He looked back at her. Looked at her face. She was a very good-looking woman. Maybe twenty-six, twenty-seven. He looked at her clothes. A line from an old song ran through his head: hundred-dollar dresses, that I ain’t paid for yet. He waited for the next line, but it didn’t come. So he smiled back at her and nodded.

“Jack Reacher,” he said. “Pleasure’s all mine, Holly, believe me.”

It was difficult to speak, because the truck was cruising noisily. The sound of the engine was fighting with the roar from the road. Reacher would have been happy to sit quiet for a time, but Holly wasn’t.

“I need to get rid of you,” she said.

A confident woman, well in control of herself. He made no reply. Just glanced at her and glanced away. The next line was: cold, cold-blooded woman. A dying fall, a sad poignant line. An old Memphis Slim song. But the line was not right for her. Not right at all. This was not a cold-blooded woman. He glanced over again and shrugged at her. She was staring at him. Impatient with his silence.

“You understand exactly what’s happening?” she asked him.

He watched her face. Watched her eyes. She was staring straight at him. Astonishment on her face. She thought she was stuck in there with an idiot. She thought he didn’t understand exactly what was happening.

“It’s pretty clear, right?” he said. “From the evidence?”

“What evidence?” she said. “It was all over in a split second.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s all the evidence I need, right? Tells me more or less what I need to know.”

He stopped talking and started resting again. Next opportunity to get away would be the next time the truck stopped. Could be some hours away. He felt he could be in for a long day. Felt he should be prepared to conserve his resources.

“So what do you need to know?” the woman said.

Her eyes were steady on his.

“You’ve been kidnapped,” he said. “I’m here by accident.”

She was still looking at him. Still confident. Still thinking. Still not sure whether or not she was cuffed to an idiot.

“It’s pretty clear, right?” he said again. “It wasn’t me they were after.”

She made no reply. Just arched a fine eyebrow.

“Nobody knew I was going to be there,” he said. “I didn’t even know I was going to be there. Until I got there. But it was a well-planned operation. Must have taken time to set up. Based on surveillance, right? Three guys, one in the car, two on the street. The car was parked exactly level. They had no idea where I was going to be. But obviously they knew for sure where you were going to be. So don’t be looking at me like I’m the idiot here. You’re the one made the big mistake.”

“Mistake?” the woman said.

“You’re too regular in your habits,” Reacher said. “They studied your movements, maybe two or three weeks, and you walked right into their arms. They weren’t expecting anybody else to be there. That’s clear, right? They only brought one set of handcuffs.”

He raised his wrist, which raised hers too, to make his point. The woman went quiet for a long moment. She was revising her opinion of him. Reacher rocked with the motion of the vehicle and smiled.

“And you should know better,” he said. “You’re a government agent of some sort, right? DEA, CIA, FBI, something like that, maybe a Chicago PD detective? New in the job, still fairly dedicated. And fairly wealthy. So somebody is either looking for a ransom, or you’ve already become a potential problem to somebody, even though you’re new, and either way you should have taken more care of yourself.”

She looked across at him. Nodded, eyes wide in the gloom. Impressed.

“Evidence?” she asked.

He smiled at her again.

“Couple of things,” he said. “Your dry cleaning? My guess is every Monday lunch break you take last week’s clothes in to get them cleaned, and you pick up this week’s clothes to wear. That means you must have about fifteen or twenty outfits. Looking at that thing you got on, you’re not a cheap dresser. Call it four hundred bucks an outfit, you’ve got maybe eight grand tied up in things to wear. That’s what I call moderately wealthy, and that’s what I call too regular in your habits.”

She nodded slowly.

“OK,” she said. “Why am I a government agent?”

“Easy enough,” he said. “You had a Glock 17 shoved at you, you were bundled into a car, you were thrown in a truck, handcuffed to a complete stranger and you’ve got no idea where the hell they’re taking you, or why. Any normal person would be falling apart over all that, screaming the place down. But not you. You’re sitting there quite calmly, which suggests some kind of training, maybe some kind of familiarity with upsetting or dangerous situations. And maybe some kind of sure knowledge there’ll be a bunch of people looking to get you back soon as they can.”

He stopped and she nodded for him to continue.

“Also, you had a gun in your bag,” he said. “Something fairly heavy, maybe a thirty-eight, long barrel. If it was a private weapon, a dresser like you would choose something dainty, like a snub twenty-two. But it was a big revolver, so you were issued with it. So you’re some kind of an agent, maybe a cop.”

The woman nodded again, slowly.

“Why am I new in the job?” she asked.

“Your age,” Reacher said. “What are you? Twenty-six?”

“Twenty-seven,” she said.

“That’s young for a detective,” he said. “College, a few years in uniform? Young for the FBI, DEA, CIA, too. So whatever you are, you’re new at it.”

She shrugged.

“OK,” she said. “Why am I fairly dedicated?”

Reacher pointed, left-handed, rattling their shared handcuff.

“Your injury,” he said. “You’re back to work after some kind of an accident, before you’re really recovered. You’re still using that crutch for your bad leg. Most people in your position would be staying home and drawing sick pay.”

She smiled.

“I could be handicapped,” she said. “Could have been born this way.”

Reacher shook his head in the gloom.

“That’s a hospital crutch,” he said. “They loaned it to you, short-term, until you’re over your injury. If it was a permanent thing, you’d have bought your own crutch. Probably you’d have bought a dozen. Sprayed them all different to match all your expensive outfits.”

She laughed. It was a pleasant sound above the drone and boom of the truck’s engine and the roar of the road.

“Pretty good, Jack Reacher,” she said. “I’m an FBI Special Agent. Since last fall. I just ripped up my cruciate ligaments playing soccer.”

“You play soccer?” Reacher said. “Good for you, Holly Johnson. What kind of an FBI agent since last fall?”

She was quiet for a beat.

“Just an agent,” she said. “One of many at the Chicago office.”

Reacher shook his head.

“Not just an agent,” he said. “An agent who’s doing something to somebody who maybe wants to retaliate. So who are you doing something to?”

She shook her head back at him.

“I can’t discuss that,” she said. “Not with civilians.”

He nodded. He was comfortable with that.

“OK,” he said.

“Any agent makes enemies,” she said.

“Naturally,” he replied.

“Me as much as anybody,” she said.

He glanced across at her. It was a curious remark. Defensive. The remark of a woman trained and eager and ready to go, but chained to a desk since last fall.

“Financial section?” he guessed.

She shook her head.

“I can’t discuss it,” she said again.

“But you already made enemies,” he said.

She gave him a half-smile which died fast. Then she went quiet. She looked calm, but Reacher could feel in her wrist that she was worried for the first time. But she was hanging in there. And she was wrong.

“They’re not out to kill you,” he said. “They could have killed you in that vacant lot. Why haul you away in this damn truck? And there’s your crutch, too.”