The Midnight Line by Lee Child Page A

time. Nothing you can do. Not with a cop watching. Code or no code. Which is bullshit anyway. This is America.”
    â€œWe could run a test,” Reacher said. “I could punch you in the mouth, and we could time how long she took to get in here.”
    The two sentries stepped in closer. No guns. No pushing or shoving. They couldn’t. Nakamura was watching. They put themselves one each side of Scorpio’s lawn chair, a step ahead of it, overlapping it a little. Closing it off. Reacher was facing them, not more than an arm’s length away, in a flat little triangle.
    He said, “Is she still watching?”
    Scorpio said, “Harder than ever.”
    â€œAre you going to answer my question?”
    â€œYou got the wrong person altogether.”
    â€œOK,” Reacher said. “I get it.” He patted the air, a placatory gesture, as if defeated, as if requesting a time out, or a reset, or a reboot, or whatever else might help him. He said, “What if,” in a speculative way, but he didn’t finish the question. Instead he cupped his hand on his brow, and rubbed, as if easing a headache or searching for a word, and then he raised his other hand too, and ran his fingers through his hair, back and forth fast, like a mental rinse, and then he moved his hands down and put his fingers flat over his mouth, almost steepled, over pursed lips, a meditative gesture, and then he rubbed his eyes, and then he pressed his fingers hard on his temples, like a person just one thought away from a solution.
    All of which got his hands up at eye level, with no one suspecting a thing.
    He flicked his right hand out and back real fast, a blur, like a snake’s tongue, his fingers closing into a fist as it went, and he hit the right-hand guy in the face. Not much force behind it. A busted nose, maybe. Nothing more. But nothing more was required. The idea was to freeze the guy for a split second. That was all. While the same right hand on its way back pivoted into a full-blown right hook, with a violent twist at the waist and the shoulders, which hit the left-hand guy smack in the throat. Better than the face. No bones.
    The left-hand guy went down like a slammed door.
    Meanwhile Reacher was unwinding the twist and turning it into an equal and opposite left hook, and hitting the right-hand guy also in the throat.
    Perfectly symmetrical.
    Less than three seconds, beginning to end.
    Plus style points.
    The right-hand guy went down late and slowly, like a street light in an auto wreck. Reacher heard the slap of linoleum, and the thump of bone.
    He stood there like nothing had happened.
    He said, “Just you and me now.”
    Scorpio said nothing.
    Reacher said, “Is the cop getting out of her car?”
    Scorpio didn’t answer.
    Reacher ducked down, left and right, and took guns out of pockets. Both the same. Smith & Wesson Chief’s Specials, both looking older than he was. He put them in his own pockets.
    He said, “Is she out of her car yet?”
    Scorpio said, “No.”
    â€œIs she on the phone?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe radio?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSo what’s she doing?”
    â€œJust watching.”
    â€œRemember what I said about running a test?”
    Scorpio didn’t answer.
    Nakamura saw the sentries close ranks in front of Scorpio, who was leaning back in his lawn chair, like some kind of emperor on a throne. Reacher was facing the three of them. Up close. An arm’s length away. There was some verbal back and forth. Two questions, two answers. Short sentences. Brief and to the point. Then Reacher scratched his head. Then he seemed to have some kind of violent physical spasm, and for no apparent reason the sentries fell over.
    He had hit them.
    She scrabbled for her door release.
    She stopped.
    That’s good news anyway .
    Don’t intervene .
    She took a deep breath, and watched.
    Reacher sat down in the lawn chair next to