Inside it was better, but generic. It was like every other sports bar he had ever been in. It was one tall room with black-painted air-conditioning ducts pinned to the ceiling. It had three dozen TV screens hanging from the walls and the ceiling. It had all the usual sports-bar stuff all over the place. Signed uniform jerseys framed under glass, football helmets displayed on shelves, hockey sticks, basketballs, baseballs, old game-day programs. The waitstaff was all female, all of them in cheerleader-style uniforms. The bar staff was male and dressed in striped umpire uniforms.

The TVs were all tuned to football. Inevitable, Reacher guessed, on a Monday night. Some of the screens were regular TVs, and some were plasmas, and some were projectors. The same event was displayed dozens of times, all with slightly different color and focus, some big, some small, some bright, some dim. There were plenty of people in there, but Reacher got a table to himself. In a corner, which he liked. A hard-worked waitress ran over to him and he ordered beer and a cheeseburger. He didn’t look at the menu. Sports bars always had beer and cheeseburgers.

He ate his meal and drank his beer and watched the game. Time passed and the place filled up and got more and more crowded and noisy, but nobody came to share his table. Reacher had that kind of an effect on people. He sat there alone, in a bubble of quiet, with a message plainly displayed: Stay away from me.

Then someone ignored the message and came to join him. It was partly his own fault. He looked away from the screen and saw a girl hovering nearby. She was juggling a bottle of beer and a full plate of tacos. She was quite a sight. She had waved red hair and a red gingham shirt open at the neck and tied off at the navel. She had tight pants on that looked like denim but had to be spandex. She had the whole hourglass thing going, big-time. And she was in shiny lizard-skin boots. Open the encyclopedia to C for Country Girl and her picture was going to be right there staring back at you. She looked too young for the beer. But she was past puberty. That was for damn sure. Her shirt buttons were straining. And there was no visible panty line under the spandex. Reacher looked at her for a second too long, and she took it as an invitation.

“Can I share your table?” she asked from a yard away.

“Help yourself,” he said.

She sat down. Not opposite him, but in the chair next to him.

“Thanks,” she said.

She drank from her bottle and kept her eyes on him. Green eyes, bright, wide open. She half-turned toward him and arched the small of her back. Her shirt was open three buttons. Maybe a 34D, Reacher figured, in a push-up bra. He could see the edge of it. White lace.

She leaned close because of the noise.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Like what?” he said.

“Football,” she said.

“A bit,” he said.

“Did you play?”

Did you, not do you. She made him feel old.

“You’re certainly big enough,” she said.

“I tried out for Army,” he said. “When I was at West Point.”

“Did you make the team?”

“Only once.”

“Were you injured?”

“I was too violent.”

She half-smiled, not sure if he was joking.

“Want a taco?” she said.

“I just ate.”

“I’m Sandy,” she said.

So was I, he thought. Friday, on the beach.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Jimmy Reese,” he said.

He saw a flash of surprise in her eyes. He didn’t know why. Maybe she had had a boyfriend called Jimmy Reese. Or maybe she was a serious fan of the New York Yankees.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Jimmy Reese,” she said.

“Likewise,” he said, and turned back to the game.

“You’re new in town, aren’t you?” she said.

“Usually,” he said.

“I was wondering,” she said. “If you only like football a bit, maybe you would like to take me somewhere else.”

“Like where?”

“Like somewhere quieter. Maybe somewhere a little lonelier.”

He said nothing.

“I’ve got a car,” she said.

“You old enough to drive?”

“I’m old enough to do lots of things. And I’m pretty good at some of them.”

Reacher said nothing. She moved on her chair. Pushed it out from the table a little way. Turned toward him and looked down.

“Do you like these pants?” she asked.

“I think they suit you very well.”

“I do, too. Only problem is, they’re too tight to wear anything underneath.”

“We all have our cross to bear.”

“Do you think they’re too revealing?”

“They’re opaque. That usually does it for me.”

“Imagine peeling them off.”

“I can’t. I doubt if I would have gotten them on.”

The green eyes narrowed. “Are you a queer?”

“Are you a hooker?”

“No way. I work at the auto parts store.”

Then she paused and seemed to think again. She reconsidered. She came up with a better answer. Which was to jump up from her chair and scream and slap his face. It was a loud scream and a loud slap and everyone turned to look.

“He called me a whore,” she screamed. “He called me a damn whore!”

Chairs scraped and guys stood up fast. Big guys, in jeans and work boots and plaid shirts. Country boys. Five of them, all the same.

The girl smiled in triumph.

“Those are my brothers,” she said.

Reacher said nothing.

“You just called me a whore in front of my brothers.”

Five boys, all staring.

“He called me a whore,” the girl wailed.

Rule one: Be on your feet and ready.

Rule two: Show them what they’re messing with.

Reacher stood up, slow and easy. Six-five, two-fifty, calm eyes, hands held loose by his sides.

“He called me a whore,” the girl wailed again.

Rule three: Identify the ringleader.

There were five guys. Any five guys will have one ringleader, two enthusiastic followers, and two reluctant followers. Put the ringleader down, and both of the keen sidekicks, and it’s over. The reluctant pair just run for it. So there’s no such thing as five-on-one. It never gets worse than three-on-one.

Rule four: The ringleader is the one who moves first.

A big corn-fed twentysomething with a shock of yellow hair and a round red face moved first. He stepped forward a pace and the others fell in behind him in a neat arrowhead formation. Reacher stepped forward a pace of his own to meet them. The downside of a corner table is there’s no other way to go except forward.

But that was fine.

Because, rule five: Never back off.

But, rule six: Don’t break the furniture.

Break furniture in a bar, and the owner starts thinking about his insurance policy, and insurance companies require police reports, and a patrolman’s first instinct is to throw everyone in jail and sort it out later. Which generally means: Blame it on the stranger.

“He called me a whore,” the girl said plaintively. Like her heart was broken. She was standing off to the side, looking at Reacher, looking at the five guys, looking at Reacher. Her head was turning like a spectator at a tennis game.

“Outside,” the big guy said.

“Pay your check first,” Reacher said.

“I’ll pay later.”

“You won’t be able to.”

“You think?”

“That’s the difference between us.”

“What is?”

“I think.”

“You’ve got a smart mouth, pal.”

“That’s the least of your worries.”

“You called my sister a whore.”

“You prefer sleeping with virgins?”

“Get outside, pal, or I’ll put you down right here.”

Rule seven: Act, don’t react.

“OK,” Reacher said. “Let’s go outside.”

The big guy smiled.

“After you,” Reacher said.

“Stay here, Sandy,” the big guy said.

“I don’t mind the sight of blood,” she said.