"This is it," Simmons said quietly.
"Looks like no one’s home."
They sat for a moment, both of them scanning the clearing, the trailer, the tree line.
"I’ll check it out," Simmons said. He reached under his seat and pulled out a Glock 19. Reacher already had his hand on his own weapon, a SIG Sauer P226 in a shoulder holster under his jacket.
“I’m coming with you.”
“You’re not supposed to.”
“I don’t care.”
They got out of the truck slowly, quietly, leaving the doors open to avoid the sound of them closing. The cold hit Reacher immediately, a sharp wind that cut through his jacket. The temperature had dropped into the thirties, maybe lower. He could see his breath in the air.
They approached the trailer from opposite sides, weapons drawn, moving carefully. The ground was frozen, the grass crunching under their boots. Reacher reached the trailer first and pressed himself against the side, listening.
Nothing.
Simmons came around the other side and met him at the door. It was a flimsy aluminum door with a small window, the glass covered by a curtain from the inside. Simmons tried the handle. It turned easily. The door wasn't locked.
They looked at each other. Reacher nodded. Simmons pushed the door open and went in fast, weapon up, scanning left and right.
The smell hit him first. Blood and bowels and something else, something chemical. Bleach, maybe, or ammonia. The kind of smell that meant violence and death.
The trailer's interior was small, cramped, lit only by the ambient light coming through the open door behind them.
“Clear,” Simmons said. Reacher entered the trailer and could make out a kitchenette to the left, a small living area to the right, a narrow hallway leading to what was probably a bedroom in the back.
Simmons came in behind him and found a light switch. A bare bulb in the ceiling flickered on, casting harsh shadows.
The living area was destroyed. Furniture overturned, cushions slashed, stuffing pulled out and scattered across thefloor. The walls were marked with dark stains that could only be blood. Lots of it. Splattered and smeared, like someone had been thrown against them repeatedly.
"Jesus," Simmons whispered.
They moved deeper into the trailer, clearing each space methodically. The kitchenette was empty. The bathroom was empty. That left the bedroom.
The door was closed. Reacher reached for the handle, turned it slowly, pushed it open.
The man was on the bed. Or what was left of him.
He was naked, tied to the bed frame with what looked like electrical cord, his arms and legs spread wide. His body was covered in wounds. Burns, cuts, bruises. His fingers were broken, bent at unnatural angles. His face was swollen and bloody, barely recognizable as human. His throat had been cut, a deep gash that had bled out onto the mattress, soaking it dark red.
But that wasn't what killed him. Not right away. The wounds on his body told a different story. Someone had taken their time. Someone had hurt him, systematically and thoroughly, for a long time before finally ending it.
Reacher had seen torture before. He'd seen what people could do to each other when they wanted information, when they wanted to send a message, when they wanted to make someone suffer.
This was all of that.
"That's him," Simmons said from behind him. His voice was tight, strained. "That's the CI. His name was Danny Koshak."
Reacher didn't respond. He was studying the scene, taking in the details. The way the body was positioned. The pattern of the wounds. The amount of blood. This had happened recently, maybe in the last twelve hours. The blood was still tacky in places, not fully dried.
"They tortured him," Simmons said. "They wanted to know what he told us."
"Yeah."
"And then they killed him."
