"Hah!"
Five minutes earlier—Langston smashed a fist into Reacher's face, but misjudged the angle and banged up his pinky. He cursed aloud, shaking his hand in pain.
"Goddamn it! I had everything planned. Get the payout, wait a few weeks, and slip away into retirement nice and quiet."
He nursed his bruised knuckles, ranting in the center of a semicircle of seven or eight ex-NYPD cops, all armed, all loyal. They were his old crew, brothers in blue turned brothers in crime, and Langston had never let any of them down. That kind of record gave him the confidence to rant openly even now.
"But no! That idiot Swann had to start snooping around. He brought in backup. He and his dumb little crew wrecked a plan I spent months perfecting."
Langston gave up on punching Reacher—who was handcuffed to a chair—and started slapping him instead, each blow carrying more insult than injury.
"But it's fine. I adapted. With a forged signature from Swann, I can make it look like he made the deal. When the Feds show up, it'll look like he took the money and disappeared. I'll still be on a beach, enjoying women, sunshine, and cold beer."
He lifted his pistol and pressed the barrel to Reacher's bruised face.
"So let me ask you one last time—where are your teammates? What's the plan?"
Reacher spat blood, then grinned, blood-stained teeth flashing.
"You seem upset. I'm just wondering… at your age, are you really still able to enjoy women?"
Langston snarled and smashed him in the face with the butt of the gun. He was panting afterward, huffing like he was the one being tortured. It made for an oddly comical sight—one man doing the beating, the other looking more composed.
"You tough son of a bitch. Just like the men you used to lead."
The anger slowly drained from Langston as exhaustion set in. He shifted to persuasion.
"You know, I offered Swann a cut. The same offer's on the table for you. Just tell me where the others are."
Reacher blinked, slowly raising his swollen eyelids.
"Where is he?"
"You mean your buddy? He's right here."
Langston smirked as he realized Reacher's reason for coming.
He strolled to a cabinet and pulled open a drawer, retrieving a glass jar filled with clear liquid. Suspended inside were an eyeball and a severed finger.
"See that? You don't need a whole person to forge identity. Just a fingerprint to pass digital verification. Just one eye to get through iris scanners and trick the system into thinking he's alive."
Reacher flinched and looked away. Langston, with a twisted grin, waved the jar in front of his face.
"He wanted to play hero. Refused to talk. But I still got the names of the other three. That's your legacy, Reacher. Dumbasses you trained to stick their noses where they don't belong. It's your fault they're dead."
Langston studied Reacher's expression, hoping for a crack in the armor—but got nothing. That blank, unyielding stare only unsettled him further.
Still, they were on the final leg now. Langston couldn't imagine what four or five stragglers could possibly do at this point—especially with their leader tied up under his boot.
He was a man who prided himself on leaving no loose ends—just like how he walked away clean from the NYPD. He had every confidence this would be no different.
But he couldn't help the rising frustration—the price he'd have to pay to vanish forever because of a few goddamn survivors. So he decided to indulge himself.
"Get rid of that," he said, handing the jar to a henchman. "The party's over. Flush it—we're not leaving evidence."
He pointed to Reacher. "Bring a stretcher. He's coming with us when we lift off."
Reacher, still expressionless, watched the man walk off—maybe carrying the last physical remains of Swann—toward the restroom. Behind his back, his fingers began inching toward the blade hidden in his boot.
Then, outside—a sudden BOOM. And music.
🎵 It ain't me, it ain't me... I ain't no senator's son... 🎵
Langston froze. He looked to his walkie.
"A runaway truck?"
Panic and confusion danced across his face before fading into a sneer. "Reacher's buddies…"
"Start the chopper. We're leaving," he barked. He stormed over to a rack of servers and yanked out hard drives—everything about the "Little Wings" project stored right here. Could be worth something on the black market.
He'd been a cop for over thirty years. He knew—no official operation would crash a truck through a gate. No SWAT team. No APC. This was a vigilante stunt.
Still smug, he thought he had time.
Then—another explosion.
The lights went out.
The emergency generator kicked in, bathing the interior in dim backup lighting. The once-bright room was now shadowy and uncertain.
Langston blinked, trying to adjust, unaware that Reacher was no longer in the chair.
Outside, the song abruptly cut. Then came the chaos—gunfire, shouting, screams. It felt surreal, like a dream turned nightmare.
Then music returned—this time classical.
Wagner.Ride of the Valkyries.
At first, the orchestral swell was distant and distorted. Then—another crash.
The roll-up door crumpled like paper as a black Pontiac Firebird barreled into the room, its tires screeching in a perfect 90-degree drift. One of the armed guards at the entrance went flying.
The car had no headlights—only a narrow, glowing red scanner on the front, sweeping side to side like a predator scanning prey.
And then it paused—pointed right at Langston.
______
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