Jack and Joe: Hunt for Jack Reacher Series (The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series Book 6) (22 page)

Once again, I was holding a phone full of nothing but dead air.

Gaspar laughed out loud and I threw the phone at him. He ducked. The phone hit the window and bounced onto his lap. “Come on, Sunshine. You know we’re going to Fort Herald either way.”

“He knows who killed Summer. They both do.”

“Of course they do. But that’s not the point, is it?”

I hated it when he was right. “Don’t you ever get tired of being used, Chico?”

He shrugged and handed me the phone. “I’ve got four going on five kids and twenty years to go. Hello. I follow orders. What’s your excuse?”

His comment triggered a synapse in my brain or something like a lightning flash. I sat up straighter in the seat and turned to face Gaspar. “Remember I told you to concentrate on how they killed Summer?”

He scowled. “I’m not senile.”

“Think about it.” I gave him a hand. “The sniper knows Summer’s on her way to Fort Bird. He knows why she’s coming to Fort Bird. He knows the route she’s taking. He knows approximately when she’ll pass mile marker #224. He’s in place and set up. He’s had time to adjust for all variables. He’s as ready as he’s going to get. The conditions aren’t perfect, but they never are.”

Gaspar nodded. “With you so far.”

“The shot’s not impossible, obviously, because he made it.”

“But he could easily have missed. The traffic cams were out so he couldn’t see her coming. He was a long distance from the kill zone and she was traveling eighty miles an hour.” He glanced my way. “Why didn’t he miss?”

I waited half a moment to be sure he was paying attention. “He didn’t miss because he knew
precisely
when to shoot.”

Gaspar scowled again. “How the hell could he have known that?”

“He knew because Summer told him.”

He looked as shocked as if a yeti had jumped out of nowhere and landed in the Crown Vic on the seat between us. “What?”

“Summer called me from the car on the way to Fort Bird, remember? She told me she was driving and where. She told me what time she’d meet me. She was the only person who knew that information.” My guess about the rest wasn’t much of a stretch. “I’m betting Summer called him, too. Or maybe he called her. Either way, she told him where she was and when she’d be at mile marker #224. She was talking to him. At the precise moment, he shot and killed her.”

“So he knew exactly when she’d be within his kill zone because she told him while it was happening.” Gaspar said nothing for a moment and then nodded. A grin broke out that lit up his face. “That’s brilliant.”

I said, “When we check her cell phone data, we’ll confirm the call.”

Gaspar nodded. “And identify the guy she talked to.”

“Doubtful. He’s not dumb enough to have used a traceable phone. Finlay or the Boss can find the number, but that phone is long gone.” I shook my head. “The only way we might do it is through voice comparisons. There’s no question that the call was recorded by the Boss or Finlay or the phone company or someone. Everything is recorded these days. And both Finlay and the Boss were watching Summer. They would have been recording her, too.”

“What about the truckers?” Gaspar asked after a bit. “Too convenient, it seems to me, that a couple of phantom deer dashed across the road in exactly that spot at exactly that time. Were they in place to slow Summer down, just in case he missed with the first shot and needed a second?”

“Possible. But you heard Dr. Smith. She was already dead before she hit the tanker.”

“The truckers didn’t manage to kill her, so their part in this mess gets ignored? No harm, no foul?” He glanced at me. “That’s not usually your style.”

Definitely not even close to my style
. “Jones said the truckers are decent men. So we’ll find out how decent they are when we bring them in for questioning.”

“They might have meant to kill her. Or not.” Gaspar set the cruise control and stretched his right leg. “Could go either way.”

“We still need to know who the shooter is and why he did it. Something tells me Tony Clifton can help with that.” I stretched my neck again. “The Boss wouldn’t be sending us to Fort Herald again otherwise.”

“Can’t argue with that logic, either.”

Maybe not, but the scowl on his face told me precisely what he thought. He needed the paycheck, but he didn’t have to like what came next.

CHAPTER 30

This time, we arrived at the Fort Herald main gate with nothing but Gaspar’s veteran’s card paving the way, unless the Boss had worked his magic. There were several cars and trucks in front of us. When we reached the gate, the sentry said, “Headed to the shooting demonstrations?”

Shooting demonstrations? Sure. Why not.

Gaspar said, “Yep.”

“You know where it is? Just follow those vehicles ahead of you. Can’t possibly miss the noise.”

“Will do.”

The sentry handed Gaspar a generic visitor pass and waved us through. Instead of following the crowd, we drove to General Matthew Clifton’s office building, as we had before. No one stopped us on the way.

When we arrived and parked and went inside, Gaspar asked for General Clifton. “He’s at Range Foxtrot. Our newest graduating class is performing training demonstrations out there with the Marksmanship Unit.”

“Is Major Anthony Clifton here?” I asked since it was Tony I wanted to question first.

“Haven’t seen him.”

Something about the setup felt wrong. “Are training demonstrations usually held here?”

“Ma’am?”

“I thought the Army’s sniper training school was at Fort Benning, Georgia.”

“Yes, Ma’am. But the U.S. Army Marksmanship Unit performs demonstrations and competes around the world, including in the Olympics.” He shrugged and shook his head. “Our new soldiers appreciate the opportunity to learn from the best. We invite certain civilians every year. After the demonstrations, there will be a train-the-trainer clinic. The General is likely to be out there pretty late.”

We returned to the Crown Vic and I pulled up a map of Fort Herald. Range F was about two miles south. Gaspar pointed the Crown Vic in the right direction and drove the speed limit the whole way. No one tried to stop us.

“Did you ever perform any kind of shooting demonstration for civilian visitors when you were in the Army?” I asked.

