Page 17 of Cold Target

"I can blend in. I don't look like a cop. I don't talk like a cop. I can walk into a bar in rural Kentucky or a gun show in Alabama, and people think I'm one of them. Because in a lot of ways, I am. I grew up around guns. I know how to talk about them, how to handle them. I understand the culture. That makes me useful."

"Undercover work."

"Yeah. That's mostly what I do. I've been inside biker gangs, militia groups, illegal gun trafficking rings. I've bought weapons from people who would've killed me if they knew I was ATF. It's a rush, you know? Walking that line. Knowing that if you slip up, if you say the wrong thing or ask the wrong question, you're done."

Reacher said nothing.

"It’s the only way to get these guys,” Simmons continued. “You can't just knock on their door and ask them to stop breaking the law. You have to get inside, earn their trust, gather evidence. It takes time."

"How long have you been working the Michigan militia?"

"A few months. I've met with the CI once. He's been inside for a while and got busted for a bag of weed. We took the opportunity to flip him.”

"Are you sure he flipped, or is he just trying to avoid jail?"

"I don't know. That's what we're going to find out."

They crossed into West Virginia, then Pennsylvania. The landscape flattened out some, the mountains giving way to rolling hills and farmland. They stopped once for gas and coffee at a rest area.

Reacher used the bathroom, stretched his legs, bought a cup of black coffee that tasted like it had been sitting on the burner for six hours. Simmons did the same, then bought a sandwich wrapped in plastic that looked like it had been made sometime last week.

"You want anything to eat?" Simmons asked.

"I'm good."

"You sure? It's a long drive."

"I'm sure."

They got back in the truck and kept going. The afternoon wore on, the sky staying gray, the temperature dropping. Reacher watched the mile markers tick by, the towns with theirwater towers and grain silos, the fields brown and empty after the harvest. America looked the same everywhere, he thought. Different details, same basic structure. Small towns struggling to survive, people working hard for not much money, the government far away and mostly irrelevant.

"So what's your story?" Simmons asked after a while. "You said you were Army. Where'd you grow up?"

"All over."

"Military brat?"

"Yeah. We moved every couple of years. Lived in a dozen different places before I turned eighteen."

"That must've been tough. Never putting down roots."

"It was normal for me. I didn't know anything else."

"Where all did you live?"

"Okinawa, the Philippines, Korea, Germany, a bunch of bases stateside. We moved around."

"I heard you went to West Point?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

Reacher shrugged. "It seemed like the thing to do."

"And then the Army."

"Yeah."