So Reacher wasn’t shooting. Three sentries, he might have risked it. He figured he could get off three aimed shots in maybe three seconds. Too fast for any reaction. But six was too many. They were too spaced out. Too much physical movement was required between rounds. The later targets would have time to react. Not much time. Certainly not enough to be accurate. That was the problem.
Reversing the geometry would be no help, either. He could work himself right around to the south. It would take him maybe twenty minutes to skirt around in the trees and come back at them from the opposite direction. But then what? He would be looking at his targets, uphill. The courthouse would be right behind them. He could hit each of them in the head, no problem at all. But he couldn’t ask the bullets just to stop there in midair. He couldn’t prevent those high-energy copper-jackets bursting on out of the back of those skulls and heading on their uphill trajectories straight toward the courthouse’s second-story walls. He shook his head and lowered his rifle.
MCGRATH SAW BORKEN conferring with somebody on the edge of the clearing. It was the guy who had led the ambush squad. The guy who had taken his gun and his bullets and punched him in the face. The two of them were glancing at their watches and glancing up at the sky. They were nodding. Borken slapped the guy on the shoulder and turned away. Ducked into the trees and disappeared back toward the town. The ambush leader started in toward McGrath. He was smiling. He was unslinging his rifle.
“Showtime,” he called.
He stepped near and reversed the rifle in his hands as he did so. Smashed the butt into McGrath’s stomach. McGrath went down on the shale. One guard jammed the muzzle of his rifle into McGrath’s throat. The other jammed his into McGrath’s stomach, right where the blow had landed.
“Lie still, asshole,” the unit leader said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
McGrath could not move his head because of the rifle in his throat, but he followed the guy with his eyes. He was going into the next-to-last hut in line. Not the armory, which stood on its own. Some kind of an equipment store. He came out with a mallet and ropes and four metal objects. Dull-green, Army issue. As he got nearer, McGrath recognized what they were. They were tent pegs. Maybe eighteen inches long, designed for some kind of big mess tent.
The guy dropped his load on the shale. The metal pegs clinked on the stones. The guy nodded to the soldier with the gun in McGrath’s belly, who straightened up and stepped away. The unit leader took his place. Used his own weapon to keep McGrath pinned down.
The soldier got busy. He seemed to know what he was supposed to do. He used the mallet to drive the first peg into the ground. The ground was stony and the guy had to work hard. He was swinging the mallet in a big arc and using a lot of force. He drove the peg down until it was two-thirds buried. Then he paced off maybe eight feet and started driving the second. McGrath followed him with his eyes. When the second peg was in, the guy paced another eight feet at a right angle and hammered the third peg in. The fourth peg completed an exact square, eight feet on a side. McGrath had a pretty good idea what that square was for.
“We normally do this in the woods,” the unit leader said. “We normally do it vertically, with trees.”
Then the guy pointed upward at the sky.
“But we need to let them see,” he said. “They can’t see properly in the woods. This time of year, too many leaves in the way, right?”
The guard who had driven the tent pegs into the ground was panting from the exertion. He changed places with his leader again. Jammed his rifle into McGrath’s gut and leaned on it, recovering. McGrath gasped and squirmed under the pressure. The leader squatted down and sorted through the ropes. Untangled one and caught McGrath by the ankle. Looped the rope around and tied it off, hard. Used the rope to drag McGrath by the leg into the approximate center of the square. Then he tied the loose end to the fourth peg. Tied it tight and tested it.
The second length of rope went around McGrath’s other ankle. It was tied off to the third peg. McGrath’s legs were forced apart at a right angle. His hands were still cuffed behind his back, crushed against the rocky ground. The leader used the sole of his boot to roll McGrath’s upper body sideways. Ducked down and unlocked the cuff. Caught a wrist and looped a rope around. Tied it tight and hauled the wrist up to the second peg. He pulled on it until McGrath’s arm was stretched tight, in a perfect straight line with the opposite leg. Then he tied it tight to the peg and reached down for the other wrist. The soldiers jammed their muzzles in tighter. McGrath stared up at the vapor trails and gasped in pain as his arm was stretched tight and he was tied into a perfect cross.
