Lee Child's Jack Reacher Books 1-6

by Lee Child

  He stood still. Borken was behind the desk. His hair gleamed white in the light. The black uniform showed up gray. Borken was just staring silently at him. Then he waved him to a chair. Motioned the guards to wait outside.

  Reacher sat heavily. Fatigue was gnawing at him and adrenaline was burning his stomach. The guards tramped across the floor and stepped outside. They closed the door quietly. Borken moved his arm and rolled open a drawer. Took out an ancient handgun. Laid it on the desktop with a loud clatter.

  “I made my decision,” he said. “About whether you live or die.”

  Then he pointed at the old revolver lying on the desk.

  “You know what this is?” he asked.

  Reacher glanced at it through the glare and nodded.

  “It’s a Marshal Colt,” he said.

  Borken nodded.

  “You bet your ass it is,” he said. “It’s an original 1873 Marshal Colt, just like the U.S. Cavalry were given. It’s my personal weapon.”

  He picked it up, right-handed, and hefted it.

  “You know what it fires?” he said.

  Reacher nodded again.

  “Forty-fives,” he said. “Six shots.”

  “Right first time,” Borken said. “Six forty-fives, nine hundred feet per second out of a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. You know what those bullets could do to you?”

  Reacher shrugged.

  “Depends if they hit me or not,” he said.

  Borken looked blank. Then he grinned. His wet mouth curled upward and his tight cheeks nearly forced his eyes shut.

  “They’d hit you,” he said. “If I’m firing, they’d hit you.”

  Reacher shrugged again.

  “From there, maybe,” he said.

  “From anywhere,” Borken said. “From here, from fifty feet, from fifty yards, if I’m firing, they’d hit you.”

  “Hold up your right hand,” Reacher said.

  Borken looked blank again. Then he put the gun down and held up his huge white hand like he was waving to a vague acquaintance or taking an oath.

  “Bullshit,” Reacher said.

  “Bullshit?” Borken repeated.

  “For sure,” Reacher said. “That gun’s reasonably accurate, but it’s not the best weapon in the world. To hit a man at fifty yards with it, you’d need to practice like crazy. And you haven’t been.”

  “I haven’t?” Borken said.

  “No, you haven’t,” Reacher said. “Look at the damn thing. It was designed in the 1870s, right? You seen old photographs? People were much smaller. Scrappy little guys, just immigrated from Europe, been starving for generations. Small people, small hands. Look at the stock on that thing. Tight curve, way too small for you. You grab that thing, your hand looks like a bunch of bananas around it. And that stock is hundred-and-twenty-year-old walnut. Hard as a rock. The back of the stock and the end of the frame below the hammer would be pounding you with the recoil. You used that gun a lot, you’d have a pad of callus between your thumb and forefinger I could see from here. But you haven’t, so don’t tell me you’ve been practicing with it, and don’t tell me you can be a marksman without practicing with it.”

  Borken looked hard at him. Then he smiled again. His wet lips parted and his eyes closed into slits. He rolled open the opposite drawer and lifted out another handgun. It was a Sig-Sauer nine-millimeter. Maybe five years old. Well used, but well maintained. A big boxy grip for a big hand.

  “I lied,” he said. “This is my personal weapon. And now I know something. I know my decision was the right one.”

  He paused, so Reacher could ask him about his decision. Reacher stayed silent. Clamped his lips. He wasn’t about to ask him about anything, not even if it would be the last sentence he would ever live to say.

  “We’re serious here, you know,” Borken said to him. “Totally serious. We’re not playing games. And we’re correct about what’s going on.”

  He paused again, so Reacher could ask him what was going on. Reacher said nothing. Just sat and stared into space.

  “America has got a despotic government,” Borken said. “A dictatorship, controlled from abroad by our enemies. Our current President is a member of a world government which controls our lives in secret. His federal system is a smokescreen for total control. They’re planning to disarm us and enslave us. It’s started already. Let’s be totally clear about that.”

