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FINLAY LEANED RIGHT BACK IN HIS CHAIR. HIS LONG ARMS were folded behind his head. He was a tall, elegant man. Educated in Boston. Civilized. Experienced. And he was sending me to jail for something I hadn’t done. He levered himself upright. Spread his hands on the desk, palms up.
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“Very good, Reacher,” he said. “Elementary deduction, right?”
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The desk sergeant was looking over. Disapproving. She was going to have to go. I drained the coffee and handed her the cup back through the bars.
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“So there’s you and him and ten others?” I said. “Some kind of a big deal?”
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“They wouldn’t tell me anything,” he said. “They want a shitload of formal authorization from Teale before they say word one.”
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The boss man was up on one knee. I kicked hard at his face. Missed. Caught him in the throat instead. Smashed his voice box. He went back down. I went for the big guy’s other eye. Missed. I held on with my thumb. Like pushing it through a bloody steak. He went down. I spun away from the wall. The guy with the broken fingers ran for the door. The guy with the eye out was flopping about on the floor. Screaming. The boss man was choking on his smashed voice box.
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