The woman nodded again, slowly.

“Why am I new in the job?” she asked.

“Your age,” Reacher said. “What are you? Twenty-six?”

“Twenty-seven,” she said.

“That’s young for a detective,” he said. “College, a few years in uniform? Young for the FBI, DEA, CIA, too. So whatever you are, you’re new at it.”

She shrugged.

“OK,” she said. “Why am I fairly dedicated?”

Reacher pointed, left-handed, rattling their shared handcuff.

“Your injury,” he said. “You’re back to work after some kind of an accident, before you’re really recovered. You’re still using that crutch for your bad leg. Most people in your position would be staying home and drawing sick pay.”

She smiled.

“I could be handicapped,” she said. “Could have been born this way.”

Reacher shook his head in the gloom.

“That’s a hospital crutch,” he said. “They loaned it to you, short-term, until you’re over your injury. If it was a permanent thing, you’d have bought your own crutch. Probably you’d have bought a dozen. Sprayed them all different to match all your expensive outfits.”

She laughed. It was a pleasant sound above the drone and boom of the truck’s engine and the roar of the road.

“Pretty good, Jack Reacher,” she said. “I’m an FBI Special Agent. Since last fall. I just ripped up my cruciate ligaments playing soccer.”

“You play soccer?” Reacher said. “Good for you, Holly Johnson. What kind of an FBI agent since last fall?”

She was quiet for a beat.

“Just an agent,” she said. “One of many at the Chicago office.”

Reacher shook his head.

“Not just an agent,” he said. “An agent who’s doing something to somebody who maybe wants to retaliate. So who are you doing something to?”