  He paused. Picked up the old revolver again. Reacher saw him checking the fit of the stock in his hand. Felt the charisma radiating out of him. Felt compelled to listen to the soft, hypnotic voice.

  “Two main methods,” Borken said. “The first is the attempt to disarm the civilian population. The Second Amendment guarantees our right to bear arms, but they’re going to abolish that. The gun laws, all this beefing about crime, homicides, drug wars, it’s all aimed at disarming people like us. And when we’re disarmed, they can do what they like with us, right? That’s why it was in the Constitution in the first place. Those old guys were smart. They knew the only thing that could control a government was the people’s willingness and ability to shoot them down.”

  Borken paused again. Reacher stared up at the swastika behind his head.

  “Second method is the squeeze on small business,” Borken said. “This is a personal theory of mine. You don’t hear it much around the Movement. But I spotted it. It puts me way ahead of the others in my understanding.”

  Borken waited, but Reacher still stayed silent. Looking away.

  “It’s obvious, right?” Borken said to him. “World government is basically a communistic type of government. They don’t want a strong small-business sector. But that’s what America had. Millions of people, all working hard for themselves and making a living. Too many just to murder out of hand, when the time comes. So the numbers have to be reduced in advance. So the federal government was instructed to squeeze the small businessman. They put on all kinds of regulations, all kinds of laws and taxes, they rig the markets, they bring the small guy to his knees, then they order the banks to come sniffing around with attractive loans, and as soon as the ink is dry on the loan papers they jack up the interest, and rig the market some more, until the poor guy defaults. Then they take away his business, and so that’s one less for the gas ovens when the time comes.”

  Reacher glanced at him. Said nothing.

  “Believe it,” Borken said. “It’s like they’re solving a corpse-disposal problem in advance. Get rid of the middle class now, they don’t need so many concentration camps later.”

  Reacher was just staring at Borken’s eyes. Like looking at a bright light. The fat red lips were smiling an indulgent smile.

  “I told you, we’re way ahead of the others,” he said. “We’ve seen it coming. What else is the Federal Reserve for? That’s the key to this whole thing. America was basically a nation founded on business, right? Control business, you control everything. How do you control business? You control the banks. How do you control the banks? You set up a bullshit Federal Reserve system. You tell the banks what to do. That’s the key. The world government controls everything, through the Fed. I’ve seen it happen.”

  His eyes were open wide. Shining with no color.

  “I saw them do it to my own father,” he screamed. “May his poor soul rest in peace. The Fed bankrupted him.”

  Reacher tore his gaze away. Shrugged at the corner of the room. Said nothing. He started trying to recall the sequence of titles in Borken’s fine mahogany bookcase. Warfare from ancient China through Renaissance Italy through Pearl Harbor. He concentrated on naming the titles to himself, left to right, trying to resist the glare of Borken’s attention.

  “We’re serious here,” Borken was saying again. “You may look at me and think I’m some kind of a despot, or a cult leader, or whatever the world would want to label me. But I’m not. I’m a good leader, I won’t deny that. Even an inspired leader. Call me intelligent and perceptive, I won’t argue with you. But I don’t need to be. My people
don’t need any encouraging. They don’t need much leading. They need guidance, and they need discipline, but don’t let that fool you. I’m not coercing anybody. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating their will. Don’t ignore their desire for a change for the better.”

  Reacher was silent. He was still concentrating on the books, skimming in his mind through the events of December 1941, as seen from the Japanese point of view.

  “We’re not criminals here, you know,” Borken was saying. “When a government turns bad, it’s the very best people who stand up against it. Or do you think we should all just act like sheep?”

  Reacher risked another glance at him. Risked speaking.

  “You’re pretty selective,” he said. “About who’s here and who’s not.”

  Borken shrugged.

  “Like unto like,” he said. “That’s nature’s way, isn’t it? Black people have got the whole of Africa. White people have got this place.”

