The elevator took her back up through the levels, rising toward the world above.
When she stepped out into the lobby, the guard at the desk didn't look up. She returned the temporary access card and signed out.
Outside, the night air felt warm compared to the climate-controlled cold of B5. She walked to her car, got in, and sat for a moment with her hands on the wheel.
Then she started the engine and drove toward the office, already eager to talk to Joe Reacher.
25
The road belonged to him.
Night had erased everything beyond the reach of the headlights. Trees rose and vanished. Snowbanks slid by as pale shapes at the edge of vision. The highway was empty enough that it felt private, like something he'd rented by the mile.
Joe Reacher drove.
It wasn't late enough to stop. Not even close. He could drive all night if he had to. He'd done worse on less sleep. His hands gripped the wheel with just enough pressure to keep control without fighting the road.
The snow came down in thick, lazy flakes that seemed to hang in the air before the windshield caught them. The wipers swept them away in rhythmic arcs, leaving brief moments of clarity before the glass filled again.
The heater worked but cold air leaked in through the door seals. His could feel the chill working its way through his jacket. His feet were cold. His fingers were stiff. He flexed them on the wheel, one hand at a time, keeping the blood moving.
Motion was everything. It kept you from thinking too hard about the things you couldn't control.
Stopping created problems.
The road bent gently, then straightened again. His headlights caught reflective markers and the endless tunnel of white flakes spiraling toward him out of the dark.
His stomach growled.
He thought about food.
French food, specifically.
He didn't know why that came up, but it did. Real French food. Not bistro nonsense with tiny portions and foam on everything. Not the kind of place that put flowers on your plate and charged you forty dollars for three bites of something you couldn't pronounce.
Simple things done right.
Peasant food elevated by technique and time. The kind of cooking that understood that fat was flavor and that patience was half the recipe.
Cassoulet. The real thing. White beans cooked low and slow until they were creamy and rich, soaked through with the fat from duck confit and pork sausage. The top crusted and golden from the oven, cracked open to reveal the tender meat underneath.
It was the kind of dish that took two days to make properly.
Duck confit. That was another one. Duck legs cured in salt, then cooked slow in their own fat until the meat fell off the bone and the skin crisped up like paper-thin glass. Served with nothing fancy. Just potatoes. Maybe roasted in the same fat, golden and crispy on the outside, soft and buttery inside. A handful of bitter greens dressed with vinegar to cut through the richness.
He imagined a small place with a low ceiling and a chalkboard menu that changed every day based on what was good at the market. Wooden tables worn smooth by years of use. Mismatched chairs. A kitchen you could see into, wheresomeone who actually knew what they were doing worked over a stove that had been there for decades.
No music. No decoration. Just the smell of butter and garlic and meat, the sound of knives on cutting boards, the quiet conversation of people who'd come for the food and nothing else.
His mouth watered slightly. He swallowed and kept driving.
The dash clock glowed softly. He didn't look at it. Time didn't matter as long as he stayed moving. The road stretched on, endless and empty, and that was fine. That was exactly what he needed.
The snow fell harder. The flakes were smaller now, more insistent, driven by wind he couldn't see but could feel in the way the car wanted to drift. He corrected gently, keeping his inputs smooth. Fighting the road was how you ended up in a ditch.
His headlights caught the white lines. The yellow center stripe had disappeared under the snow. He was driving by feel now, by the subtle feedback through the wheel, by the way the tires hummed on pavement versus the way they went quiet on snow.
Something flashed to his left.
