Chapter 11
A/N: Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas to all! Happy Holidays! I hope everyone has been having an excellent holiday season! I've got a brand new chapter in my gift bag here. This time, the Doom Slayer is coming to town with "Jack Reacher". Now, I know it isn't a christmas-y kind of genre, but I thought it would fit nicely anyway. I thought very hard about doing a chapter about the movie "Krampus", but there were a few obstacles that I just could not get around. Either way, I hope you enjoy! Don't forget to tell me your feelings of love/hate by leaving a review! Remember that I don't own anything!
Jack Reacher looked out the window at the snow-covered landscape. He had never been a fan of the cold, which is why he always preferred to spend his winters somewhere south, closer to the equator. 'Prefer' was putting it mildly, as it was one of the few things that really annoyed Reacher about the seasons changing. As a result, Reacher made a point of making his way south each year to find warmer weather.
An observer of his migratory habits might have called him a pussy, but the way Reacher saw it, if you had the luxury of choosing, why waste it? He could also care less what some average joe thought of him.
Unfortunately for Reacher, his migration had been held up by events beyond his control. One thing after another had seemed to slow him up, and now, Reacher was stuck in Missouri on Christmas Eve. A region not as far south as he would've liked, as heavy snow blanketed the landscape and below-freezing temperatures seeped into every man-made structure around.
Reacher stepped out of the truck and waved once to the driver inside. The driver acknowledged with a nod of his head and drove away, the smell of exhaust stayed behind. Reacher watched the shape of the vehicle for a few moments, then turned and examined his surroundings.
The town he stood in was called Devil's Drop, or so the truck driver had told him. The guy had been a social worker with a main office based in St. Louis, and he was making a trip down to Cassville to deal with a client, which meant that he had to be going a little under 4 hours' worth of driving in Reacher's desired direction.
The driver was the owner of a bright-red Ford Focus, one of the newer models designed for a workaholic with no kids. Sleek and compact, and therefore perfect for a guy like him, but not for a guy like Reacher. He had cranked the passenger seat as far back as it would go for leg room. Despite that, the ride had been smooth and comfortable, and Reacher had swapped pleasant conversation with the guy as the bright lights of the city disappeared behind them. When the guy told Reacher where he would be stopping, Reacher had inquired about the name.
"Why is it called Devil's Drop?" Reacher had asked.
The guy chuckled.
"Dunno, maybe you oughta ask one of the locals. I'm sure it's a hell of a story."
Maybe it was a hell of a story, but then again, maybe it wasn't. Reacher had seen it work out either way before. From great stories of pioneers fending off devilish Natives in the early 19th century to a kid dropping a cake in the street could have explained the name.
Taking a look around, Reacher noticed that he stood in what appeared to be the center of town. The town square, in fact. The street lamps and buildings were all studded with Christmas decorations. Tiny bulbs of red and green glowed proudly against the setting sun, quickly replacing the star as the main source of light.
A park sat across the brick-laid street from Reacher, the trees and grass and benches all covered with pure-white snow. On the other side of the park stood the town hall. It was an old building with a style that reminded Reacher of something the Ancient Greeks had worshiped their gods in, but he doubted that the building he was looking at was served that purpose.
On Reacher's left stood a few shops for clothing, electronics, spare parts, etc. They all looked like they were about to close, but he saw a few stragglers still browsing through the windows. Perhaps they needed a few last-minute gifts for friends loved ones. It was Christmas Eve, after all.
Reacher then turned his gaze to his right and saw something far more his speed.
It was a book store, but it appeared to be a combination of a book store and a diner. Must have been some guy's way of revolutionizing the book-buying process. Reacher could picture a thousand dopey slogans to go along with it.
Reacher liked books as much as the next guy, but the diner portion of it is what caught his attention. Diners were designed to be welcoming. After all, they offered food, warmth, and coffee. All of which Reacher was in need of at the moment. The coffee being the top of the list.
