Page 62 of Cold Target

"You with us, big boy?" the man asked.

His voice was flat. Midwestern. No accent to speak of.

Reacher didn't answer. He was still assessing.

The man nodded as if that confirmed something. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

He didn't hand it to Reacher.

He opened it and held it up so Reacher could read.

The handwriting was blocky and deliberate. Black ink. No flourish. The kind of writing that came from someone who wanted to be understood, not admired.

I SAVED YOU ONCE.

THIS IS THE SECOND TIME.

THERE WON’T BE A THIRD.

Reacher read it twice.

Not because he needed to.

Because he wanted to see if it changed.

It didn't.

He lifted his eyes to the man holding the paper. Then to the other two. He took in details now. Stance. Weight distribution. The way the man by the truck kept his right hand near his waist.

The way the man by the salt pile held the shovel, like a weapon.

The man with the note folded it once and tucked it back into his jacket.

He straightened.

That was the mistake.

Reacher moved.

He didn't explode upward. He couldn't. His hands were bound, his body was stiff, and his head was still ringing. But he shifted sideways, hard and sudden, throwing his weight into the steel post behind him.

The plastic ties bit into his wrists and held—but his shoulders absorbed the impact and he used the post as a pivot point, pushing off it and rolling forward onto his knees.

The man in front reacted late. Half a beat. Maybe less.

But it was enough.

Reacher surged up, driving his legs hard, and launched himself forward. He tucked his chin and drove his forehead into the man's face with everything he had.

Bone cracked.

The impact sent a shockwave of pain through Reacher's skull, white-hot and blinding. His vision went dark at the edges. But he felt the man's nose collapse under the blow, felt the cartilage give way, felt hot blood spray across his face.

The man went backward, arms flailing, already unconscious before he hit the ground.

Reacher didn't follow him. He pivoted, his boots scraping on the concrete, his balance precarious.

The man by the truck was already moving, his hand going for the pistol at his waist.