Die Trying by Lee Child

suitable for long-distance transport of a kidnap victim. So I figure they stole this truck, in Chicago, probably yesterday morning. Painted over whatever writing was on the side. You notice the patch of white paint? Fresh, didn’t match the rest? They disguised it, maybe changed the plates. But it was still a hot truck, right?> And it was their getaway vehicle. So they didn’t want to risk it on the street. And people getting into the back of a truck looks weird. A car is better. So they stole the black sedan and used that instead. Switched vehicles in that vacant lot, burned the black car, and they’re away.”
    Holly shrugged. Made a face.
    “Doesn’t prove they stole anything,” she said.
    “Yes it does,” Reacher said. “Who buys a new car with leather seats, knowing they’re going to burn it? They’d have bought some old clunker instead.”
    She nodded, reluctantly.
    “Who are these people?” she said, more to herself than to Reacher.
    “Amateurs,” Reacher said. “They’re making one mistake after another.”
    “Like what?” she said.
    “Burning is dumb,” he said. “Attracts attention. They think they’ve been smart, but they haven’t. Probability is they burned their original car, as well. I bet they burned it right near where they stole the black sedan.”
    “Sounds smart enough to me,” Holly said.
    “Cops notice burning cars,” Reacher said. “They’ll find the black sedan, they’ll find out where it was stolen from, they’ll go up there and find their original vehicle, probably still smoldering. They’re leaving a trail, Holly. They should have parked both cars in the long-term lot at O’Hare. They would have been there a year before anybody noticed. Or just left them both down on the South Side somewhere, doors open, keys in. Two minutes later, two residents down there got themselves a new motor each. Those cars would never have been seen again. That’s how to cover your tracks. Burning feels good, feels like it’s real final, but it’s dumb as hell.”
    Holly turned her face back and stared up at the hot metal roof. She was asking herself: Just who the hell is this guy?

14
    THIS TIME, MCGRATH did not make the tech chief come down to the third floor. He led the charge himself up to his lab on the sixth, with the videocassette in his hand. He burst in through the door and cleared a space on the nearest table. Laid the cassette in the space like it was made of solid gold. The guy hurried over and looked at it.
    “I need photographs made,” McGrath told him.
    The guy picked up the cassette and took it across to a bank of video machines in the corner. Flicked a couple of switches. Three screens lit up with white snow.
    “You tell absolutely nobody what you’re seeing, OK?” McGrath said.
    “OK,” the guy said. “What am I looking for?”
    “The last five frames,” McGrath said. “That should just about cover it.”
    The tech chief didn’t use a remote. He stabbed at buttons on the machine’s own control panel. The tape rolled backward and the story of Holly Johnson’s kidnap unfolded in reverse.
    “Christ,” he said.
    He stopped on the frame showing Holly turning away from the counter. Then he inched the tape forward. He jumped Holly to the door, then face-to-face with the tall guy, then into the muzzles of the guns, then to the car. He rolled back and did it for a second time. Then a third.
    “Christ,” he said again.
    “Don’t wear the damn tape out,” McGrath said. “I want big photographs of those five frames. Lots of copies.”
    The tech chief nodded slowly.
    “I can give you laser prints right now,” he said.
    He punched a couple of buttons and flicked a couple of switches. Then he ducked away and booted up a computer on a desk across the room. The monitor came up with Holly leaving the dry cleaner’s counter. He clicked on a couple of menus.
    “OK,” he said. “I’m copying it to the hard disk. As a graphics file.”
    He darted back to the video