Reacher walked out of the command building, the satellite phone balanced in one hand. He unfolded it, extended the antenna, and waited for the screen to stabilize through a series of flickers.
He dialed the number he'd memorized years ago.
One ring.
Two.
A click.
"Reacher?"
Neagley's voice—steady, controlled, like she'd been awake for days and simply decided fatigue didn't apply to her.
"It's me," he said.
A short exhale. Not relief—Neagley didn't do that. More like verification of a probability she'd already calculated.
"Took you long enough."
"Cell networks are dead. Figured you'd have the sat-phone on you."
"Turns out paranoid habits age well."
Reacher glanced over the small encampment—soldiers moving between tents, generators rumbling, civilians walking by. Sunlight crept over the wall made from shipping containers.
"Where are you?" he asked.
"Seattle. Was consulting on a private security audit when the first cases hit the news. People panicked fast. I got out before they started trampling each other." A pause. "Crowds are… worse now."
Reacher didn't need her to explain. Neagley hated crowds even when they weren't trying to bite anything that moved.
"You alone?" he asked.
"For the moment. You?"
"Not exactly. I'm at Fort Ironwood, Georgia. What's left of the military regrouped here."
"First time hearing that name. Doesn't ring as a base."
"That's because it wasn't. It was a resort before the fall."
"A resort, don't see you the type to take vacations," she said humorously. "I'm surprised that there's a military structure still standing after all the bombing."
Static crackled over the line, but her voice stayed sharp.
"You heard from the others?" Reacher asked.
A faint warmth crept into her tone. "O'Donnell made it out with his family. Last update, he was keeping clear of every populated zone."
Reacher raised an eyebrow. "Family? O'Donnell? The same O'Donnell who couldn't go two days without charming the next woman in line?"
Neagley actually laughed. "Yeah. That one. Now he's changing diapers instead of identities."
"Hell of a time to settle down," Reacher said.
"No argument here."
"What about the rest of the 110th?"
Neagley shifted—paper, maybe a map, rustling softly.
"They're all alive. Scattered, but alive."
She continued.
"Dixon was in D.C. when things went sideways. She'd been consulting on a forensic accounting case—some corporate fraud thing she wouldn't stop complaining about. When the first wave hit the city, she ditched the contract, grabbed supplies, and got out before the highways clogged. Last time we spoke, she was holed up with some civilians in an abandoned residential area"
Reacher nodded slightly. "Sounds like her."
"Franz…" Neagley's voice shifted—just slightly.
"He was with his wife and kid in Colorado when things went bad. They were on a short vacation—mountains, small town, nothing crowded. Lucky timing."
Reacher listened without interrupting.
"When the infection started spreading, he took his family up into the foothills and found an old ranger station—one of those seasonal ones that only get staffed in summer. Solar panels, water tanks, wood stove. Secure enough if you know how to fortify a door."
A quiet breath.
"He's keeping them safe. Says he's staying put until things stabilize. And he's not taking risks while protecting his family."
"Smart," Reacher murmured.
Neagley continued.
"Swan was in Los Angeles. Doing private security—real high-end stuff. When the city fell apart he went underground. Literally. Last I heard, he was moving through old transit tunnels, staying clear of crowds. He's fine, but alone."
"Lowrey is in Montana. He retired no long after the unit was disbanded. He bought a ranch wanting to live a peaceful life raising sheep's.
Last time we spoke, he was still there with his family."
Reacher could picture it perfectly.
"Sanchez was in El Paso, visiting family. Things got bad fast near the border. He broke away from the crowds, crossed the dry scrub on foot and went back for his family ."
"And Orozco?" Reacher asked.
Neagley stopped for a moment, searching for the right phrasing.
"Orozco was in New York City when everything collapsed. He was there for a conference—cybercrime stuff. He avoided the evacuation routes and went rooftop to rooftop instead of using the streets. Last time I got him on the line, he'd made it across the East River and found an empty construction site to hold up in."
Neagley hummed in agreement.
"What's it like there?" she asked. "Fort Ironwood."
"Not bad," Reacher said, scanning the area. Soldiers and civilians were already diving into their morning tasks. "Safe enough. Organized. Feels like someone's actually in control."
"Good to know something out there hasn't collapsed."
She hesitated. "And you? You holding up?"
Reacher watched two soldiers wheel a cart of medical supplies toward the hotel. "Standing upright. Eating. Haven't been bitten."
"That's my bar for minimum acceptable functioning, for now."
"That's the Reacher I know."
He allowed himself a thin smile.
"You heading anywhere?" she asked.
"Margrave. My brother was killed there. I need to find out who did it."
Silence. The heavy kind.
"Joe is dead?"
Reacher didn't answer. He didn't have to.
After a moment, Neagley spoke again, softer. "You sure about doing this now? With everything… collapsing?"
"I am. And at least I don't have to worry about red tape anymore."
