Heller said, “The cops will come. We don’t leave people on the street here. Not like New York.”
Reacher said, “They’ll check the bar.”
“Their first stop.”
“I’ll go east and you go west. Pleasure working with you.”
“Likewise,” Heller said.
They shook hands, and melted away into the darkness, opposite directions, leaving the Albanian where he was on the sidewalk, an unfortunate victim of a mugging, his good and valuable consideration stolen before the deal with DeLong could be properly consummated. Therefore no deal existed. Their own rules said so. DeLong had no obligations, and nothing to betray. An Albanian thing. Part of the culture.
REACHER WATCHED THE END OF the game in a bar a mile away. He was sure Heller was doing the same thing a mile in the other direction. In which case they were watching two different events. Reacher was watching a limp and miserable defeat. Heller was watching a glorious and triumphant victory. But such was life. You can’t win them all.
