A Wanted Man by Lee Child Page A

fist through a long half circle, like a backward right hook, but the top edge of the Chevy’s dash roll was fairly high, and the bottom edge of its mirror was fairly low, so the swing would have to be carefully aimed through the available gap, and then it would have to be kicked upward for the last part of its travel.
    And Reacher’s arms were long, which meant he would have to keep his elbow tucked in to stop his knuckles fouling against the windshield glass. Which would dictate an upward kick and a snap of the elbow in the final inches, which together would be very hard to calibrate in order to avoid an action-and-reaction jerk to the left shoulder. And any movement of the left shoulder would be a very bad idea at that point. A minor slalom at eighty miles an hour on a straight wide road would be easily recoverable in theory, but there was nopoint in announcing hostile intent and then spending the next five seconds with both hands on the wheel fighting a skid. That would give the initiative straight back to the passenger, no question about it.
    So all in all it would be better to settle for a light tap, not a heavy blow, which meant the exact choice of target would be important, which meant the larynx would come top of the list. An open hand held horizontally, like a karate chop, and a light smack in the throat. That would get the job done. Disabling, but not fatal. Except that Alan King was asleep, with his face turned away and his chin tucked down to his chest. His throat was concealed. He would have to be woken up first. Maybe a poke in the shoulder. He would straighten up, he would face forward, he would blink and yawn and stare.
    Easy enough. Poke, scratch, swing, pop . Technically challenging, but entirely possible. Alan King could be handled.
    But Don McQueen couldn’t. Science had never found a way to take out a guy sitting directly behind a driver. Not while that driver was doing eighty miles an hour. No way. Just not feasible. No kind of four-dimensional planning could achieve it.
    Reacher drove on, at eighty miles an hour. He checked the mirror. No traffic behind him. McQueen was asleep. He checked again a minute later. Delfuenso was staring at him. He learned the road a mile ahead and looked back in the mirror. He nodded, as if to say: Go ahead. Begin transmission .
    She began.
    Forward nine.
    I.
    Forward eight, forward one, back five, forward five.
    H, A, V, E, have .
    Forward one. A.
    Forward three, forward eight, forward nine, forward twelve, forward four.
    C, H, I, L, D, child .
    I have a child .
    Reacher nodded, and lifted the small stuffed animal out of the center console, as if to say: I understand . The toy’s fur was stiff withdried saliva. Its shape was distorted by the clamp of a tiny jaw. He put it back. Delfuenso’s eyes filled with tears and she turned her head away.
    Reacher leaned over and poked Alan King in the shoulder.
    King stirred, and woke up, and straightened, and faced forward, and blinked and yawned and stared.
    He said, “What?”
    Reacher said, “The gas gauge is through the first little bit. I need you to tell me when to stop.”
    The deputy came back from the convenience store and told Goodman there were no bloody coats or knives in the trash cans. Sorenson called the head technician back from the Mazda again and said, “I need to know about the victim.”
    “Can’t help you there,” the guy said. “There was no ID and the autopsy won’t be until tomorrow.”
    “I need your impressions.”
    “I’m a scientist. I was out sick the day they taught Clairvoyance 101.”
    “You could make some educated guesses.”
    “What’s the hurry?”
    “I’m getting hassle through two separate back channels.”
    “Who?”
    “First the State Department, and now the CIA.”
    “They’re not separate. The State Department is the political wing of the CIA.”
    “And we’re the FBI, and we’re the good guys here, and we can’t afford to look slow or incompetent. Or unimaginative.