He needed the wrench.
He rolled onto his side, spotted it half-buried in the salt, and crawled toward it. His ribs protested every movement. His head was pounding. Blood dripped from his nose, his mouth, maybe his scalp, too.
He got his bound hands on the wrench and dragged it toward him.
Then he rolled onto his back, brought his knees up to his chest, and threaded his bound wrists under his feet. It took three tries. His shoulders weren't as flexible as they used to be, and the broken ribs made every movement a fresh lesson in pain.
But he got his hands in front of him.
He picked up the wrench with both hands and smashed it down on the zip ties. Once. Twice. The plastic held. Third time, it snapped.
Blood rushed back into his hands in sharp needles of pain. He flexed his fingers, wincing, and pushed himself to his feet.
The world tilted. He caught himself against the salt pile and waited for his balance to settle.
The first man was starting to stir. His eyes were fluttering. His hand was moving toward his jacket.
Reacher walked over to him, bent down, and picked up the dropped pistol. A Glock 19. Standard. He checked the chamber. Loaded.
He smashed the barrel of the gun into the man’s temple.
The sound was flat and final in the empty depot.
He walked to the man by the plow blade. The one with the crushed throat. He wasn’t breathing.
Then he walked back to the salt pile and checked the third man. His eyes were wide and lifeless.
Silence returned, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights and Reacher's ragged breathing.
He stood there for a moment, letting his heart rate come down, letting the adrenaline drain away. His ribs were broken. His head was split open somewhere, he could feel blood running down the back of his neck. His wrists were raw and bleeding. His face felt like it had been dragged across a cheese grater.
But he was alive.
He walked back to the first man and searched his jacket. Found the folded note. Found a wallet—no ID, just cash. He also found a set of keys.
Joe took the cash, unfolded the note and read it one more time.
He walked to the depot's side door and pushed it open.
The cold hit him like a wall.
The snow was still falling, thick and silent.
The road was empty. Parked just beyond the depot’s light was a Ford truck. Dual back wheels. A huge vehicle.
Joe looked at the key fob in his hand.
Ford.
He walked to the truck and climbed inside.
It smelled new.
He keyed the ignition and put the big truck into gear.
27
Joe drove north through the kind of darkness that only existed in the Upper Peninsula in winter.