A cold breeze blew through the light jacket that Reacher wore, prompting him to cross the street quickly and enter through the diner/bookstore's main door. As he stepped inside, the immediate warmth of the building covered him, making him already feel much better. Taking a look around, Reacher saw that the diner itself occupied a small portion of the building, with the bookstore holding most of the ground. Therefore, the diner seemed slightly cramped as the bookstore portion encroached on its territory, but there was only one other patron, and Reacher smelled coffee, so he took a seat in the back, facing the front door. His favorite place to sit in a diner.
A waitress glided over to his table, all smiles and cheer. She wore a nametag with glowing Christmas lights on it, and she beamed down at Reacher as he ordered coffee. She could have been in a Hallmark movie.
The waitress left and immediately returned with a mug and a pot of coffee. She filled the mug, and then took Reacher's dinner order. They had a Christmas ham special on the menu, and Reacher ordered it as well as a cheese burger. The waitress nodded, not bothering to write down his order since he was one of two other patrons in the diner.
After the waitress glided away, Reacher took a sip from the steaming mug. It wasn't half-bad. Strong, but not too strong. He had tasted better, but he had also tasted worse. Reacher then took the time to notice the only other person sitting in the diner.
It was a woman, and Reacher guessed her to be somewhere in her mid-thirties to early forties. She was tall, and she was wearing a heavy sweatshirt with jeans. Not the most ideal for the weather outside, but Reacher wasn't one to judge given his also relatively light attire. Her hair was a dark brown, and it was tied up in a ponytail at the top of her head.
All of her attention was focused on her cellular phone, a long, flat, and smooth rectangle with a single screen and only one button on its front face. The woman appeared to be agitated about something. Reacher could see it in how she fidgeted with her hair and impatiently tapped her foot.
Given the scenario, Reacher could only assume that her problem was related to the impending holiday, the weather, or both. Her anger seemed to culminate all at once, and she threw one of her hands in the air incredulously before slapping her phone down onto the table. She then looked up directly at Reacher.
"I don't suppose you know any good car rental places around here," she asked.
"No," Reacher said.
"Figures. Guess I'll have to get used to the idea of spending Christmas in the lovely Devil's Drop."
"Problems with the car?"
"Problems with everything."
"I'm sorry."
"Not your fault."
Reacher inwardly cracked a smile. Usually that was his line. The woman remained silent for a moment, then stood up and made her way over to where Reacher sat. She paused for a moment longer, then took a seat opposite Reacher.
"Since I'm stuck here for the holidays, might as well spend it with someone."
Reacher could think of no argument against that.
Introductions were made. The woman introduced herself as Lindsey Ibarra. She was making her way back to Chicago to spend Christmas with her parents, but her car had broken down just outside the edge of Devil's Drop. She was still an eight-and-a-half-hour drive from home, and neither of her parents' vehicles could make the trip soon enough to get her back to Chicago. Her parents were far too old to be driving anyway. She was effectively stranded.
Reacher knew the feeling. He was in the exact same predicament. But Ibarra made it a little bit better, at least in his eyes.
The food came, and Reacher and Ibarra both ate. The food was good, and the conversation was better. Reacher was enjoying himself until his eyes caught commotion through the diner's window.
A bright light appeared just outside of what Reacher could see through the window, and a loud bang sounded and rattled the glass of the diner. It was a stark contrast to the quickly darkening atmosphere outside. Ibarra turned in her seat to discern the source of the noise, and the two of them watched in confusion as a figure appeared and angrily threw open the door of the dinner. The glass cracked as the door slammed against its backstop, but both Reacher and Ibarra were both too fixated on the stranger than to notice the door.
What was so unorthodox was that the stranger was covered from head to toe in some kind of suit. Thick green armor plating covered nearly every square inch of his figure, ending with a helmet with a visor that Reacher couldn't see through. The guy looked like he belonged on the set of a Sci-Fi movie. Or maybe a video game convention. A likely possibility. People dressed up in far weirder costumes than the one that the stranger was wearing. Maybe he was supposed to be there instead but was now stuck in Devil's Drop like him and Ibarra. One thing Reacher did know for certain was that the stranger was angry. Very angry. As though he had been snatched from where he wanted to be and thrown into town. Reacher felt like he was getting warmer.
