When he’d asked Chambers who he worked for, Chambers hadn’t evaded the question.
He’d answered it.
All of them.
This wasn’t a turf war. It was a convergence.
A woman peeled away from the FBI man and walked toward Reacher. Early forties. Dark suit. Practical shoes. Badge already out.
“Mr. Reacher,” she said. “Special Agent Winthrow. FBI.”
“Thanks for the invite,” Reacher said. “This looks like fun.”
She didn’t react. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”
“I’m all about inter-agency cooperation.”
A small smile.
She gestured toward a conference room with frosted glass walls just off the operations floor. Inside, a single table. Chairs all around.
As they walked, Joe felt the group’s scrutiny. Everyone in the room knew he was there now. No curiosity. No surprise. Just assessment.
He understood the structure immediately. One voice per agency. No overlap. No arguing chains of command. Whatever they were dealing with had crossed jurisdictions cleanly enough that no single agency could claim it, and seriously enough that none of them dared ignore it.
Which meant the situation was not good. Not good at all.
Winthrow opened the conference room door. “We’ll get you up to speed.”
Reacher stepped inside.
As the door closed behind him, sealing off the noise of the operations floor, he knew one thing for certain:
Chambers hadn’t sent him here to answer questions.
They’d brought him in because someone had crossed lines. It could be legal, operational, or institutional. And the people in this room needed someone who understoodallof them.
Someone who knew what to do when an operation went balls-up.
Someone who could think like the people they were no doubt hunting.
Someone like Joe Reacher.
5
Reacher took a seat.
Agent Winthrow was probably in her late thirties, dark hair cut short, no jewelry, navy suit cut for movement, not court. FBI. She had a palpable presence, and Reacher knew he would like her. Plus, her suit enhanced her features, of which there were several.
“We’ll keep introductions informal,” she said.
She turned slightly to her right. “Simmons, go ahead.”
The ATF agent, Simmons, leaned forward as if he’d been holding back a tide. Mid-thirties. Longer hair, five o’clock shadow.
“Domestic militias didn’t start big,” he said. “They started loud. Rhetoric. Weekend warriors. Survivalist types. Mostly harmless.”
He slid photographs across the table. Satellite shots. Aerials. Grainy surveillance stills.