The two soldiers jerked their rifles away and stepped back. They stood with their leader. Gazing down. McGrath lifted his head and looked wildly around. Pulled on the ropes, and then realized he was only pulling the knots tighter. The three men stepped farther back and glanced up at the sky. McGrath realized they were making sure the cameras got an uninterrupted view.
THE CAMERAS WERE getting an uninterrupted view. Seven miles in the sky, the pilots were flying circles, one on a tight radius of a few miles, the other outside him on a wider path. Their cameras were trained downward, under the relentless control of their computers. The inside plane was focusing tight on the clearing where McGrath was spread-eagled. The outer camera was zoomed wider, taking in the whole of the area from the courthouse in the south to the abandoned mines in the north. Their real-time video signals were bouncing down more or less vertically to the dish vehicle parked behind the mobile command post. The dish was focusing the datastream and feeding it through the thick armored cable into the observation truck. Then the decoding computers were feeding the large color monitors. Their phosphor screens were displaying the appalling truth. General Johnson and his aide and Webster were motionless in front of them. Motionless, silent, staring. Video recorders were whirring away, dispassionately recording every second’s activity taking place six miles to the north. The whole vehicle was humming with faint electronic energy. But it was as silent as a tomb.
“Can you zoom in?” Webster asked quietly. “On McGrath?”
The General’s aide twisted a black rubber knob. Stared at the screen. He zoomed in until the individual pixels in the picture began to clump together and distort. Then he backed off a fraction.
“Close as we can get,” he said.
It was close enough. McGrath’s spread-eagled figure just about filled the screens. The unit leader could be seen from directly above, stepping over the lengths of rope as he circled. He had a knife in his hand. A black handle, a shiny blade, maybe ten inches long. It looked like a big kitchen knife. The sort of thing a gourmet cook might buy. Useful for slicing a tough cut of steak into strips. The sort of tool that would get set out on the kitchen counter by someone making a stew or a stroganoff.
They saw the guy lay the knife flat on McGrath’s chest. Then he used both hands to fold back the flaps on McGrath’s jacket. He loosened McGrath’s tie and pulled it sideways, almost up under his ear. Then he grasped the shirt and tore it open. The cotton pulled apart under the knife, leaving the knife where it was, now next to the skin. The guy pulled the tails out of the waistband and tucked the shirt right back to the sides. Carefully, well out of the way, like he was a surgeon faced with a difficult emergency procedure.
They saw the guy pick up the knife again. He was squatted down to McGrath’s right, leaning over slightly, holding the knife. He was holding it point down, close to McGrath’s belly. The electronic pink of McGrath’s skin was reflected in the faces of the watchers inside the observation vehicle.
They saw the guy raise the knife an inch. They saw his index finger slide along the back of the blade, like he was adjusting his grip for extra precision. They saw the blade move down. The pale sun glinted on the steel. Then their view was disrupted. A silent puff of pink mist obscured the picture. When it cleared, the knife was still in the guy’s hand. But the guy had no head. His whole head was a shattered pink wound, and he was
toppling slowly sideways.
42
THE LEFT-HAND GUARD went down easily enough, too. Reacher put a bullet through the side of his head, just above the ear, and he fell heavily, right on top of the spread-eagled Bureau guy. But the right-hand guard reacted. He spun away and hurdled the taut ropes, racing for the trees. Reacher paused a beat and dropped him ten feet away. The guy sprawled and slid noisily through the shale and put up a slick of dust. Twitched once and died.
Then Reacher waited. The last staccato echo of the three shots came back off the farthest mountains and faded into quiet. Reacher watched the trees, all around the Bastion. Watched for movement. The sunlight was bright. Too bright to be sure. There was a lot of contrast between the brightness of the clearing and the dark of the forest. So he waited.
