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Hence 8197. He liked 97 because it was the largest two-digit prime number, and he loved 81 because it was absolutely the only number out of all the literally infinite possibilities whose square root was also the sum of its digits. Square root of eighty-one was nine, and eight and one made nine. No other nontrivial number in the cosmos had that kind of sweet symmetry. Perfect.
Alaska Airlines would have been cheaper, but Reacher hated Alaska Airlines. They put a scripture card on their meal trays. Ruined his appetite.
In the end he had settled on eight names in addition to his own: Tony Swan, Jorge Sanchez, Calvin Franz, Frances Neagley, Stanley Lowrey, Manuel Orozco, David O’Donnell, and Karla Dixon. Dixon and Neagley were the only women and Neagley was the only NCO. The others were all officers. O’Donnell and Lowrey were captains and the rest were all majors, which was totally screwed up in terms of a coherent chain of command, but Reacher didn’t care. He knew that nine people working closely would operate laterally rather than vertically, which in the event was exactly what happened. The unit had
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Inside a tan Ford Crown Victoria thirty yards west of the restaurant a man called Thomas Brant watched them go. He used his cell phone and called his boss, a man named Curtis Mauney. Mauney didn’t answer, so Brant left a voice mail.
“Rush hour in LA started thirty years ago. It’ll finish when the oil runs out. Or the oxygen.
Facts were to be faced, not fought.
“So what’s the plan, boss?” Dixon asked, and the question sent Reacher spinning nine years into the past, to the last time he had heard anyone ask it. “Same as ever,” he said. “We investigate, we prepare, we execute. We find them, we take them down, and then we piss on their ancestors’ graves.”
Reacher glanced at himself in an old spotted mirror. Six-five, two-fifty, hands as big as frozen turkeys, hair all over the place, unshaven, torn shirtcuffs up on his forearms like Frankenstein’s monster. A bum. From the big green machine to this.
No need to turn the whole thing into a big drama, running up and down hotel corridors. Because, second rule, learned from a lifetime of bad luck and trouble: Maintain a little dignity.
They must have a third place somewhere. A remote plant for manufacturing.” “So why didn’t UPS get that address, too?” “Maybe it’s secret. Maybe they don’t get mail there.” “I’d like to know what they make.” “Why?” Dixon asked. “Just curious. The more we know, the luckier we get.” Reacher said, “So go ahead and find out.” “I don’t know anyone to ask.” “I do,” Neagley said. “I know a guy in Pentagon procurement.” Reacher said, “Call him.”
“What’s the code?” “Something to do with the sixth track on the second Hendrix album.” Reacher said, “What was the second Hendrix album?” O’Donnell said, “Electric Ladyland?” “That was later,” Dixon said. “The first was Are You Experienced?” “Which one had the naked women on the cover?” “That was Electric Ladyland.” “I loved that cover.” “You’re disgusting. You were eight years old.” “Nearly nine.” “That’s still disgusting.” Reacher said, “Axis: Bold as Love. That was the second album.” “What was the sixth track?” Dixon asked. “I have no idea.” O’Donnell said, “When the going gets tough, the
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Handguns were in-room weapons. Under expert control in high-pressure situations the average range for a successful engagement was about eleven feet.
They arrived in Las Vegas at midnight, which Reacher figured was exactly when the place looked its absolute best. He had been there before. In daylight, Vegas looked absurd. Inexplicable, trivial, tawdry, revealed, exposed. But at night with the lights full on, it looked like a gorgeous fantasy.
Molotov cocktails. A crude but effective weapon, invented by Fascists during the Spanish Civil War, named by Finns during their struggle against the Red Army in 1939, as a taunt toward the Soviet foreign minister Vyacheslav Molotov. I never knew a tank could burn so long, a Finnish veteran had once recalled.
