Reckoning Road: A Get Jack Reacher Short Story by Scott Blade

accent or something else from where the two converged.
    I said, “I didn’t see him. The back door was open. Maybe he went out there to piss.”
    Carter looked over his shoulder and said, “Go check.”
    I smiled. Another tactic of combat that always worked was divide and conquer. I loved the classics.
    The big guy said nothing. He walked back past the counter and into the kitchen.
    Kara backed up against the wall as he passed. I figured she realized something was going on. She just didn’t know what exactly.
    I guessed it would be only twenty seconds before the big guy either called out or came running back out of the kitchen. At which point, Carter would draw his weapon. I didn’t know what kind of gun he had. If I had to guess, I would say it was some kind of gold-plated nonsense. My first impression of him was that he was style over substance—no question.
    “Who exactly are you, my friend?”
    Five seconds had passed.
    “Me? I’m nobody.”
    Six seconds.
    “Mr. Nobody, you got some bad luck.”
    Eight seconds.
    “How’s that?”
    Ten.
    “Cause you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
    Eleven.
    Carter went for his gun. My mother had been a sheriff and an ex-Marine cop. She’d taught me a lot about combat and military verve. She used to say that self-defense was letting the other guy throw the first punch. But these weren’t fists. These were firearms. When it came to guns, if you let the other guy strike first, then you ran a very high risk of letting his first strike be your last.
    The cemeteries were chock-full of guys who played by the rules.
    Thirteen.
    I’d planned on pulling the Glock before Carter went for his gun, but he was faster than I thought.
    Fifteen.
    Chapter 15
    CARTER WAS FAST, but he made the same quick motion that every gunslinger throughout history has ever made. He grabbed his gun from his jacket and pulled it out into view—big and obvious. He was all about the show. At least that was his intention as it had been of all of those old, dead gunslingers from Texas all the way to California.
    I didn’t go the traditional route. I already had my gun on my lap. I ducked my hand under the tabletop, put it on the gun, and squeezed the trigger. No finesse. No quick draw moves like in the movies. I was all about results, and the first result was not getting shot myself.
    The gun fired under the table. The gunshot was deafening in the cramped space. It echoed loudly through the diner, the kitchen, and probably the parking lot.
    I had to give Carter credit. He had gotten his gun completely out and in his hand and pointed almost in my direction. He was fast, but not fast enough. Preparation counted far more than finesse—I had been prepared every time.
    The bullet must’ve slammed into his kneecap because his top half jolted forward like a catapult had launched him out of his seat. His gun was a shiny Colt Night Defender. The name was etched across the chrome barrel in huge letters. The whole thing was an insult to guns, at least it was to me. His gun was just like him, style over substance.
    Carter screamed and wailed. I knocked the gun away from him. It slid across the table and fell down under the seat, out of view.
    The big guy’s twenty seconds were up. Either he had seen the US Marshal tied up in the back or he’d heard the gunshot and assumed it was his boss taking me out because he came running from the kitchen. The door blasted open, and a priceless look oozed down his face.
    I said, “Welcome back.”
    I pointed the gun at him and said, “Come back in. Sit.”
    The big guy looked at his boss and then at me. For the first time, he expressed an emotion—anger.
    He didn’t move.
    Kara was inching away, past Carter.
    Without turning my head toward her, I said, “Kara, go to the front window. See if there’s anyone else out there.”
    She said, “What?”
    “Go check it out. It’s okay. See if they got any friends out there.”
    “Friends? What’s going on?”
    “Go