The Enemy by Lee Child Page A

Armored's crossed cavalry sabres with a charging tank over them, I had the Military Police's crossed flintlock pistols, gold and shiny. Not the most popular sight, in a place like that.
    "Cover charge," the guy at the register said.
    It was hard to hear him. The music was very loud.
    "How much?" I said.
    "Hundred dollars," he said.
    "I don't think so."
    "OK, two hundred dollars."
    "Hilarious," I said.
    "I don't like cops in here."
    "Can't think why," I said. "Look at me."
    I looked at him. There was nothing much to see. The edge of a downlighter beam lit up a big stomach and a big chest and thick, short, tattooed forearms. And hands the size and shape of frozen chickens with heavy silver rings on most of the fingers. But the guy's shoulders and his face were in deep shadow above them. Like he was half hidden by a curtain. I was talking to a guy I couldn't see.
    "You're not welcome here," he said.
    "I'll get over it. I'm not an unduly sensitive person."
    "You're not listening," he said. "This is my place and I don't want you in it."
    "I'll be quick."
    "Leave NOW."
    "No."
    "Look at me."
    He leaned forward into the light. Slowly. The downlighter beam rode up his chest. Up his neck. Onto his face. It was an incredible face. It had started out ugly and it had gotten much worse. He had straight razor scars all over it. They crisscrossed it like a lattice. They were deep and white and old. His nose had been busted and badly reset and busted again and badly reset again, many times over. He had brows thick with scar tissue. Two small eyes were staring out at me from under them. He was maybe forty. Maybe five-ten, maybe three hundred pounds. He looked like a gladiator who had survived twenty years, deep inside the catacombs.
    I smiled. "This thing with the face is supposed to impress me? With the dramatic lighting and all?"
    "It should tell you something."
    "It tells me you lost a lot of fights. You want to lose another, that's fine with me."
    He said nothing.
    "Or I could put this place off-limits to every enlisted man at Bird. I could see what that does to your bar profits."
    He said nothing.
    "But I don't want to do that," I said. "No reason to penalize my guys, just because you're an asshole."
    He said nothing.
    "So I guess I'll ignore you."
    He sat back. The shadow slid back into place, like a curtain. "I'll see you later," he said, from out of the darkness. "Somewhere, sometime. That's for sure. That's a promise. You can count on that."
    "Now I'm scared," I said. I moved on and pressed into the crowd. I made it through a packed bottleneck and into the main part of the building. It was much bigger inside than it had looked. It was a large low square, full of noise and people. There were dozens of separate areas. Speakers everywhere. Loud music. Flashing lights. There were plenty of civilians in there.
    Plenty of military, too. I could spot them by their haircuts, and their clothes. Off-duty soldiers always dress distinctively. They try to look like everybody else, and they fail. They're always a little clean and out of date. They were all looking at me as I passed them by. They weren't pleased to see me. I looked for a sergeant. Looked for a few lines around the eyes. I saw four likely candidates, six feet back from the edge of the main stage. Three of them saw me and turned away. The fourth saw me and paused for a second and then turned towards me. Like he knew he had been selected. He was a compact guy maybe five years older than me. Special Forces, probably. There were plenty of them at Bird, and he had the look. He was having a good time. That was clear. He had a smile on his face and a bottle in his hand. Cold beer, dewy with moisture. He raised it, like a toast, like an invitation to approach. So I went up close to him and spoke in his ear. "Spread the word for me," I said. "This is nothing official.
    Nothing to do with our guys. Something else entirely."
    "Like what?" he said.
    "Lost property," I said. "Nothing important.