Killing Floor (Page 123)

"You boys ain’t the first to hide out with us," he said.

Finlay glanced around. Appointed himself spokesman.

"We’re not?" he said.

"No sir, you’re not," the barber said. "We’ve had lots of boys hiding out with us. And girls too, tell the truth."

"Like who?" Finlay asked.

"You name it, we had it," the old guy said. "We’ve had farmworkers’ union boys from the peanut farms. We’ve had farmworkers’ union boys from the peach growers. We’ve had civil rights girls from the voter registration. We’ve had boys who didn’t want their ass sent to Vietnam. You name it, we had it."

Finlay nodded.

"And now you’ve got us," he said.

"Local trouble?" the barber asked.

Finlay nodded again.

"Big trouble," he said. "Big changes coming."

"Been expecting it," the old guy said. "Been expecting it for years."

"You have?" Finlay said.

The barber nodded and stood up. Stepped over to a large closet. Opened the door and waved us over to take a look. It was a big closet, fitted with deep shelves. The shelves were stacked with money. Bricks and bricks of cash held together with rubber bands. It filled the closet from floor to ceiling. Must have been a couple of hundred thousand dollars in there.

"Kliner Foundation’s money," the old guy said. "They just keep on throwing it at us. Something wrong with it. I’m seventy-four years old. Seventy years, people are pissing all over me. Now people are throwing money all over me. Something wrong with that, right?"

He closed the door on the cash.

"We don’t spend it," he said. "We don’t spend a cent we don’t earn. We just put it in the closet. You boys going after the Kliner Foundation?"

"Tomorrow there won’t be any Kliner Foundation," I said.

The old guy just nodded. Glanced at the closet door as he passed by and shook his head. Closed the door on us and left us alone in the small cozy room.

"NOT GOING TO BE EASY," FINLAY SAID. "THREE OF US AND three of them. They hold four hostages. Two of the hostages are children. We’re not even certain where they’re holding them."

"They’re at the warehouse," I said. "That’s for sure. Where else would they be? No manpower available to hold them anyplace else. And you heard that tape. That boomy echo? That was the warehouse, for sure."

"What tape?" Hubble asked.

Finlay looked at him.

"They had Roscoe make a tape for Reacher," he said. "A message. To prove they were holding her."

"Roscoe?" Hubble said. "What about Charlie?"

Finlay shook his head.

"Just Roscoe," he lied. "Nothing from Charlie."

Hubble nodded. Smart move, Harvard guy, I thought. The image of Charlie being held down at a microphone with a sharp knife at her throat would have tipped Hubble right over the edge. Right off the plateau, back down to where panic would make him useless.

"The warehouse is where they are," I said again. "No doubt about it."

Hubble knew the warehouse well. He’d been working up there most days for a year and a half. So we got him to go over and over it, describing the layout. We found paper and pencil and got him to draw plans. We went over and over the plans, putting in all the doors, the stairs, the distances, the details. We ended up with the sort of drawing an architect would have been proud of.

The warehouse stood in its own compound at the end of the row of four. It was very close in line with the third shed, which was a farmers’ operation. There was a fence running between the two with just a path’s width between it and the metal siding. The other three sides were ringed by the main fence running around the whole complex. That fence ran close to the warehouse across the back and down the far end, but there was plenty of space in front for trucks to turn.

The big roller door covered just about the whole of the front wall. There was a small staff door just around the far corner which gave on to the main floor. There was a cage just inside the staff door where the roller door winch was sited. Go in the staff door and turn left, there was an open metal staircase running up to an office. The office was cantilevered way up into the top back corner of the huge shed, hanging there about forty feet above the main floor. The office had big windows and a railed balcony looking down into the shed for supervision. In back, the office had a door leading out to an external fire escape which was another open metal staircase bolted to the outside back wall.

"OK," I said. "Clear enough, right?"

Finlay shrugged.

"I’m worried about reinforcements," he said. "Guards on the exterior."

I shrugged back.

"There won’t be reinforcements," I said. "I’m more worried about the shotguns. It’s a big space. And there are two kids in there."

Finlay nodded. Looked grim. He knew what I was saying. Shotguns spray a cone of lead over a big wide angle. Shotguns and children don’t mix. We went quiet. It was nearly two in the morning. An hour and a half to wait. We would leave at three thirty. Get up there at four. My favorite attack time.

THE WAITING PERIOD. LIKE SOLDIERS IN A DUGOUT. LIKE PILOTS before a raid. It was silent. Finlay dozed. He had done this before. Probably many times. He sprawled in his chair. His left arm hung over the side. Half of the shattered handcuff dangled from his wrist. Like a silver bracelet.

Hubble sat upright. He hadn’t done this before. He just fidgeted around, burning energy. Couldn’t blame him. He kept looking over at me. Questions in his eyes. I just kept on shrugging back at him.

Two thirty, there was a knock on the door. Just a soft tap. The door opened a foot. The older of the two old barbers was there. He pointed a gnarled and trembling finger into the room. Aimed straight at me.