The Hard Way

years.”
    “Unit?”
    “SAS.”
    “You’ve still got the look.”
    “You too,” Gregory said. “How long have you been out?”
    “Seven years,” Reacher said.
    “Unit?”
    “U.S. Army CID, mostly.”
    Gregory looked up. Interested. “Investigator?”
    “Mostly.”
    “Rank?”
    “I don’t remember,” Reacher said. “I’ve been a civilian seven years.”
    “Don’t be shy,” Gregory said. “You were probably a lieutenant colonel at least.”
    “Major,” Reacher said. “That’s as far as I got.”
    “Career problems?”
    “I had my share.”
    “You got a name?”
    “Most people do.”
    “What is it?”
    “Reacher.”
    “What are you doing now?”
    “I’m trying to get a quiet cup of coffee.”
    “You need work?”
    “No,” Reacher said. “I don’t.”
    “I was a sergeant,” Gregory said.
    Reacher nodded. “I figured. SAS guys usually are. And you’ve got the look.”
    “So will you come with me and talk to Mr. Lane?”
    “I told you what I saw. You can pass it on.”
    “Mr. Lane will want to hear it direct.”
    Reacher checked his cup again. “Where is he?”
    “Not far. Ten minutes.”
    “I don’t know,” Reacher said. “I’m enjoying my espresso.”
    “Bring it with you. It’s in a foam cup.”
    “I prefer peace and quiet.”
    “All I want is ten minutes.”
    “Seems like a lot of fuss over a stolen car, even if it was a Mercedes Benz.”
    “This is not about the car.”
    “So what is it about?”
    “Life and death,” Gregory said. “Right now more likely death than life.”
    Reacher checked his cup again. There was less than a lukewarm eighth-inch left, thick and scummy with espresso mud. That was all. He put the cup down.
    “OK,” he said. “So let’s go.”

CHAPTER 2
    THE BLUE GERMAN sedan turned out to be a new BMW 7-series with OSC vanity plates on it. Gregory unlocked it from ten feet away with a key fob remote and Reacher got in the front passenger seat sideways and found the switch and moved the seat back for legroom. Gregory pulled out a small silver cell phone and dialed a number.
    “Incoming with a witness,” he said, clipped and British. Then he closed the phone and fired up the engine and moved out into the midnight traffic.
    The ten minutes turned out to be twenty. Gregory drove north on Sixth Avenue all the way through Midtown to 57th Street and then two blocks west. He turned north on Eighth, through Columbus Circle, onto Central Park West, and into 72nd Street. He stopped outside the Dakota.
    “Nice digs,” Reacher said.
    “Only the best for Mr. Lane,” Gregory said, nothing in his voice.
    They got out together and stood on the sidewalk and another compact man in a gray suit stepped out of the shadows and into the car and drove it away. Gregory led Reacher into the building and up in the elevator. The lobbies and the hallways were as dark and baronial as the exterior.
    “You ever seen Yoko?” Reacher asked.
    “No,” Gregory said.
    They got out on five and Gregory led the way around a corner and an apartment door opened for them. The lobby staff must have called ahead. The door that opened was heavy oak the color of honey and the warm light that spilled out into the corridor was the color of honey, too. The apartment was a tall solid space. There was a small square foyer open to a big square living room. The living room had cool air and yellow walls and low table lights and comfortable chairs and sofas all covered in printed fabric. It was full of six men. None of them was sitting down. They were all standing up, silent. Three wore gray suits similar to Gregory’s and three were in black jeans and black nylon warm-up jackets. Reacher knew immediately they were all ex-military. Just like Gregory. They all had the look. The apartment itself had the desperate quiet feel of a command bunker far from some distant point where a battle was right then turning to shit.
    All six men turned and glanced at Reacher as he stepped inside. None of them spoke. But five men then glanced at the sixth, which Reacher guessed identified the sixth man as Mr. Lane. The boss. He was half a generation older than his men. He was in a gray suit. He had gray hair, buzzed close to his scalp. He was maybe an inch above average height, and slender. His face was pale and full of worry. He was standing absolutely straight, racked with tension, with his fingertips spread and touching the top of a table that held an old-fashioned telephone and a framed