He hesitated briefly before adding the Remington 870, then nodded to himself and packed it as well. Short-barreled. Efficient. Not subtle, but subtlety wasn’t always the deciding factor when doors were involved. He considered the Mini-14, then left it where it was. This wasn’t that kind of deployment, at least not yet.
As he packed, pieces of the meeting surfaced in fragments rather than sequence.
The ATF agent’s photos. Stockpiles laid out with intention, not enthusiasm. The Army Intelligence assessment. The name that had shifted his viewpoint from theoretical to personal.
Very personal.
Joe snapped the suitcase closed and stood for a moment, letting the quiet reassert itself.
He and Simmons were traveling to Michigan to meet with a confidential informant who might be legitimate or might be bait or might be something in between, depending on who had set the table.
Joe would stay a half-step back, let Simmons talk, let him ask the questions. Joe would step in only if the situation went to hell.
It wasn’t his preferred way of working.
But orders were orders.
He pulled the suitcase toward the door, and paused briefly, taking one last look at the place.
Joe stepped into the hallway, locked the door behind him, and headed for the elevator.
Michigan waited.
And somewhere, maybe, so did Bill Kinsman.
8
The coffee shop was in Arlington, three blocks from the Metro station.
Reacher stood outside, watching through the window. He'd arrived twenty minutes early, which was his habit. Twenty minutes gave you time to see who else was watching, who else was waiting, who didn't belong.
At 0800 hours exactly, a man walked up beside him. Not from the coffee shop. From the street, moving with the flow of morning foot traffic, peeling off at the last second like it was spontaneous.
"Reacher?" the man said.
Reacher turned and looked. It was Simmons, the young ATF agent, wearing Carhartt work pants and a faded flannel shirt under a canvas jacket. Brown hair that needed a cut, a few days of stubble on his jaw. He could have been a construction worker, a farmer, a guy who fixed engines in his driveway.
He didn't look like a federal agent. Which was the whole point.
"Need coffee?" Reacher said.
"I’m good to go."
"Where's the vehicle?"
"Two blocks over. Didn't want to park too close." Simmons gestured with his chin. "This way."
They walked without talking. The morning was cold, the sky overcast, the kind of November day that promised winter was coming whether you were ready or not.
Reacher carried a duffel bag over his shoulder. Inside were several changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a razor, and his weapons.
Simmons led him to a side street where an old Ford F-150 sat at the curb. It was maybe fifteen years old, dark green, with rust spots on the wheel wells and a dent in the tailgate. The kind of truck you saw in every small town in America, driven by men who used it for actual work.
"Nice," Reacher said.
"ATF rented it special," Simmons said. "Figured we shouldn't roll up in a Crown Vic or a Suburban."
"I just hope it can make it to Michigan."
