Simmons unlocked the doors and Reacher tossed his duffel in the back. The truck's interior smelled like old coffee and cigarettes, though Reacher didn't see any evidence that Simmons smoked. Probably the rental company hadn't cleaned it very well. The seats were worn, the dashboard cracked from sun exposure, the radio an old AM/FM unit.
Simmons started the engine. It turned over rough, coughed once, then settled into a steady rumble. "She runs better than she looks," he said. "Checked her out yesterday. Oil's good, tires are decent, tank's full. We got about ten hours ahead of us, give or take."
"You know the route?"
"Yep. Up through Pennsylvania and into Ohio then north into Michigan. We're headed to a town called Grayling. Population about eighteen hundred. Middle of nowhere, which is the point."
Reacher nodded. He'd looked at the map. Grayling was in the northern part of the Lower Peninsula, surrounded by state forest. The kind of place where you could disappear if you wanted to. The kind of place where a militia could train without drawing attention.
They drove out of Arlington, through the morning traffic, onto the highway heading west. Simmons drove like someone who'd spent time behind the wheel, relaxed but attentive, keeping the truck at a steady sixty-five in the right lane. He didn't seem in a hurry. Reacher appreciated that. Hurrying drew attention.
For the first hour, neither of them spoke much. Simmons focused on the road, navigating through the traffic around DC, getting clear of the suburbs. Reacher watched the landscape change through the window. The buildings thinned out, replaced by trees, then farmland, then the rolling hills of Virginia. The sky stayed gray, threatening rain but not delivering.
Somewhere past Front Royal, Simmons said, "So you're Treasury."
"That's right."
"How'd that happen? You don't seem like a Treasury guy."
"What does a Treasury guy seem like?"
"I don't know. Accountant. Suit and tie. Guy who gets excited about tax law."
"I'm not that kind of Treasury guy."
"Yeah, I figured." Simmons glanced over at him. "Winthrow said you were Army before. Intelligence."
"That's right."
"How long?"
"A few years."
"And now you're chasing militias for Treasury?"
"Now I'm chasing whoever needs chasing."
Simmons smiled a little. "Fair enough."
"What’s your story?"
"Mine's not very interesting."
“Most people’s aren’t.”
They drove in silence for another few miles. The highway cut through the mountains, the road rising and falling, the trees pressing close on both sides. Reacher could see the leaves were mostly gone now, the branches bare and dark against the gray sky. Winter was coming fast this year.
"I'm from Tennessee," Simmons said eventually. "Little town called Crossville. You ever been?"
"No."
"Not many people have. It's in the Cumberland Plateau, about halfway between Nashville and Knoxville. Population maybe ten thousand, if you count the whole county. My dad worked at a lumber mill. My mom was a teacher. I grew up hunting and fishing, helping my dad cut firewood, that kind of thing."
Reacher nodded but didn't say anything. He'd learned that if you stayed quiet, people kept talking.
"I was the first person in my family to go to college," Simmons continued. "Went to UT Knoxville on a partial scholarship, studied criminal justice. Figured I'd come back home, be a deputy sheriff or something. But then I did an internship with ATF my senior year, and it clicked. I liked the work. And I was good at it."
"What made you good at it?"