The stranger immediately stomped over to the bookstore potion of the building and began searching the shelves for something.
"What the hell is up with this guy?" Ibarra asked with a frown. Neither of them took their eyes off the stranger, who continued searching the shelves. Unaware that he was being watched.
"He's looking for a book."
"I mean besides that. What is he wearing? I've never seen anything like that before."
"It could be the new fashion. Extra protection against the cold."
"Do you really believe that?" Ibarra adopted a doubtful expression and glanced back at Reacher.
Reacher said nothing.
"Well, whatever his problem is, I'm staying out of it."
Reacher again said nothing, and the two of them returned to their meal. Reacher occasionally glanced back over to see the figure still rifling through the books. He had seemed to localize in the Sci-Fi section of the stock, and was now examining the covers of each book, still searching intently.
The waitress brought their checks shortly after the finished their meal. Even her saturated holiday cheer seemed to falter at the presence of the stranger in the bookstore section. Reacher asked if there was a motel in the town, and the waitress immediately perked up and told them there was one only a few blocks away. After she left, Reacher saw the stranger sit down hard in one of the nearby tables, a book in his hand.
Reacher glanced at the cover and saw a picture of another figure dressed in armor. The figure on the cover was quite similar to the one holding the book, but Reacher picked up a few differences between the two.
Above the figure on the cover in big block letters, the word HALO was printed in some Sci-Fi font. There were other words on the cover too, but they were too small for Reacher to make out.
The picture and title meant nothing to Reacher. So, he stood up from the table, and Ibarra stood up with him. The movement brought them slightly closer together for a moment, and Reacher caught a faint whiff of perfume. It smelled good.
"It's getting dark. We should get to that hotel," Reacher said.
"Agreed," said Ibarra.
Reacher nodded and spared one last glance at the stranger in green armor before following Ibarra out of the diner and toward the direction the waitress had indicated.
The cold whipped and whirled about them as they walked, trying to get through any opening in their clothing. Ibarra pulled her hood up. They walked for a few minutes on the sidewalk before the small motel came into view.
Like many motels that Reacher had seen, it was shaped like a rectangle, with three sides constituted by rooms and the fourth by an office, leaving a small area in one of the corners to enter and exit the place. The parking lot sat in the middle.
As the two of them entered the rectangle, Reacher saw that there were a few other cars parked in the lot. His attention was immediately drawn to two pickup trucks in particular. They were two supped up Chevys, with multiple additions to them that either increased performance or visual appeal. They were lifted high and looked well-maintained, evidence that their owners had money to spare for things like that.
The two trucks were parked so that their two tailgates faced each other, and between them, a small fire pit had been constructed right in the hotel parking lot. A group of eight guys sat around the makeshift campsite, and beer cans littered the ground at their feet. They all wore plaid and fur winter gear, making it seem like they had all just returned from a big hunting trip.
In Reacher's mind, he supposed the scenario made sense. A group of rednecks didn't want to spend the holidays all cooped up at home, so the next best option was to go camp out in a spot that blocked the wind on three sides. Sound thinking for rednecks.
They were on the opposite side of the rectangle, but as Reacher and Ibarra approached the office, he heard one of the guys whistle at Ibarra from across the parking lot. Ibarra noticeably stiffened, but she said nothing.
The two of them entered the office. A bored looking guy in about his mid-fifties sat behind the counter, watching some Christmas program on a small TV. He looked up expectantly as Reacher and Ibarra approached. Ibarra hesitated, so Reacher requested two rooms. The guy produced two keys from behind the counter in return and gave them to the two of them. In actuality, keys only described their function. Physically, they were plastic rectangles about the size of a playing card. They had a magnetic strip on the back that would open the door to their rooms when slid through the door handle. Classic key teeth and tumblers were being replaced with code and algorithms.
