Page 6 of Cold Target

It looked like someone had set it up an hour ago and planned to tear it down an hour from now.

The woman gestured to one of the chairs. "Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly."

Then she left, closing the door behind her.

Reacher stood for a moment, listening. He heard her footsteps in the hallway, heard the elevator ding, heard the cables creak as it descended. Then silence.

He walked to the window and looked at the parking lot below.

No movement. No people.

He turned to survey the room again. The folding table was empty except for a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen. The legal pad was blank. He checked the corners of the ceiling for cameras and didn't see any, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

He was being watched, of that he was certain.

Reacher pulled out the metal folding chair and sat down, facing the door. He checked his watch: 4:03 PM. He'd been in the room for less than two minutes, but it felt longer. Time moved differently in rooms like this.

He'd been in similar rooms before. In Germany, after a black-market investigation. In Korea, after a fragging incident. In Panama, after?—

He stopped that thought.

Panama was two years ago. Panama was over.

Reacher folded his hands on the table and waited.

Somewhere in the building, a door closed. Footsteps in the hallway, getting closer. Not the woman's footsteps—these were heavier, slower, more deliberate.

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

A pause.

Then the door opened.

3

The man who walked in didn’t bother closing the door behind him.

He was big. Not as big as Joe, but solid in a way that suggested functional strength instead of gym work. Thick shoulders. Barrel chest. Hands like cinder blocks, scarred in places that didn’t come from paper cuts or weekend projects.

Mid-fifties, maybe. Short gray hair clipped close. He wore a plain sport coat over an open-collar shirt and slacks that didn’t quite fit right, like he’d put them on out of obligation.

No tie. No pin. No flag on the lapel.

Not a politician.

A field guy forced indoors.

He stood there for a moment, studying Reacher.

Then he stepped inside and closed the door.

“Joe Reacher,” the man said. His voice was low and even. No accent. No warmth. “I’m Chambers.”

He didn’t offer a hand.

Reacher didn’t either.

Chambers pulled out the chair opposite Reacher and sat, the cheap metal frame protesting under his weight. He placed hishands flat on the table, fingers spread, like he was grounding himself.