They snapped to attention at the sound of footsteps approaching behind them. The sounds were grotesquely loud in the still night. Boots smashed into shale and gun stocks slapped into palms. Reacher glanced into the clearing and saw a seventh man approaching. Younger, maybe thirty-five. A tall man, clean-shaven, no camouflage on his face, crisp fatigues, shiny boots. Same semicircular flashes at the shoulder. Some kind of an officer.
The six forty-year-old grunts stood back and saluted and the new guy crunched up face-to-face with Reacher. He took a cigarette pack from his pocket and a cigarette from the pack. Lit it and kept the lighter burning to illuminate Reacher’s face. Stared over the wavering flame with an expressionless gaze. Reacher stared back at him. The guy had a small head on wide shoulders, a thin hard face starved into premature lines and crevices. In the harsh shadow of the flame, it looked like he had no lips. Just a slit, where his mouth should be. Cold eyes, burning under the thin skin stretched over his brow. A military buzz cut, maybe a week old, just growing out. He stared at Reacher and let the flame die. Ran a hand across his scalp. Reacher heard the loud rasp of the stubble passing under his palm in the still night air.
“I’m Dell Fowler,” the guy said. “I’m chief of staff here.”
A quiet voice. West Coast. Reacher looked back at him and nodded, slowly.
“You want to tell me what staff you’re chief of?” he said.
“Loder didn’t explain?” the guy called Fowler asked.
“Loder didn’t explain anything,” Reacher said. “He had his hands full just getting us here.”
Fowler nodded and smiled a chilly smile.
“Loder’s an idiot,” he said. “He made five major mistakes. You’re one of them. He’s in all kinds of deep shit now. And so are you.”
He gestured to one of the guards. The guard stepped forward and handed him a key from his pocket. The guard stood with his weapon ready and Fowler unlocked Reacher’s chain. It clattered down the tree trunk to the ground. Metal on wood, a loud sound in the forest night. A dog padded near and sniffed. People moved in the trees. Reacher pushed away from the trunk and squeezed some circulation back into his forearm. All six guards took a pace forward. Weapons slapped back to the ready position. Reacher watched the muzzles and Fowler caught his arm and turned him. Cuffed his hands together again, behind his back. Nodded. Two guards melted away into the trees. A third jabbed the muzzle of his gun into Reacher’s back. A fourth took up position to the rear. Two walked point out in front. Fowler fell in beside Reacher and caught his elbow. Walked him across toward a small wooden hut on the opposite edge of the clearing. Clear of the trees, the moonlight was brighter. Reacher could make out the writing on Fowler’s shoulder flash. It read: Montana Militia.
“This is Montana?” he said. “Loder called it a brand-new country.”
Fowler shrugged as he walked.
“He was premature,” he said. “Right now, this is still Montana.”
They reached the hut. The point men opened the door. Yellow light spilled out into the darkness. The guard with the weapon in Reacher’s back used it to push him inside. Loder was standing against the far wall. His hands were cuffed behind him. He was guarded by another lean, bearded man with a machine gun. This guy was a little younger than the other grunts, neater beard. A livid scar running laterally across his forehead.
Fowler walked around and sat behind a plain desk. Pointed to a chair. Reacher sat down, handcuffed, six soldiers behind him. Fowler watched him sit and then transferred his attention across to Loder. Reacher followed his gaze. First time he’d seen Loder on Monday, he’d seen a degree of calm competence, hard eyes, composure. That was all gone. The guy was shaking with fear. His cuffs were rattling behind him. Reacher watched him and thought: this guy is terrified of his leaders.
“So, five mistakes,” Fowler said.
His voice was still quiet. And it was confident. Relaxed. The quiet confident voice of a person very secure about his power. Reacher heard the voice die into silence and listened to the creak of boots on wood behind him.
“I did my best,” Loder said. “She’s here, right?”
His voice was supplicant and miserable. The voice of a man who knows he’s in deep shit without really understanding exactly why.
“She’s here, right?” he said again.
“By a miracle,” Fowler replied. “You caused a lot of stress elsewhere. People had their work cut out covering for your incompetence.”
“What did I do wrong?” Loder asked.
He pushed forward off the wall, hands cuffed behind him, and moved into Reacher’s view. Glanced desperately at him, like he was asking for a testimonial.
“Five mistakes,” Fowler said again. “One, you burned the pickup, and two, you burned the car. Way too visible. Why didn’t you just put an ad in the damn paper?”
Loder made no reply. His mouth was working, but no sound was coming out.
“Three, you snarled this guy up,” Fowler said.
Loder glanced at Reacher again and shook his head vigorously.
“This guy’s a nobody,” he said. “No heat coming after him.”
“You should still have waited,” Fowler said. “And four, you lost Peter. What exactly happened to him?”
Loder shrugged again.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“He got scared,” Fowler said. “You were making so many mistakes, he got scared and he ran. That’s what happened. You got any other explanation?”
Loder was just staring blankly.
“And five, you killed the damn dentist,” Fowler said. “They’re not going to overlook that, are they? This was supposed to be a military operation, right? Political? You added an extra factor there.”
“What dentist?” Reacher asked.
