by Lee Child
“You’re a dead man,” Reacher yelled.
The driver turned around and faced him. Smiled a wide smile.
“You keep your mouth tight shut,” he said. “One more squeak out of you, it’ll be harder on the bitch, OK?”
The ends of his belt were hanging down. He balled his fists and propped them on his hips. His big vivid face was glowing. His hair was bushed up like he’d just washed it and combed it back. He turned his head and spoke to Holly over his shoulder.
“You wearing anything under that suit?” he asked her.
Holly didn’t speak. Silence in the barn. The guy turned to face her. Reacher saw her tracking his movements.
“I asked you a question, bitch,” he said. “You want another kick?”
She didn’t reply. She was breathing hard. Fighting the pain. The driver unzipped his pants. The sound of the zip was loud. It fought with the rasping of three people breathing hard.
“You see this?” he asked. “You know what this is?”
“Sort of,” Holly muttered. “It looks a little like a penis, only smaller.”
He stared at her, blankly. Then he bellowed in rage and rushed into her stall, swinging his foot. Holly dodged away. His short wide leg swung and connected with nothing. He staggered off balance. Holly’s eyes narrowed in a gleam of triumph. She dodged back and smashed her elbow into his stomach. She did it right. Used his own momentum against him, used all her weight like she wanted to punch his spine right out through his back. Caught him with a solid blow. The guy gasped and spun away.
Reacher whooped in admiration. And relief. He thought: couldn’t have done it better myself, kid. The guy was heaving. Reacher saw his face, crumpled in pain. Holly was snarling in triumph. She scrambled on one knee after him. Going for his groin. Reacher willed her on. She launched herself at him. The guy turned and took it on the thigh. Holly had planned for that. It left his throat open to her elbow. Reacher saw it. Holly saw it. She lined it up. The killing blow. A vicious arcing curve. It was going to rip his head off. She swung it in. Then her chain snapped tight and stopped her short. It clanked hard against the iron ring and jerked her backward.
Reacher’s grin froze on his face. The guy staggered out of range. Stooped and panted and caught his breath. Then he straightened up and hitched his belt higher. Holly faced him, one-handed. Her chain was tight against the wall, vibrating with the tension she had on it.
“I like a fighter,” the guy gasped. “Makes it more interesting for me. But make sure you save yourself some energy for later. I don’t want you just lying there.”
Holly glared at him, breathing hard. Crackling with aggression. But she was one-handed. The guy stepped in again and she swung a stinging punch. Fast and low. He crowded left and blocked it. She couldn’t deliver the follow-up. Her other arm was pinned back. He raised his foot and kicked for her stomach. She arched around it. He kicked out again and stumbled straight into an elbow, hard against his ear. It was the wrong elbow, with no force behind it because of her impossible position. A poor blow. It left her off balance. The driver stepped close and kicked her in the gut. She went down. He kicked out again and caught her knee. Reacher heard it crunch. She screamed in agony. Collapsed on the mattress. The driver breathed fast and stood there.
“I asked you a damn question,” he said.
Holly was deathly white and trembling. She was writhing around on the mattress, one arm pinned behind her, gasping with the pain. Reacher saw her face, flashing through the bar of bright moonlight.
“I’m waiting, bitch,” the guy said.
Reacher saw her face again. Saw she was beaten. The fight was out of her.
“Want another kicking?” the driver said.
There was silence in the barn again.
“I’m waiting for an answer,” the guy said.
Reacher stared over, waiting. There was still silence. Just the rasping of three people breathing hard in the quiet. Then Holly spoke.
“What was the question?” she said quietly.
The guy smiled down at her.
“You wearing anything under that suit?” he said.
Holly nodded. Didn’t speak.
“OK, what?” the guy said to her.
“Underwear,” she said, quietly.
The guy cupped a hand behind his ear.
“Can’t hear you, bitch,” he said.
“I’m wearing, underwear, you bastard,” she said, louder.
The guy shook his head.
“Bad name,” he said. “I’m going to need an apology for that.”
