Page 12 of Cold Target

Late forties. Tall, spare, relaxed in a way that didn’t belong indoors. He hadn’t taken notes. Hadn’t interrupted. He looked like he’d been waiting for the right moment.

Reacher immediately knew this is who had called the meeting, and that he was the person ultimately in charge.

“The concern isn’t ideology anymore,” he said. “It’s convergence.”

Heads nodded in agreement.

“These groups are talking to each other. Coordinating. Consolidating resources.”

He paused.

“That changes the objective.”

“To what?” Reacher asked.

The man didn’t hesitate.

“Mass casualty events. Not statements,” he said. “Not symbolism. Impact.”

The room remained quiet.

“Killing as many people as possible. Civilian targets. Federal targets. Whatever creates shock, fear and momentum.”

“Assholes,” Simmons muttered.

“These aren’t lone actors,” the man said. “They’re planning something large. Something that requires logistics, financing, and command.”

Reacher finally spoke. “This sounds very doom and gloom, and I don’t doubt you’re right. But why am I here? I work Treasury. Financial crimes. I don’t chase militias.”

No one answered right away.

The man met his eyes.

“Because the person bringing these groups together understands intelligence work,” he said. “He understands logistics, discipline, military tactics and tradecraft.”

Reacher waited.

“And because,” the man said, “he’s former Army Intelligence.”

The FBI woman looked at Reacher as the man delivered his final message.

“His name is Bill Kinsman.”

PART TWO

6

Treasury after hours felt almost domestic, stripped of the daytime churn and reduced to low light, quiet corridors, and the faint hum of systems meant to keep the place running whether anyone was there or not. It was the version of the building Joe Reacher preferred, where people weren’t performing for each other and most conversations could finally be handled without an audience.

Jenkins led him toward his office with the mild weariness of someone who understood how little control he actually had when the phone rang from a certain layer of government.

“Come on in,” Jenkins said, opening the door and stepping aside.

Joe did, and found Ivy Harper already there, seated near the window with a legal pad on her lap and an expression that said she’d been waiting for Joe.

“Welcome back,” she said, with a small smile. “I was worried you were being abducted by someone over at Langley.”

“Not far from the truth,” Joe said.