The rooms were 343 and 344. Right next to each other on the third floor.
Reacher and Ibarra stepped back out into the cold. The sun was all but gone, casting long shadows on the quickly darkening landscape. Reacher squinted and saw that their two rooms were directly across the lot, with the makeshift campsite directly between them and their destination.
"Great," Ibarra said.
Reacher said nothing.
Wordlessly, the two of them walked at an angle to miss the group on their way to their rooms. Unfortunately, that still brought them within ten feet of where the group was, far closer than Reacher would've liked to be. The group watched them as they closed the distance.
Ibarra pressed close to Reacher. He could feel her warmth under her sweatshirt.
"Maybe we ought to go back and suggest different rooms…"
"No," Reacher said.
"Why?"
"It's about standing your ground. They know we are coming. If we turn back now, they'll know they can walk all over us."
"This isn't a pissing contest. This is about common sense."
"Common sense also says that you shouldn't let anyone know that they have an advantage over you. That just leads to more trouble."
Ibarra didn't say anything back. They were now within twenty feet of the group, and Reacher watched as each of the rednecks stood up and moved to block their path. They all formed up in a rough arc as Reacher and Ibarra stopped. They were perfectly between Reacher and his room, which meant they were also perfectly between Ibarra and her room. Reacher could've drawn a straight line from the two of them to their respective rooms, and it would've gone right through the center of the redneck formation in front of him. That is, if they looked at it from a dead straight from-above perspective.
In reality, the two of them needed to go either left or right to a set of stairs that led them to the third floor of the motel. The two staircases were equidistant from the two of them, so they had the luxury of choosing which one they wanted to use. That is, if it weren't for the group in front of them. They were all looking at Ibarra. Some were sneering.
"Go upstairs," Reacher said, pulling his key from his pocket. He held it at his side, but he shifted his grip so that the rednecks could see it in his palm.
"I'll handle this."
Ibarra looked at him with fear and confusion, but Reacher looked back and nodded reassuringly. She slowly peeled away from him and took a wide circular path to the set of stairs on the left. None of the rednecks moved to stop her, but most continued to watch as she climbed the stairs.
Reacher was running a bluff. As far as the Neanderthals in front of him knew, him and Ibarra were a couple, and couples shared one room. And couples usually would get two keys. One for each person. That meant that Reacher was holding one of two keys to the room that Ibarra was currently moving to. This kept the rednecks in place. They thought the key in Reacher's hand granted access to the room. If they wanted to get to her, all they had to do was take the key from him. In reality, Reacher held a key to the room next door, his room, making it useless against her door. They would have much more success using a crowbar on her door than his key, and even then, they still wouldn't get in. Motels had stepped up their security expenditures in recent years, building their doors out of reinforced steel and aluminum, making them withstand more forms of breaking and entering. They would need a battering ram to get into that room. The rooms were windowless too, which meant breaking some glass wasn't an option. Reacher found all the extra security measures to be unnecessary however, as he had no intention of letting these thugs get that far.
The eight men plus Reacher all heard the door open and close above them, then Reacher spoke. He didn't wait for them to talk first, he wanted to set the pace.
"I'll use small words, so you don't miss anything, but I'm pretty sure you all know what this is."
Reacher raised his key out in front of him and showed it to the thugs before putting it back in his pocket.
"If you want it, come take it. But this is your one warning. The first one to come try is going to end up breathing through a tube for the next six months. It's not too late to walk away."
Reacher had already made the first move. By telling them that, he had subconsciously planted the idea in their heads that they should attack one at a time. It would only work with the first guy though, after which they would realize that there was nothing keeping them from attacking all at once. By then, it would be seven on one instead of eight on one, and Reacher liked those odds far better.
