder. The door was dead ahead. Therefore outside of the width of the core. Therefore not part of the room itself. An exterior hallway, or an entrance lobby. Reacher pushed the door, with spread fingertips, slowly, carefully.
An anteroom. Empty. Three chairs, dragged in, casually arranged. The back part of Reacher’s brain said, this is where they hung out. The other three from the crew. Then they heard the commotion at the elevators. They ran over there. Now they’re dead. The front part of his brain saw another door. Ahead on the left. In the side wall. Perfectly in line with the short end of the core. Therefore the door into the room.
It was an impressive piece of hardware. Almost certainly soundproof. Like in movies Reacher had seen, about recording studios or radio stations. It hinged outward. Big and heavy. Slow to move. A security system all its own. To open it, a person would need to plant a hand on the wall, and curl about two hundred pounds with the other, all the time dragging his own center mass into a vulnerable gap he was making invitingly wider and wider by his own voluntary efforts. Nowhere to be found in the field manual. Because one guy or four inside, they would be guarding the point of entry pretty closely. Guns out and ready. Textbook. Their last stand.
Reacher went through it in sign language. He tapped his chest. I will. He mimed wrenching open the door, a sudden jerk, maximum strength. He tapped Abby on the shoulder. Mimed kneeling and aiming at the future gap. He tapped Vantresca on the shoulder and mimed crouching and aiming over Abby’s head. Then Hogan, over Vantresca’s head. He put Barton at ninety degrees, just in case the door opened to reveal a different trajectory.
The others got in position. Kneeling, crouching, standing. Reacher grasped the door, both hands. He braced his feet. He took a breath. He nodded, one, two, three.
He wrenched the door.
Abby fired. Vantresca fired. Hogan fired. All at once. One round each. Then nothing, except the clatter of a dropped gun, and the fleshy thump of a falling body, and hissing, ringing silence.
Reacher looked around the door. One guy. The watch leader. No longer sitting in the corner like part of the furniture. No longer making friends. Recently standing alert, watching the door. Probably with his gun in a two-handed grip. But the wait was long. Time passed slow. Attention wandered. Focus drifted. Arms got tired. The muzzle drooped down.
Beyond the dead guy was a room that looked pretty much the way Hogan had called it. White laminate and chilly air. Huge. The size of the street lobby. Windows floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Benches and racks. Someone’s idea of a technical facility. Maybe last year. Or last week. Since updated with an overlay of drooping wires and unexplained boxes. The heart of the operation seemed to be even skinnier than Vantresca had predicted. Five laptops, not six. They were lined up side by side, on a bench.
Behind the bench were two guys. Reacher recognized Trulenko immediately. From Abby’s description. From the pictures in the paper. A pretty small guy. Young, but his hair was going. He wore eyeglasses. He won’t be breaking rocks in a quarry. He was wearing chino pants and a T-shirt. Next to him was a guy maybe five years younger. Taller, but reedy. Stooped shoulders already, from typing too much.
Trulenko said something in Ukrainian.
Vantresca said, “He just told his pal not to tell us anything.”
“Not a good start,” Reacher said.
Barton and Hogan backed the two guys away from their keyboards. Reacher looked out the window, at the earthlings below.
He said, “Suppose you were writing a program. Here’s what you need to know about our side of the equation. We’re not affiliated with any government or any agency. This is purely private enterprise. We have two very specific and very personal requirements. Apart from them, we don’t give a shit. We have no dog in any other fight. Do exactly what we tell you, and we’ll leave, and you’ll never see us again.”
No response.
Reacher asked, “What does your impeccable software logic tell you will happen next?”
No response.
“Correct,” Reacher said. “We’re not affiliated with any government or any agency. Which means we obey no rules. We just fought through a whole army of the best tough guys you personally ever saw. We just penetrated your innermost lair. Which means we’re tougher than you. Therefore most likely nastier, too. Your impeccable logic tells you you’re going to suffer. If you don’t do what we want. Before we came here, we visited the hardware store. You can play it out like a game of chess. Obviously we’ll start with the kid. A victory for your side is very hard to imagine. Inevitably in the end you’ll do what we tell you. Logic dictates you should skip straight there. Save us all a lot of trouble.”
Trulenko said, “I’m not one of these guys.”
“But you work for them.”
“I ran low on options. But hey, I’m not committed. Maybe we can work something out. I do two things, and you let me walk out of here. Is that what we’re saying?”
“But don’t get smart,” Reacher said. “We know enough to know what you’re doing. We bought a glass cutter at the hardware store. We could cut a circle out of the window. We could throw you through. Like mailing a letter.”
“What two things?”
“The first is the pornography. All your different websites.”
“That’s what you’re here for?”
“Two very specific and very personal requirements,” Reacher said again. “The first is the porn.”
“It’s a sideline, man.”
“Erase it. Delete it. Whatever the word is.”
“All of it?”
“Forever.”
“OK,” Trulenko said. “Wow. I guess I could do that. Mind me asking, is this some kind of moral crusade?”
“What part of our process so far strikes you as moral?”
Trulenko didn’t answer. Reacher walked over and stood next to him. Barton and Hogan stood back. Trulenko stepped up to the bench. Reacher said, “Tell us what you got here.”