“Screw you,” Holly said.
“I’ll kick you again,” the guy said. “In the knee. I do that, you’ll never walk without a stick, the whole rest of your life, you bitch.”
Holly looked away.
“Your choice, bitch,” the guy said.
He raised his foot. Holly stared down at her mattress.
“OK, I apologize,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
The guy nodded, happily.
“Describe your underwear to me,” he said. “Lots of detail.”
She shrugged. Turned her face away and spoke to the wooden wall.
“Bra and pants,” she said. “Victoria’s Secret. Dark peach.”
“Skimpy?” the driver asked.
She shrugged again, miserably, like she knew for sure what the next question was going to be.
“I guess,” she said.
“Want to show it to me?” the guy said.
“No,” she said.
The driver took a step closer.
“So you do want another kicking?” he said.
She didn’t speak. The guy cupped his hand behind his ear again.
“Can’t hear you, bitch,” he said.
“What was the question?” Holly muttered.
“You want another kicking?” the guy said.
Holly shook her head.
“No,” she said again.
“OK,” he said. “Show me your underwear, and you won’t get one.”
He raised his foot. Holly raised her hand. It went to the top button on her suit. Reacher watched her. There were five buttons down the front of the suit. Reacher willed her to undo each of them slowly and rhythmically. He needed her to do that. It was vital. Slowly and rhythmically, Holly, he pleaded silently. He gripped his chain with both hands. Four feet from where it looped into the iron ring on the back wall. He tightened his hands around it.
She undid the top button. Reacher counted: one. The driver leered down. Her hand slid to the next button. Reacher tightened his grip again. She undid the second button. Reacher counted: two. Her hand slid down to the third button. Reacher turned square-on to face the rear wall of his stall and took a deep breath. Turned his head and watched over his shoulder. Holly undid the third button. Her breasts swelled out. Dark peach brassiere. Skimpy and lacy. The driver shuffled from foot to foot. Reacher counted: three. He exhaled right from the bottom of his lungs. Holly’s hand slid down to the fourth button. Reacher took a deep breath, the deepest breath of his life. He tightened his hold on the chain until his knuckles shone white. Holly undid the fourth button. Reacher counted: four. Her hand slid down. Paused a beat. Waited. Undid the fifth button. Her suit fell open. The driver leered down and made a small sound. Reacher jerked back and smashed his foot into the wall. Right under the iron ring. He smashed his weight backward against the chain, two hundred and twenty pounds of coiled fury exploding against the force of his kick. Splinters of damp wood burst out of the wall. The old planks shattered. The bolts tore right out of the timber. Reacher was hurled backward. He swarmed up to his feet, his chain whipping and flailing angrily behind him.
“Five!” he screamed.
He seized the driver by the arm and hurled him into his stall. Threw him against the back wall. The guy smashed into it and hung like a broken doll. He staggered forward and Reacher kicked him in the stomach. The guy jackknifed in the air, feet right off the ground, and smashed flat on his face on the
cobblestones. Reacher doubled his chain and swung it through the air. Aimed the lethal length at the guy’s head like a giant metal whip. The iron ring centrifuged out like an old medieval weapon. But at the last second Reacher changed his mind. Wrenched the chain out of its trajectory and let it smash and spark into the stones on the floor. He grabbed the driver, one hand on his collar and one hand in his hair. Lifted him bodily across the aisle to Holly’s mattress. Jammed his ugly face down into the softness and leaned on him until he suffocated. The guy bucked and thrashed, but Reacher just planted a giant hand flat on the back of his skull and waited patiently until he died.
HOLLY WAS STARING at the corpse and Reacher was sitting next to her, panting. He was spent and limp from the explosive force of tearing the iron ring out of the wall. It felt like a lifetime of physical effort had gone into one split second. A lifetime supply of adrenaline was boiling through him. The clock inside his head had stopped. He had no idea how long they had been sitting there. He shook himself and staggered to his feet. Dragged the body away and left it in the aisle, up near the open door. Then he wandered back and squatted next to Holly. His fingers were bruised from his desperate grip on the chain, but he forced them to be delicate. He did up all her buttons, one by one, right to the top. She was taking quick short breaths. Then she flung her arms round his neck and held on tight. Her breathing sucked and blew against his shirt.