Fowler glanced at him and smiled a lipless smile, indulgent, like Reacher was an audience he could use to humiliate Loder a little more.
“They stole the car from a dentist,” he said. “The guy caught them at it. They should have waited until he was clear.”
“He got in the way,” Loder said. “We couldn’t bring him with us, could we?”
“You brought me,” Reacher said to him.
Loder stared at him like he was a moron.
“The guy was a Jew,” he said. “This place isn’t for Jews.”
Reacher glanced around the room. Looked at the shoulder flashes. Montana Militia, Montana Militia, Montana Militia. He nodded slowly. A brand-new country.
“Where have you taken Holly?” he asked Fowler.
Fowler ignored him. He was still dealing with Loder.
“You’ll stand trial tomorrow,” he told him. “Special tribunal. The commander presiding. The charge is endangering the mission. I’m prosecuting.”
“Where’s Holly?” Reacher asked him again.
Fowler shrugged. A cool gaze.
“Close by,” he said. “Don’t you worry about her.”
Then he glanced up over Reacher’s head and spoke to the guards.
“Put Loder on the floor,” he said.
Loder offered no resistance at all. Just let the younger guy with the scar hold hire upright. The nearest guard reversed his rifle and smashed the butt into Loder’s stomach. Reacher heard the air punch out of him. The younger guy dropped him and stepped neatly over him. Walked out of the hut, alone, duty done. The door slammed noisily behind him. Then Fowler turned back to Reacher.
“Now let’s talk about you,” he said.
His voice was still quiet. Quiet, and confident. Secure. But it was not difficult to be secure holed up in the middle of nowhere with six armed subordinates surrounding a handcuffed man on a chair. A handcuffed man who has just witnessed a naked display of power and brutality. Reacher shrugged at him.
“What about me?” he said. “You know my name. I told Loder. No doubt he told you. He probably got that right. There isn’t much more to say on the subject.”
There was silence. Fowler thought about it. Nodded.
“This is a decision for the commander,” he said.
IT WAS THE shower which convinced her. She based her conclusions on it. Some good news, some bad. A brand-new bathroom, cheaply but carefully fitted out in the way a pathetic house-proud woman down on her luck in a trailer park would choose. That bathroom communicated a lot to Holly.
It meant she was a hostage, to be held long-term, but to be held with a certain measure of respect. Because of her value in some kind of a trade. There were to be no doubts about her day-to-day comfort or safety. Those factors were to be removed from the negotiation. Those factors were to be taken for granted. She was to be a high-status prisoner. Because of her value. Because of who she was.
But not because of who she was. Because of who her father was. Because of the connections she had. She was supposed to sit in this crushing, fear-filled room and be somebody’s daughter. Sit and wait while people weighed her value, one way and the other. While people reacted to her plight, feeling a little reassured by the fact that she had a shower all to herself.
She eased herself off the bed. To hell with that, she thought. She was not going to sit there and be negotiated over. The anger rose up inside her. It rose up and she turned it into a steely determination. She limped to the door and tried the handle for the twentieth time. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs. They clattered down the corridor. Stopped at her door. A key turned the lock. The handle moved against her grip. She stepped back and the door opened.
Reacher was pushed up into the room. A blur of camouflaged figures behind him. They shoved him up through the door and slammed it shut. She heard it locking and the footsteps tramping away. Reacher was left standing there, gazing around.
“Looks like we have to share,” he said.
She looked at him.
“They were only expecting one guest,” he added.
She made no reply to that. She just watched his eyes examining the room. They flicked around the walls, the floor, the ceiling. He twisted and glanced into the bathroom. Nodded to himself. Turned back to face her, waiting for her comment. She was pausing, thinking hard about what to say and how to say it.
“It’s only a single bed,” she said at last.
She tried to make the words count for more. She tried to make them like a long speech. Like a closely reasoned argument. She tried to make them say: OK, in the truck, we were close. OK, we kissed. Twice. The first time, it just happened. The second time, I asked you to, because I was looking for comfort and reassurance. But now we’ve been apart for an hour or two. Long enough for me to get to feeling a little silly about what we did. She tried to make those five words say all that, while she watched his eyes for his reaction.
“There’s somebody else, right?” he said.
She saw that he said it as a joke, as a throwaway line to show her he agreed with her, that he understood, as a way to let them both off the hook without getting all heavy about it. But she didn’t smile at him. Instead, she found herself nodding.
“Yes, there is somebody,” she said. “What can I say? If there wasn’t, maybe I would want to share.”
She thought: He looks disappointed.
“In fact, I probably would want to,” she added. “But there is somebody, and I’m sorry. It wouldn’t be a good idea.”
It showed in his face, and she felt she had to say more.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to.”
She watched him. He just shrugged at her. She saw he was thinking: it’s not the end of the world. And then he was thinking: it just feels like it. She blushed. She was absurdly gratified. But ready to change the subject.
“What’s going on here?” she asked. “They tell you anything?”
“Who’s the lucky guy?” Reacher asked.
“Just somebody,” she said. “What’s going on here?”
His eyes were clouded. He looked straight at her.
“Lucky somebody,” he said.