  “What about Jewish dentists?” Reacher asked. “What place have they got?”

  Borken shrugged again.

  “That was an operational error,” he said. “Loder should have waited until he was clear. But mistakes happen.”

  “Should have waited until I was clear, too,” Reacher said.

  Borken nodded.

  “I agree with you,” he said. “It would have been better for you that way. But they didn’t, and so here you are among us.”

  “Just because I’m white?” Reacher said.

  “Don’t knock it,” Borken replied. “White people got precious few rights left.”

  Reacher stared at him. Stared around the bright, hate-filled room. Shuddered.

  “I’ve made a study of tyranny,” Borken said. “And how to combat it. The first rule is you make a firm decision, to live free or die, and you mean it. Live free or die. The second rule is you don’t act like a sheep. You stand up and you resist them. You study their system and you learn to hate it. And then you act. But how do you act? The brave man fights back. He retaliates, right?”

  Reacher shrugged. Said nothing.

  “The brave man retaliates,” Borken repeated. “But the man who is both brave and clever acts differently. He retaliates first. In advance. He strikes the first blows. He gives them what they don’t expect, when and where they don’t expect it. That’s what we’re doing here. We’re retaliating first. It’s their war, but we’re going to strike the first blows. We’re going to give them what they don’t expect. We’re going to upset their plans.”

  Reacher glanced back at the bookcase. Five thousand classic pages, all saying the same thing: don’t do what they expect you to do.

  “Go look at the map,” Borken said.

  Reacher thrust his cuffed hands forward and lifted himself awkwardly out of the chair. Walked over to the map of Montana on the wall. He found Yorke in the top left-hand corner. Well inside the small black outline. He checked the scale and looked at the contour shading and the colors. The river Joseph Ray had talked about lay thirty miles to the west, on the other side of high mountains. It was a thick blue slash running down the map. There were enormous brown heights shown to the north, all the way up to Canada. The only road ran north through Yorke and terminated at some abandoned mine workings. A few haphazard tracks ran through solid forest to the east. To the south, contour lines merged together to show a tremendous east-west ravine.

  “Look at that terrain, Reacher,” Borken said quietly. “What does it tell you?”

  Reacher looked at it. It told him he couldn’t get out. Not on foot, not with Holly. There were weeks of rough walking east and north. Natural barriers west and south. The terrain made a better prison than wire fences or mine-fields could have. He had once been in Siberia, after glasnost, following up on ancient stories about Korean MIAs. The gulags had been completely open. No wire, no barriers. He had asked his hosts: but where are the fences? The Russians had pointed out over the miles of snow and said: there are the fences. Nowhere to run. He looked up at the map again. The terrain was the barrier. To get out was going to require a vehicle. And a lot of luck.

  “They can’t get in,” Borken said. “We’re impregnable. We can’t be stopped. And we mustn’t be stopped. That would be a disaster of truly historic proportions. Suppose the redcoats had stopped the American Revolution in 1776?”

  Reacher glanced around the tiny wooden room and shuddered.

  “This isn’t the American Revolution,” he said.

  “Isn’t it?” Borken asked. “How is it different? They wanted freedom from a tyrannical government. So do we.”

  “You’re murderers,” Reacher said.

  “So they were in 1776,” Borken said. “They killed people. The established system called that murder, too.”

  “You’re racists,” Reacher said.

  “Same in 1776,” Borken said. “Jefferson and his slaves? They knew black people were inferior. Back then, they were exactly the same as we are now. But then they became the new redcoats. Slowly, over the years. It’s fallen to us to get back to how it should have stayed. Live free or die, Reacher. It’s a noble aim. Always has been, don’t you think?”

  He was leaning forward with his great bulk pressing tight against the desk. His hands were in the air. His colorless eyes were shining.

  “But there were mistakes made in 1776,” he said. “I’ve studied the history. War could have been avoided if both sides had acted sensibly. And war should always be avoided, don’t you think?”