They held each other for a long moment. He felt the fury drain out of her. They let each other go and sat side by side on the mattress, staring into the gloom. She turned to him and put her small hand lightly on top of his.
“Now I guess I owe you,” she said.
“My pleasure,” Reacher said. “Hey, believe me.”
“I needed help,” she said quietly. “I’ve been fooling myself.”
He flipped his hand over and closed it around hers.
“Bullshit, Holly,” he said, gently. “Time to time, we all need help. Don’t feel bad about it. If you were fit, you’d have slaughtered him. I could see that. One arm and one leg, you were nearly there. It’s just your knee. Pain like that, you’ve got no chance. Believe me, I know what it’s like. After the Beirut thing, I couldn’t have taken candy from a baby, best part of a year.”
She smiled a slight smile and squeezed his hand. The clock inside his head started up again. Getting close to dawn.
18
SEVEN-TWENTY WEDNESDAY MORNING East Coast time, General Johnson left the Pentagon. He was out of uniform, dressed in a lightweight business suit, and he walked. It was his preferred method of getting around. It was a hot morning in Washington, and already humid, but he stepped out at a steady speed, arms swinging loosely through a small arc, head up, breathing hard.
He walked north through the dust on the shoulder of George Washington Boulevard, along the edge of the great cemetery on his left, through Lady Bird Johnson Park, and across the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Then he walked clockwise around the Lincoln Memorial, past the Vietnam Wall, and turned right along Constitution Avenue, the reflecting pool on his right, the Washington Monument up ahead. He walked past the National Museum of American History, past the National Museum of Natural History, and turned left onto 9th Street. Exactly three and a half miles, on a glorious morning, an hour’s brisk walk through one of the world’s great capital cities, past landmarks the world’s tourists flock to photograph, and he saw absolutely nothing at all except the dull mist of worry hanging just in front of his eyes.
He crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and entered the Hoover Building through the main doors. Laid his hands palms down on the reception counter.
“The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” he said. “To see the Director.”
His hands left two palm-shaped patches of dampness on the laminate. The agent who came down to show him upstairs noticed them. Johnson was silent in the elevator. Harland Webster was waiting for him at the door to his private suite. Johnson nodded to him. Didn’t speak. Webster stood aside and gestured him into the inner office. It was dark. There was a lot of mahogany paneling, and the blinds were closed. Johnson sat down in a leather chair and Webster walked around him to his desk.
“I don’t want to get in your way,” Johnson said.
He looked at Webster. Webster worked for a moment, decoding that sentence. Then he nodded, cautiously.
“You spoke with the President?” he asked.
Johnson nodded.
“You understand it’s appropriate for me to do so?” he asked.
“Naturally,” Webster said. “Situation like this, nobody should worry about protocol. You call him or go see him?”
“I went to see him,” Johnson said. “Several times. I had several long conversations with him.”
Webster thought: face-to-face. Several long conversations. Worse than I thought, but understandable.
“And?” he asked.
Johnson shrugged.
“He told me he’d placed you in personal command,” he said.
Webster nodded.
“Kidnapping,” he said. “It’s Bureau territory, whoever the victim is.”
Johnson nodded, slowly.
“I accept that,” he said. “For now.”
“But you’re anxious,” Webster said. “Believe me, General, we’re all anxious.”
Johnson nodded again. And then he asked the question he’d walked three and a half miles to ask.
“Any progress?” he said.
Webster shrugged.
“We’re into the second full day,” he said. “I don’t like that at all.”
He lapsed into silence. The second full day of a kidnap is a kind of threshold. Any early chance of a resolution is gone. The situation starts to harden up. It starts to become a long, intractable set-piece. The danger to the victim increases. The best time to clear up a kidnap is the first day. The second day, the process gets tougher. The chances get smaller.