“He doesn’t even know,” she said.
“That you’re gone?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“That I feel this way,” she said.
He stared at her. Didn’t reply. There was a long silence in the room. Then she heard footsteps again. Hurrying, outside the building. Clattering inside. Coming up the stairs. They stopped outside the door. The key slid in. The door opened. Six guards clattered inside. Six machine guns. She took a painful step backward. They ignored her completely.
“The commander is ready for you, Reacher,” the point man said.
He signaled him to turn around. He clicked handcuffs on, behind his back. Tightened them hard. Pushed him to the door with the barrel of his gun and out into the corridor. The door slammed and locked behind the gaggle of men.
FOWLER PULLED THE headphones off and stopped the tape recorder.
“Anything?” the commander asked him.
“No,” Fowler said. “She said it’s only a single bed, and he sounded pissed, like he wants to get in her pants. So she said she’s got another boyfriend.”
“I didn’t know that,” the commander said. “Did she say who?”
Fowler shook his head.
“But it works OK?” the commander asked him.
“Clear as a bell,” Fowler said.
REACHER WAS PUSHED down the stairs and back out into the night. Back the way he had come, a mile up a stony path. The point man gripped his elbow and hustled him along. They were hurrying. Almost running. They were using their gun muzzles like cattle prods. They covered the distance in fifteen minutes. They crunched across the clearing to the small wooden hut. Reacher was pushed roughly inside.
Loder was still on the floor. But there was somebody new sitting at the plain wooden desk. The commander. Reacher was clear on that. He was an extraordinary figure. Maybe six feet tall, probably four hundred pounds. Maybe thirty-five years old, thick hair, so blond it was nearly white, cut short at the sides and brushed long across the top like a German schoolboy’s. A smooth pink face, bloated tight by his bulk, bright red nickel-sized spots burning high up on the cheeks. Tiny colorless eyes forced into slits between the cheeks and the white eyebrows. Wet red lips pursed above a chin strong enough to hold its shape in the blubber.
He was wearing an enormous black uniform. An immaculate black shirt, military cut, no insignia except a pair of the same shoulder flashes everybody else was wearing. A wide leather belt, gleaming like a mirror. Crisp black riding pants, flared wide at the top, tucked into high black boots which matched the belt for shine.
“Come in and sit down,” he said, quietly.
Reacher was pushed over to the chair he had occupied before. He sat, with his hands crushed behind him. The guards stood to rigid attention all around him, not daring to breathe, just staring blankly into space.
“I’m Beau Borken,” the big man said. “I’m the commander here.”
His voice was high. Reacher stared at the guy and felt some kind of an aura radiating out of him, like a glow. The glow of total authority.
“I have to make a decision,” Borken said. “I need you to help me with it.”
Reacher realized he was looking away from the guy. Like the glow was overpowering him. He forced himself to turn his head slowly and stare directly into the big white face.
“What decision?” he asked.
“Whether you should live,” Borken said. “Or whether you should die.”
HOLLY PULLED THE side panel off the bath. She had known plumbers leave trash under the tub, out of sight behind the panel. Offcuts of pipe, scraps of wood, even tools. Used blades, lost wrenches. Stuff that could prove useful. Some apartments she’d had, she’d found all kinds of things. But there was nothing. She lay down and felt right into the back recesses and came up with nothing at all.
And the floor was solid all the way under the fixtures. The plumbing ran down through tight holes. It was an expert job. It was possible she could force a lever down alongside the big pipe ru
nning down out of the john. If she had a pry bar she might get a board loose. But there was no pry bar in the room. Nor any substitute. The towel bar was plastic. It would bend and break. There was nothing else. She sat on the floor and felt the disappointment wash over her. Then she heard more footsteps outside her door.
This time, they were quiet. They were muffled, not clattering. Somebody approaching quietly and cautiously. Somebody with no official business. She stood up slowly. Stepped out of the bathroom and pulled the door to hide the dismantled tub. Limped back toward the bed as the lock clicked and the door opened.
A man came into the room. He was a youngish man, dressed in camouflage fatigues, black smears on his face. A vivid red scar running laterally across his forehead. A machine gun slung at his shoulder. He turned and closed the door, quietly. Turned back with his fingers to his lips.
She stared at him. Felt her anger rising. This time, she wasn’t chained up. This time, the guy was going to die. She smiled a crazy smile at the logic of it. The bathroom was going to save her. She was a high-status prisoner. Supposed to be held with dignity and respect. Somebody came in to abuse her, and she killed him, they couldn’t argue with that, could they?
But the guy with the scar just held his fingers to his lips and nodded toward the bathroom. He crept quietly over and pushed the door. Gestured for her to follow. She limped after him. He glanced down at the side panel on the floor and shook his head. Reached in and started the shower. Set it running hard against the empty tub.
“They’ve got microphones,” the guy said. “They’re listening for me.”
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
He squatted down and put the panel back on the bath.
“No good,” he said. “There’s no way out.”
“Got to be,” she said.
The guy shook his head.
“They had a trial run,” he said. “The commander put one of the guys who built this place in here. Told him if he didn’t get out, he’d cut his arms off. So I assume he tried real hard.”
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