Then he came out from behind the radio hut at a desperate run. He sprinted straight across the clearing to the mess in the middle. Hauled the bodies out of the way. The guard was sprawled right on top of the Bureau guy. The unit leader was across his legs. He dumped them out of the way and found the knife. Sawed through the four coarse ropes. Dragged the Bureau guy upright and pushed him off back the way he’d come. Then he grabbed the two nearest rifles and sprinted after him. Caught him up halfway. The guy was just tottering along. So Reacher caught him under the arms and bundled him to safety. Threw him well into the trees behind the huts and stood bent over, panting. Then he took the magazines off the new rifles and put one in his pocket and one on his own gun. They were both the elongated thirty-shot versions. He’d been down to six rounds. Now he had sixty. A tenfold increase. And he had another pair of hands.
“Are you Brogan?” he asked. “Or McGrath?”
The guy answered stiffly and neutrally. There was fear and panic and confusion in his face.
“McGrath,” he said. “FBI.”
Reacher nodded. The guy was shaken up, but he was an ally. He took Fowler’s Glock out of his pocket and held it out to him, butt first. McGrath was panting quietly and glancing wildly toward the deep cover of the trees. There was aggression in his stance. His hands were balled into fists.
“What?” Reacher asked him, concerned.
McGrath darted forward and snatched the Glock and stepped back. Raised it and went into a shooting stance and pointed it two-handed. At Reacher’s head. The cut ends of the ropes trailed down from his wrists. Reacher just stared blankly at him.
“Hell are you doing?” he asked.
“You’re one of them,” McGrath said back. “Drop the rifle, OK?”
“What?” Reacher said again.
“Just do it, OK?” McGrath said.
Reacher stared at him, incredulous. Pointed through the trees at the sprawled bodies in the Bastion.
“What about that?” he asked. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
The Glock did not waver. It was rock-steady, pointed straight at his head, at the apex of a perfect braced position. McGrath looked like a picture in a training manual, except for the ropes hanging like streamers from his wrists and ankles.
“Doesn’t that count for something?” Reacher asked again, pointing.
“Not necessarily,” McGrath growled back. “You killed Peter Bell, too. We know that. Just because you don’t allow your troops to rape and torture your hostages doesn’t necessarily put you on the side of the angels.”
Reacher looked at him for a long moment, astonished. Thought hard. Then he nodded cautiously and dropped the rifle exactly halfway between the two of them. Drop it right at his own feet, McGrath would just tell him to kick it over toward him. Drop it too near McGrath’s feet, and it wouldn’t work. This guy was an experienced agent. From the look of his shooting stance, Reacher was expecting at least a basic level of competence from him.
McGrath glanced down. Hesitated. He clearly didn’t want Reacher near him. He didn’t want him stepping nearer to nudge the rifle on toward him. So he slid his own foot forward to drag the weapon back close. He was maybe ten inches shorter than Reacher, all told. Aiming the Glock at Reacher’s head from six feet away, he was aiming it upward at a fairly steep angle. As he slid his foot forward, he decreased his effective height by maybe an inch, which automatically increased the upward slope of his arms by a proportionate degree. And as he slid his foot forward, it brought him slightly closer to Reacher, which increased the upward angle yet more. By the time his toe was scrabbling for the weapon, his upper arms were near his face, interfering with his vision. Reacher waited for him to glance down again.
He glanced down. Reacher let his knees go and fell vertically. Lashed back upward with his forearm and batted the Glock away. Swiped a wide arc with his other arm behind McGrath’s knees and dumped him flat on his back in the dirt. Closed his hand over McGrath’s wrist and squeezed gently until the Glock shook free. He picked it up by the barrel and held it the wrong way around.
“Look at this,” he said.
He shook his cuff back and exposed the crusted weal on his left wrist.
“I’m not one of them,” he said. “They had me handcuffed most of the time.”
Then he held the Glock out, butt first, offering it again. McGrath stared at it, and then stared back into the clearing. He ducked his head left and right to take in the bodies. Glanced back at Reacher, still confused.