One of the rednecks in the center of the arc stepped forward. Reacher pegged him as the leader. He stood almost as tall as Reacher, but most of his weight was in the barrel-sized gut that was barely contained under a hunting jacket. He sauntered forward a few steps, his hands in his pockets. Reacher stepped forward to meet him.
He remembered back to his time at West Point. At the time, he had known a drill sergeant that had ingrained in Reacher that facing an opponent with your hands in your pockets was the worst mistake you could make in a fight. Reacher agreed.
In a burst of movement, Reacher pushed off his rear foot and headbutted the guy. He used his forehead, the most armored part of his body, and landed the blow square on the bridge of the guy's nose. There was a crunching noise, and the guy went down like a sack of potatoes. He fell still on his side, blood oozing from his nose. He didn't move, and his hands were still in his pockets.
Reacher didn't wait for his buddies to react. He immediately turned and launched his elbow straight into the next guy in line. The joint smashed against the side of his face, and he fell down as Reacher twirled and buried the same elbow into another guy's midsection. The thug doubled over, and Reacher grasped the back of his head and brought his knee up hard into the guy's face before shoving him away.
He whirled around to face the other five, and he immediately danced backward as one of them slashed at him with a knife. Reacher had not seen the knives appear, but now the remaining five guys stood in a loose formation, each one holding a switchblade. Neat wooden handles, plating binding, and plated buttons. Not an attractive sight to see in your opponent's hands.
Reacher hated knives. They were his most feared weapon in close-quarters combat. A small nimble guy with a knife scared Reacher more than a hulk with a gun. It was a whole different ball game than a fist fight.
Blows with hands left bumps and bruises that could easily be ignored in a fight, but knives left holes that bled and severed ligaments and arteries.
Not good.
Reacher danced away. The first rule of fighting against a knife was keeping your distance. The blade couldn't cut what it couldn't reach.
Reacher then shrugged off his coat as the remaining five stayed at the edge of his reach.
The second rule was to entangle your opponent. It was best to use a net or a coat or a blanket. The knife would catch on the fabric. Reacher only had one coat, and there was no way he could entangle all five of them with just that.
Reacher was suddenly wrenched backward by an unseen force, and he stumbled and floundered backward to regain his balance. When he looked up again, he saw a figure now standing between him and the remaining thugs.
Reacher immediately recognized the figure as the armored stranger from the bookshop. The same telltale suit of armor was unmistakable, even in the darkening ambience.
The thugs seemed confused at the sight for a moment, then one of them shook his head and stabbed at the stranger, who caught his hand before it reached him.
There multiple cracking sounds as the stranger crushed the thug's hand in his own. The thug cried out and fell to his knees dropping the knife. The stranger kicked him over and caught the knife before it hit the ground. Standing up, he threw the knife straight into the shoulder of the next thug in line, burying it to the hilt in the soft meaty flesh. The guy cried out like his friend had, but the stranger immediately silenced him with a punch to the sternum.
The stranger was strong. Stronger than Reacher even, which was saying something. The thug who had been punched flew back a few feet before writhing on the ground, gasping for breath. It was a fantastic display of strength, and yet, Reacher felt like the stranger was holding back somehow.
The stranger then focused on the three remaining thugs, who instinctively took a step back. One of them turned and ran back to the trucks, leaving the odds at two on two. Reacher was more than comfortable with that. He moved in, throwing his jacket over one of the remaining thugs. The fabric caught on the knife, and the thug found his movement severely restricted as he attempted to free himself. Reacher followed up with a straight uppercut to the thug's chin. The force of the blow lifted the thug off his feet, and Reacher immediately turned to see the stranger deliver a solid punch to the ribs, which cracked and most likely broke. Leaving the redneck curled up on the ground clutching his midsection.
Reacher and the stranger both turned to the sound of a truck engine starting. The last one was attempting to get away. The truck slammed into gear and roared forward. No, it wasn't trying to get away, it was attempting to run them over.