“Any progress?” Johnson asked again.
Webster looked away. The second day is when the kidnappers start to communicate. That had always been the Bureau’s experience. The second day, sick and frustrated about missing your first and best chance, you sit around, hoping desperately the guys will call. If they don’t call on the second day, chances are they aren’t going to call at all.
“Anything I can do?” Johnson asked.
Webster nodded.
“You can give me a reason,” he said. “Who would threaten you like this?”
Johnson shook his head. He had been asking himself the same question since Monday night.
“Nobody,” he said.
“You should tell me,” Webster said. “Anything secret, anything hidden, better you tell me right now. It’s important, for Holly’s sake.”
“I know that,” Johnson said. “But there’s nothing. Nothing at all.”
Webster nodded. He believed him, because he knew it was true. He had reviewed the whole of Johnson’s Bureau file. It was a weighty document. It started on page one with brief biographies of his maternal great-grandparents. They had come from a small European principality which no longer existed.
“Will Holly be OK?” Johnson asked quietly.
The recent file pages recounted the death of Johnson’s wife. A surprise, a vicious cancer, no more than six weeks, beginning to end. Covert psychiatric opinion commissioned by the Bureau had predicted the old guy would hold up because of his daughter. It had proven to be a correct diagnosis. But if he lost her too, you didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to know he wouldn’t handle it well. Webster nodded again and put some conviction into his voice.
“She’ll be fine,” he said.
“So what have we got so far?” Johnson asked.
“Four guys,” Webster said. “We’ve got their pickup truck. They abandoned it prior to the snatch. Burned it and left it. We found it north of Chicago. It’s being airlifted down here to Quantico, right now. Our people will go over it.”
“For clues?” Johnson said. “Even though it burned?�
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Webster shrugged.
“Burning is pretty dumb,” he said. “It doesn’t really obscure much. Not from our people, anyway. We’ll use that pickup to find them.”
“And then what?” Johnson asked.
Webster shrugged again.
“Then we’ll go get your daughter back,” he said. “Our Hostage Rescue Team is standing by. Fifty guys, the best in the world at this kind of thing. Waiting right by their choppers. We’ll go get her, and we’ll tidy up the guys who grabbed her.”
There was a short silence in the dark quiet room.
“Tidy them up?” Johnson said. “What does that mean?”
Webster glanced around his own office and lowered his voice. Thirty-six years of habit.
“Policy,” he said. “A major D.C. case like this? No publicity. No media access. We can’t allow it. This sort of thing gets on TV, every nut in the country is going to be trying it. So we go in quietly. Some weapons will get discharged. Inevitable in a situation like this. A little collateral damage here and there.”
Johnson nodded slowly.
“You’re going to execute them?” he asked, vaguely.
Webster just looked at him, neutrally. Bureau psychiatrists had suggested to him the anticipation of deadly revenge could help sustain self-control, especially with people accustomed to direct action, like other agents, or soldiers.
“Policy,” he said again. “My policy. And like the man says, I’ve got personal command.”
THE CHARRED PICKUP was lifted onto an aluminum platform and secured with nylon ropes. An Air Force Chinook hammered over from the military compound at O’Hare and hovered above it, its downdraft whipping the lake into a frenzy. It winched its chain down and eased the pickup into the air. Swung around over the lake and dipped its nose and roared back west to O’Hare. Set its load down right in front of the open nose of a Galaxy transport. Air Force ground crew winched the platform inside. The cargo door closed on it and four minutes later the Galaxy was taxiing. Four minutes later again it was in the air, groaning east toward Washington. Four hours after that, it was roaring over the capital, heading for Andrews Air Force Base. As it landed, another borrowed Chinook took off and waited in midair. The Galaxy taxied to its apron and the pickup was winched out. The Chinook swooped down and swung it into the air. Flew it south, following I-95 into Virginia, forty miles, all the way to Quantico.