“We had you down as a bad guy,” he said.
Reacher nodded.
“Evidently,” he said. “But why?”
“Video in the dry cleaner’s,” McGrath said. “Looked just like you were snatching her up.”
Reacher shook his head.
“Innocent passerby,” he said.
McGrath kept on looking hard at him. Quizzically, thinking. Reacher saw him arrive at a decision. He nodded in turn and accepted the Glock and laid it on the forest floor, exactly between them, like its positioning was a symbol, a treaty. He started fumbling at his shirt buttons. Cut ends of rope flailed at his wrists and ankles.
“OK, can we start over?” he said, embarrassed.
Reacher nodded and stuck out his hand.
“Sure,” he said. “I’m Reacher, you’re McGrath. Holly’s Agent-in-Charge. Pleased to meet you.”
McGrath smiled ruefully and shook hands limply. Then he started fumbling at the knots on his wrist, one-handed.
“You know a guy called Garber?” McGrath asked.
Reacher nodded.
“Used to work for him,” he said.
“Garber told us you were clean,” McGrath said. “We didn’t believe him.”
“Naturally,” Reacher said. “Garber always tells the truth. So nobody ever believes him.”
“So I apologize,” McGrath said. “I’m sorry, OK? But just try and see it my way. You’ve been public enemy number one for five days.”
Reacher waved the apology away and stood up and helped McGrath to his feet. Bent back down to the dirt and picked up the Glock and handed it to him.
“Your nose OK?” he asked.
McGrath slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. Touched his nose gently and grimaced.
“Bastard hit me,” he said. “I think it’s broken. Just turned and hit me, like they couldn’t wait.”
There was a noise in the woods, off to the left. Reacher caught McGrath’s arm and pulled him deeper into the forest. Pushed through the brush and got facing east. He stood silently and listened for movement. McGrath was taking the ropes off his ankles and winding himself up to ask a question.
“So is Holly OK?” he said.
Reacher nodded. But grimly.
“So far,” he said. “But it’s going to be a hell of a problem getting her out.”
“I know about the dynamite,” McGrath said. “That was the last thing Jackson called in. Monday night.”
“It’s a problem,” Reacher said again. “One stray round, and she’s had it. And there are a hundred trigger-happy people up here. Whatever we do, we need to do it carefully. Have you got reinforcements coming in? Hostage Rescue?”
McGrath shook his
head.
“Not yet,” he said. “Politics.”
“Maybe that’s good,” Reacher said. “They’re talking about mass suicide if they look like getting beat. Live free or die, you know?”
“Whichever,” McGrath said. “Their choice. I don’t care what happens to them. I just care about Holly.”
They fell silent and crept together through the trees. Stopped deep in the woods, about level with the back of the mess hall. Now Reacher was winding himself up to ask a question. But he waited, frozen, a finger to his lips. There was noise to his left. A patrol, sweeping the fringe of the forest. McGrath made to move, but Reacher caught his arm and stopped him. Better to stand stock-still than to risk making noise of their own. The patrol came nearer. Reacher raised his rifle and switched it to rapid fire. Smothered the sound of the click with his palm. McGrath held his breath. The patrol was visible, ten feet away through the trees. Six men, six rifles. They were glancing rhythmically as they walked, left and right, left and right, between the edge of the sunny clearing and the dark green depths of the woods. Reacher breathed out, silently. Amateurs, with poor training and bad tactics. The bright sun in their eyes on every second glance was ruining their chances of seeing into the gloom of the forest. They were blind. They passed by without stopping. Reacher followed the sound of their progress and turned back to McGrath.
“Where are Brogan and Milosevic?” he whispered.
McGrath nodded, morosely.
“I know,” he said, quietly. “One of them is bent. I finally figured that out about half a second before they grabbed me up.”
“Where are they?” Reacher asked again.
“Up here somewhere,” McGrath said. “We came in through the ravine together, a mile apart.”
“Which one is it?” Reacher asked.
McGrath shrugged.
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