Just gone.
She sat back in the chair and stared at the photograph. Dmitri Volkov looked like a professor. Like someone who'd spend his life in a laboratory, working on equations and chemical formulas.
Ivy thought about the timing. Disappeared over two years ago. Long enough to get out of the Soviet Union. Long enough tomake contact with someone. Long enough to offer his expertise to the highest bidder.
She thought about Joe.
What have you gotten yourself into, Reacher?
15
The armory was underground.
Concrete walls two feet thick. Climate controlled. Humidity at exactly forty-five percent. Temperature at sixty-eight degrees. The kind of environment that kept metal from corroding and powder from degrading.
The workbench ran the length of one wall. Stainless steel surface. Precision tools arranged in perfect order. Calipers. Micrometers. Powder scales accurate to one-tenth of a grain. A reloading press bolted to the bench, heavy and solid.
The person worked methodically. Brass casings lined up in rows and each one inspected and measured. The ones that passed inspection went into a tray, the ones that didn't went into a separate container for disposal.
Precision mattered. At a thousand yards, a tenth of a grain could mean the difference between a hit and a miss, success and failure, life and death.
The person picked up a case and held it to the light. Checked the neck for splits. Checked the primer pocket for expansion. Perfect. It went into the tray.
The pager vibrated on the bench.
The person stopped. Set down the brass casing. Picked up the pager and looked at the display.
A number. Nothing else. But the number meant something.
The person walked to the far corner of the room. A steel door, locked. A keypad beside it. Six digits entered from memory. The lock clicked and the door opened.
Inside was a small room without windows. A secure phone line that ran through three different relays before connecting to anything.
The person sat down, picked up the phone and dialed the number from the pager.
Two rings. A click. A voice.
"Standby for message."
Another click. Then silence followed by a voice that sounded mechanical. Disguised to protect identity, no doubt.
"Simmons. Reacher. Northern Michigan. Termination authorized. Green light. Confirm receipt."
The person pressed a button on the phone. A single tone. Confirmation.
The line went dead.
The person sat for a moment. Thinking. Planning and running through the logistics before moving to the gun safe at the far end of the room. Another keypad. Another code. The safe was six feet tall and four feet wide. Custom-built. Fireproof and waterproof. Strong enough to survive anything short of a direct hit from an RPG.
Inside were rifles. Handguns. Shotguns. All of them clean.
But the person reached for the case on the top shelf. Long and narrow. Pelican brand. Waterproof. Crushproof. The kind of case that could be dropped from a helicopter and the contents would be fine.
The person lifted it down and set it on the workbench. Opened the latches. Lifted the lid.
The rifle lay in custom-cut foam. A Remington 700 action. But nothing else was factory. The barrel was custom. Twenty-six inches. Stainless steel. Hand-lapped. Chambered in .300 Winchester Magnum. The stock was McMillan fiberglass. Adjustable cheek rest. Adjustable length of pull. Bedded to the action with marine-grade epoxy. The trigger was Jewell. Two pounds. Crisp as breaking glass.
The scope sat in its own compartment. Leupold Mark 4. Ten-power fixed. Mil-dot reticle. Parallax adjustment. Turrets calibrated for the specific load the person used.