  Reacher shrugged.

  “Not necessarily,” he said.

  “Well, you’re going to help us avoid it,” Borken said. “That’s my decision. You’re going to be my emissary.”

  “Your what?” Reacher said.

  “You’re independent,” Borken said. “Not one of us. No ax to grind. An American like them, an upstanding citizen, no felony convictions. A clever, perceptive man. You notice things. They’ll listen to you.”

  “What?” Reacher said again.

  “We’re organized here,” Borken said. “We’re ready for nationhood. You need to understand that. We have an army, we have a treasury, we have financial reserves, we have a legal system, we have democracy. I’m going to show all that to you today. I’m going to show you a society ready for independence, ready to live free or die, and just a day away from doing so. Then I’m going to send you south to America. You’re going to tell them our position is strong and their position is hopeless.”

  Reacher just stared at him.

  “And you can tell them about Holly,” Borken said quietly. “In her special little room. You can tell them about my secret weapon. My insurance policy.”

  “You’re crazy,” Reacher said.

  The hut went silent. Quieter than silent.

  “Why?” Borken whispered. “Why am I crazy? Exactly?”

  “You’re not thinking straight,” Reacher said. “Don’t you realize that Holly counts for nothing? The President will replace Johnson faster than you can blink an eye. They’ll crush you like a bug and Holly will be just another casualty. You should send her back out with me.”

  Borken was shaking his bloated head, happily, confidently.

  “No,” he said. “That won’t happen. There’s more to Holly than who her father is. Hasn’t she told you that?”

  Reacher stared at him and Borken checked his watch.

  “Time to go,” he said. “Time for you to see our legal system at work.”

  HOLLY HEARD THE quiet footsteps outside her door and eased off the bed. The lock clicked back and the young soldier with the scarred forehead stepped up into the room. He had his finger to his lips and Holly nodded. She limped to the bathroom and set the shower running noisily into the empty tub. The young soldier followed her in and closed the door.

  “We can only do this once a day,” Holly whispered. “They’ll get suspicious if they hear the shower too often.”

  The young guy nodded.

  “We’ll get out tonight,” he said. “Can’
t do it this morning. We’re all on duty at Loder’s trial. I’ll come by just after dusk, with a jeep. We’ll make a run for it in the dark. Head south. Risky, but we’ll make it.”

  “Not without Reacher,” Holly said.

  The young guy shook his head.

  “Can’t promise that,” he said. “He’s in with Borken now. God knows what’s going to happen to him.”

  “I go, he goes,” Holly said.

  The young guy looked at her nervously.

  “OK,” he said, “I’ll try.”

  He opened the bathroom door and crept out. Holly watched him go and turned the shower off. Stared after him.

  HE LOOPED NORTH and west and took a long route back through the woods, same way as he had come. The sentry Fowler had hidden in the trees fifteen feet off the main path never saw him. But the one he had hidden in the back-woods did. He caught a glimpse of a camouflage uniform hustling through the undergrowth. Spun around fast, but was too late to make the face. He shrugged and thought hard. Figured he’d keep it to himself. Better to ignore it than report he’d failed to make the actual ID.

  So the young man with the scar hurried all the way and was back in his hut two minutes before he was due to escort his commander down to the tribunal hearing.

  IN THE DAYLIGHT, the courthouse on the southeast corner of the abandoned town of Yorke looked pretty much the same as a hundred others Reacher had seen all over rural America. Built early in the century. Big, white, pillared, ornate. Enough square solidity to communicate its serious purpose, but enough lightness in its details to make it a handsome structure. He saw a fine cupola floating off the top of the building, with a fine clock in it, probably paid for by a public subscription held long ago among a long-forgotten generation. More or less the same as a hundred others, but the roof was steeper-pitched than some, and heavier built. He guessed it had to be that way in the north of Montana. That roof could be carrying a hundred tons of snow all winter long.