MatchUp (Jack Reacher)

She opened her door, climbed out, and headed around to the back deck.

He followed and said to her, “Stand back.” Inside he saw Max, still on the couch, looking at him. He didn’t think he needed to draw his gun, so he slid the door open with Bennie right behind him. Max jumped off the couch and ran directly to Bennie.

He locked the sliders as a standard precaution, then said, “I’ll go upstairs and get your bag. You haven’t unpacked anything, right?”

She shook her head. “I’ll get my purse and some stuff in the cabinets.” Then she did a double take. “How do you know where my bag is or that it’s still packed?”

“I was searching for clues.”

“To what? And where’s the probable cause?”

He grinned. “It’s not like I went looking for undies.”

Max was wagging his tail at a bag of dog food on the counter. He felt his own stomach rumbling. “Did you bring any people food?”

“There’s yogurt in the fridge. Help yourself.”

“I’d rather eat the dog food.”

She grabbed Max by the collar. “Let me get him in the car before he runs away again.” She left with the dog through the sliders, leaving them open, and he headed upstairs, lifted her small suitcase off the bed, then returned downstairs.

Two men in ski masks held Bennie at gunpoint in the living room.

“Put your hands up,” one said to him.

He stood looking at the two men.

The taller man was pointing a Glock at him, holding it in a two-hand grip. The other guy had his gun at the port arms position, his head and eyes darting around the room.

They were professionals.

But professional what?

They both wore black pants, black running shoes, dark, quilted jackets, and gloves. Along with black ski masks. So he couldn’t tell their ages or their ethnic origins or read their faces. But he had the impression that they were both young. He didn’t know if they were drug dealers, mobsters, terrorists, or some other variety of assholes, but he’d find out soon enough.

Or maybe not.

“Hands up,” one of them ordered.

He knew from experience that if these guys wanted him dead, they’d have just blasted away and left. So they wanted something else. Not that this meant they wouldn’t kill him later.

“Hands up, asshole. Now.”

He didn’t detect an accent, and he noted the proper grammatical use of the word asshole, so they weren’t from Sandland. But they could be homegrown extremists, or whatever Washington was calling them this week. “What do I do with this overnight bag?”

“Shove it up your ass.”

Not a bad idea. That’s where his gun was. Near his ass.

The shorter guy yelled, “Put it down.”

He crouched and placed the bag on the floor.

The taller guy, who seemed in charge, said to Corey, “Stay down. Hands on your head.”

He remained in the crouched position and placed his hands on his head. The couch, which sat in the middle of the floor, was to his right. He could dive behind it as he drew his own Glock and get off two rounds.

The smaller guy asked, “You got a gun?”

He shook his head. His mind raced. Dive behind the couch, pop up, and fire? Or maybe shoulder roll left, draw, and fire? Or just draw and fire? The big guy was taking no chances, keeping his head and eyes locked, holding his gun in a steady two-hand grip.

“Get down. Face on the floor. Hands behind your back.”

He lay facedown on the floor, otherwise known as the prone firing position. This could work. As his right hand moved behind his back, the smaller guy kicked his hand away, and quickly snatched the Glock from his holster.

Close, but no cigar.

He replayed the last five minutes in his mind. “You guys on the job?”

The small guy asked, “Who the hell are you?”

“John Corey, NYPD, retired.”

“Yeah, and I’m Billy the Kid.”

“Really? I thought you were dead.”

The big guy produced a pair of handcuffs and cuffed Bennie’s hands behind her back. “Cuff him. I’ll cover.”

He felt the cuffs snap shut around his wrists.

So that’s what it feels like.

The big guy said, “Stand up. Both of you on the couch.”

He came to his feet and made eye contact with Bennie. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t,” she shot back, tense. The bigger guy directed her to one end of the couch and the small guy holstered his Glock and pushed Corey onto the other end.

He turned to the men. “I really am John Corey.”

The two men exchanged glances. The smaller guy asked, “You got ID?”

“In my jacket. Right-side pocket.”

The guy plucked the cred case from his pocket, opened and looked at it. He passed the creds to the other guy who also studied it.

Just then, the big guy’s cell phone chimed and he glanced at it. He said to the other guy, “BMW is registered to a Benedetta Rosato, Philadelphia.” He looked at Bennie. “That you?”

She nodded.

The big guy continued, “Jeep belongs to John Corey.”

“Until my wife gets it in court.”

Both men looked at Corey, and the bigger man said, “Holy shit, you’re the John Corey.”

Bennie looked at the two men, then at Corey. He imagined what she was thinking. The menfolk were measuring their egos. But women knew that size there didn’t matter. In fact, with respect to egos, every woman preferred the inverse relationship.

The bigger guy asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Relaxing.”

Both men laughed.

So he asked them, “Who you working for?”

The big guy replied, “ATTF. Out of Albany.”

“FBI?”

“Don’t insult us.”

He smiled. “PD?”

“SP.”

Bennie frowned. “What the hell are you guys talking about?”

He explained, “These gentlemen are New York State Police, working with the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

The big guy said to Bennie, “Sorry if we frightened you, Ms. Rosato. We didn’t know who you were.”

“I’m a lawyer. I prosecute excessive-force cases, among other things.”

“You shouldn’t have said that,” Corey noted. “Now they’ll kill us.”

The two guys laughed again.

She jangled her handcuffs. “Take these off, please. Along with those masks.”

Both men removed their ski masks. Corey looked at their faces. The bigger guy was about thirty and sort of Irish-looking. The smaller guy was younger and looked maybe Hispanic or Mediterranean.

Bennie stood with her back to them and the big guy unlocked her cuffs. The smaller guy uncuffed Corey.

The big guy said, “I’m Kevin.” He put out his hand to Corey and they shook. “This is an honor.’

Bennie rubbed her wrists. “And to think, I actually shook John Corey’s hand.”

The other guy returned Corey’s credentials and handed him his Glock, butt first, and Corey slid it back into his holster, telling him, “You’re good.”

The man introduced himself and said, “I’m Ahmed, the token Arab. I know, I looked better with the ski mask.”

Cops had a wonderfully warped sense of humor.

“Officers, aren’t you supposed to identify yourselves when confronting civilians?” Bennie asked, staying on lawyer mode.

Kevin replied, “We’re deep undercover.”

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