She let out a short, disbelieving chuckle. "Only you would see the apocalypse as reduced paperwork."
"Well," she said after a moment, tone firming, "you can wait for me. I'm coming to you."
"Alright. Contact the others. Track their movements. If anyone needs emergency evac, call me immediately and i will see what i can do."
"Understood."
Another pause—gentler this time.
"Be careful, Neagley."
"You too. And Reacher?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't go charging into trouble alone. Not with whatever these things are."
"No promises."
She huffed—a frustrated, affectionate sound only she could make.
"Stay alive, Reacher."
"You too, Neagley."
The line clicked off.
Reacher stared at the phone a moment longer, then tucked it into his jacket.
Reacher pushed open the door to the command building and stepped inside. He made his way down the hallway and into the command room.
Major Griggs was at the comms station, one hand pressed against the headset receiver—the earcup-and-mic rig operators used for long-range communications.
"Copy that," Griggs said. "Keep me updated. Ironwood out."
He handed the headset back to the operator and rolled his shoulders, like the weight of everything was trying to settle there. Then he turned and spotted Reacher.
"I presume you finished your call?" Griggs asked.
Reacher nodded once. "Yeah."
"That friend of yours still breathing?"
"She's alive," Reacher said. "Smarter than most. She can survive on her own."
Griggs huffed—approvingly. "Wish more people had the same instinct lately."
Reacher stepped closer to the map on table. "What's the situation?"
"Stable for the moment," Griggs said, leaning back in his chair. "But there's still work to do. Your skills would be very useful to us."
Reacher raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
"We've got two individuals who instigated a riot. One of them attempted to kill a high-ranking officer. We presume they're part of the insurgent group—"
Reacher cut him off. "And you want me to interrogate the two and find out everything they know."
Major Griggs nodded, a small smile creeping onto his face.
"Exactly. It's going to be a while until they find the second individual and bring both here, so you can relax until then."
Reacher didn't respond and started to turn toward the door, but Major Griggs stopped him.
"I'm going to need you to hand over the satellite phone. If a call comes through, we'll send someone to get you."
After a moment of hesitation, Reacher took the satellite phone from his jacket pocket and handed it to Griggs. Then he left.
Stepping out of the command building, he began walking toward the hotel, planning to hit the mess hall and get something to eat. The morning air carried the faint smell of diesel, coffee, and whatever the cooks had managed to scrape together for breakfast. As he reached the entrance, he spotted Finlay and Roscoe waiting just inside the doorway. Finlay crossed his arms, looking mildly put-upon.
"She insisted we wait for you," he said, jerking his head toward Roscoe. "Now that you're here, can we please go eat before everything's gone?"
Reacher glanced at them both—Finlay trying to look annoyed, Roscoe trying not to look amused—and gave a small nod. "Let's go."
Together, they stepped inside.
They made their way down the wide corridor toward the mess hall, passing clusters of people trying to settle into whatever counted as normal now. A pair of tired-looking men leaned against an open window, sharing cigarettes while two steaming coffees sat on the sill beside them. A group of kids huddled on the floor nearby—some playing on handheld consoles, while others were watching over their shoulders. A few mothers sat on chairs close by, stalking to each other, trading worries and reassurances in equal measure.
By the time Reacher, Finlay, and Roscoe stepped into the mess hall, the rush had mostly passed. Most of the civilians were already getting up, stacking trays or heading out to their assigned areas. The three of them grabbed trays from the end of the line. The servers handed each of them a helping of salad along with two hot dishes—scrambled eggs and seasoned hash browns kept warm in steel pans. At the end of the line, the cook lifted a coffee pot.
"Coffee?" he asked.
All three answered yes, and he filled a cup for each of them, the smell strong enough to cut through the morning fatigue.
Trays in hand, they crossed the hall and found an empty table near the wall. They sat, finally able to take a moment to breathe.
As they ate, the quiet rhythm of clinking forks and low chatter around them settled into something comfortably routine. Roscoe glanced up from her tray, eyeing Reacher with that perceptive look she had.
"So," she said, spearing a piece of salad, "who exactly were you talking to earlier? We saw you on a phone. Kind of impressive, considering every cell tower in the state's gone belly-up."
Finlay nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Yeah. Unless you've got some secret hotline the rest of us don't know about, nobody's getting a signal."
Reacher didn't answer immediately. He scooped up a forkful of hash browns, chewed, swallowed, then set his fork down.
"Satellite phone," he said simply. "Called someone from my old unit. Wanted to know where the rest of them ended up."
Roscoe's expression softened, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. "So under all that stone-faced wandering-vagabond exterior… you actually care about people."
Reacher shrugged once, as if admitting anything beyond the bare minimum went against personal policy. "Of course I do."
Roscoe's smile widened. Finlay shook his head like he'd suspected as much.
And just like that, the moment passed. They went back to their breakfast, the three of them eating quietly while the mess hall hummed around them.