“I wasn’t a member of the Marksmanship Unit. It’s an elite team. Stiff competition.” He paused. “But the world has changed. It’s all about PR now. These days, the Unit probably has a Facebook page.”

At the range, the parking lot was full. Presumably vehicles belonging to visitors observing the demonstrations. Family members and soldiers and a few officers, probably. The two types were easily distinguishable by their clothing. Anybody on active duty wore ACUs. The rest of us were dressed like civilians.

Gaspar found an empty bit of grass at the far edge of the parking area and nosed the Crown Vic into the open space. We hopped out and rushed as quickly as we could to the visitor viewing area.

The range was a large, rectangular open field. We parked on the south side and walked north toward the visitor viewing area, which was roped off to separate visitors from military personnel. If the setup had been a football field, we’d have parked in the end zone. The visitors would have been confined by the ropes behind the ten-yard line.

There were about thirty soldiers with various weapons milling around the shooting areas inside the ropes. Targets were spaced out in the field at well-marked distances near the opposite end zone. Sidelines of demarcation were seven-foot hay bale stacks on either side of the open field where live rounds would be fired.

Most spectators wore ear protection and a few didn’t, which was probably a violation of some regulation or another. Those of us without the bulky sound and shock-absorbing earphones were in danger of significant hearing damage, if not immediate and lasting deafness. There was probably a station to collect ear protection, but I didn’t see it. We’d have to make do with jamming our fingers in our ears.

The entire process was carefully structured. Certain soldiers shot certain weapons in a certain order for a certain number of rounds like an elaborately choreographed ballet. My FBI training had included operations exactly like this, minus the visitors.

The demonstrations moved smoothly and without fanfare. Soldiers lined up at the front of the range near the twenty-yard line, each holding the same weapon. Targets were lined up at the back of the range. When orders were shouted over the megaphone and repeated through loudspeakers, soldiers shot at the targets. After a few rounds, the line of soldiers changed and the weapons changed and the shooting recommenced.

The noise level made communication with Gaspar difficult. I touched his arm and pointed to indicate where he should search and where I would.

General Clifton’s ACUs blended in with everyone else’s and it took me a minute to spot him on a covered, elevated platform erected on the east side high enough to see over the hay bale sideline observing the soldiers on the range. Standing next to General Clifton on his left side was his brother, Tony. An officer holding a megaphone and shouting instructions stood on General Clifton’s right side. Perhaps the instructions came from General Clifton, but it was impossible to say from this distance.

The megaphone distorted the officer’s halting delivery, but something about it was familiar. I’d heard it before. But I couldn’t place it.

Gaspar had moved a dozen yards away. When I captured his attention, we each headed for to General Clifton’s position, weaving between the others milling around inside and outside the restricted visitor’s area. Gaspar kept up as well as he could, but the gap between us seemed to grow.

The closer I got to the stage, the more familiar the megaphone voice sounded. And I saw another man I recognized on the platform, too. Standing slightly behind and to the left of General Clifton. Thomas O’Connor, compliance officer for Dynamic Defense Systems and current husband of Joe Reacher’s ex-wife.

The gang was all here. Exactly as the Boss had orchestrated, no doubt. But I still couldn’t fathom why.

When I’d moved to within twenty yards of him, something drew General Clifton’s attention my way. He turned his head toward me and his gaze met mine across the distance. He stared at me as if he couldn’t believe I was there, walking toward him. Which I wasn’t. I was walking toward Tony.

Then he bent his head to say something to the officer with the megaphone. He also said something to his brother and something to Thomas O’Connor. After that, he turned and moved in the opposite direction.

It was the last straw. I was done with this cat-and-mouse crap. Anyone in that big a hurry to dodge me was clearly worth chasing. Somebody was going to tell me what was going on here, and if I couldn’t get it out of the Boss or Finlay, then I’d go straight to the General’s mouth.

He hurried off the platform and down on the north side. He made better headway than we did. Crowds on our side of the stage were thick while those on his side were nearly nonexistent. I saw his head bouncing above the heads of the spectators on my side with each step, which made it easier to ghost him. He couldn’t see me through the crowds while he might have seen the taller Gaspar.

I looked back and found Gaspar, his progress was slowed by his gimpy leg. He cocked his head to signal that he saw me looking at him. I waved my arm to signal moving to the right and turned to weave through the crowd in that direction. I broke through the edge of the viewers and trotted around the periphery of the stage, moving steadily toward the general’s side.

General Clifton had three advantages. He’d managed a significant head start and his legs were a lot longer than mine, which accelerated his ground speed. Those were obstacles I could overcome. His biggest advantage was that he knew the terrain and I did not, and that wasn’t an obstacle I could leap across.

I pushed a little harder, striving to close the gap, but the distance between us widened. I was breathing harder than I should have been when I reached the empty stretch of the field on the other side of the platform. But I could see General Clifton clearly ahead of me now, headed north, toward the far end of the field.

The voice of the officer with the megaphone continued to nag me every time he shouted halting instructions to the soldiers in the shooting area, but I was focused on my quarry. Which was why I didn’t see Tony leave the stage and follow behind me. Gaspar might have tried to warn me, but I couldn’t possibly have heard him over the shooting and the cheering crowds and the distance.

General Clifton traveled along the hay bale partition, the only thing separating the live rounds shooting down the range on the west side from the open field on the east side. The hay bale fence ended about twenty yards ahead of him. When he reached the end, he stopped and turned to face me.

The rhythmic shooting continued. I glanced back. The stationary row of soldiers at the south end of the range commenced fire again toward the north end. I felt like I was running at slow speed along with the zipping bullets.

At this distance, the gunfire was slightly quieter. The intermittent rounds hit their targets ahead of me on the other side of the hay bales with a frequency that sounded like ten-pound popcorn exploding against a heavy gauge steel popper.