Reacher immediately dove left as the truck surged toward them, but the stranger stood his ground. The truck accelerated hard and struck the stranger at about thirty miles an hour. The stranger skidded back a few feet with the truck, but then to Reacher's surprise, he planted his feet and pushed, stopping the truck in its tracks. The wheels spun but caught no traction. They squealed against the pavement, kicking up white smoke as the stranger held it at bay. Then with a heave, the stranger threw the front of the truck into the air.
The truck flipped over backward and landed on its top with a loud grinding of metal, balancing on the cab. The wheels now spun uselessly in the air. Reacher continued to watch as the stranger stomped around to the driver's side and punched through the glass of the window with an armored fist. He pulled out the still conscious redneck that had been driven and slammed his head against the side of the truck. The thug went limp and fell to the ground.
Reacher said nothing as the stranger strode over to him and stood there. For a long pause, neither of them said a word. Then the old guy inside the office came out, most likely hearing the ruckus that the truck had made. He surveyed the scene, then strode over to the two of them. His eyes not believing what he saw.
The stranger pointed to the guy, then gestured to all the wreckage and bodies before pointing at himself.
The guy seemed to get the message.
"I'll tell the police that this was all you, I guess."
The stranger nodded before pointing at Reacher.
"And that he had nothing to do with it," the continued. He shook his head nervously, as though he expected the stranger to attack him at any moment.
The stranger nodded back before looking at Reacher. A long moment of silence fell between them.
The times where Reacher had nothing to say were few and far between, but given what had just happened, Reacher couldn't think of anything to say to the armored man in front of him. Now that he got a good look, Reacher saw that the stranger was not actually all that large. He stood at about four inches below Reacher, making him the height of about 6' 1''. The armor added to his bulk, but Reacher could still see that he was muscular under the suit. The Reacher realized that he stranger was waiting for him to do something. So, he held out his hand.
"Thank you."
The stranger nodded and shook Reacher's outstretched hand with his own. The armor felt cold and hard in his grip, but Reacher felt a surging heat beneath the plating. It radiated from the stranger's very essence.
The stranger let go and took a few steps back before giving Reacher a thumbs-up signal with its right hand.
There was a flash of blue light and a loud bang, and the stranger was gone.
Reacher turned and surveyed the wreckage around him. The checked the vitals of each of the thugs. They were all still alive, but some had thread pulses and rapid breathing. They were in need of medical care.
"Call an ambulance," Reacher said, turning to the desk guy. "Some of these guys need attention."
"What the hell should I tell them?" the guy asked with an exasperated chuckle.
"Tell them that the rednecks all got drunk and got into a fight. Eventually the situation escalated, and knives came out. That happens all the time. Make up something about an old girlfriend or a property line. These guys probably have plenty of those."
"And the truck?"
"The one that won the fight tried to run but rolled the truck trying to leave in a hurry."
"There's no tracks indicating a roll, they'll never believe that."
"They'll have to. What's the alternative? Some armored stranger flipped the truck over by hand?"
The guy fell silent for a moment, then nodded before turning on his heel and jogging back to the office. He had some phone calls to make.
Reacher looked at the scene one more time, then looked up to see Ibarra standing at the railing three floors up. She was watching him.
Reacher walked over and untangled his jacket from the thug he had thrown it at. The jacket now had a gaping hole where the knife had torn through. He would need to buy another one. Not tomorrow though, tomorrow was Christmas. There were no shops open. He took the stairs to the top and came out by their rooms. Ibarra strode over to him.
"Are you alright?" she asked worriedly.
"Never better," he replied.
"I saw all of it."
"All of it?"
"All of it."
"And?"
"I've never believed in Christmas miracles, but maybe I should. Or maybe I should get my eyes checked."
"It's certainly stranger than a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer."
"Are the cops coming?"
Reacher nodded. "They are going to ask questions."
"Well, neither of us saw anything right? We were too busy celebrating Christmas," Ibarra said, pulling Reacher by his arm into her room.
Reacher smiled and let the door close behind him.