by Child, Lee
She put her weapons in two separate pockets. Pulled the shower curtain to conceal the damage. Put the rubber foot back on the crutch. Limped back to her mattress, and sat down to wait.
THE PROBLEM WITH using just one camera was that it had to be set to a fairly wide shot. That was the only way to cover the whole area. So any particular thing was small on the screen. The group of men carrying something had shown up like a large insect crawling across the glass.
“Was that Brogan?” Webster asked out loud.
The aide ran the video back and watched again.
“He’s facedown,” he said. “Hard to tell.”
He froze the action and used the digital manipulator to enlarge the picture. Adjusted the joystick to put the spread-eagled man in the center of the screen. Zoomed right in until the image blurred.
“Hard to tell,” he said again. “It’s one of them, that’s for sure.”
“I think it was Brogan,” Webster said.
Johnson looked hard. Used his finger and thumb against the screen to estimate the guy’s height, head to toes.
“How tall is he?” he asked.
“HOW TALL IS he?” Reacher asked suddenly.
“What?” McGrath said.
Reacher was behind McGrath in the trees, staring out at the punishment hut. He was staring at the front wall. The wall was maybe twelve feet long, eight feet high. Right to left, there was a two-foot panel, then the door, thirty inches wide, hinged on the right, handle on the left. Then a panel probably seven and a half feet wide running down to the end of the building.
“How tall is he?” Reacher asked again.
“Christ, does it matter?” McGrath said.
“I think it does,” Reacher said.
McGrath turned and stared at him.
“Five nine, maybe five ten,” he said. “Not an especially big guy.”
The cladding was made up of horizontal eight-by-fours nailed over the frame. There was a seam halfway up. The floor was probably three-quarters board laid over two-by-fours. Therefore the floor started nearly five inches above the bottom of the outside cladding. About an inch and a half below the bottom of the doorway.
“Skinny, right?” Reacher said.
McGrath was still staring at him.
“Thirty-eight regular, best guess,” he said.
Reacher nodded. The walls would be two-by-fours clad inside and out with the plywood. Total thickness five and a half inches, maybe less if the inside cladding was thinner. Call it the inside face of the end wall was five inches in from the corner, and the floor was five inches up from the bottom.
“Right-handed or left-handed?” Reacher asked.
“Speak to me,” McGrath hissed.
“Which?” Reacher said.
“Right-handed,” McGrath said. “I’m pretty sure.” The two-by-fours would be on sixteen-inch centers. That was the standard dimension. But from the corner of the hut to the right-hand edge of the door, the distance was only two feet. Two feet less five inches for the thickness of the end wall was nineteen inches. There was probably a two-by-four set right in the middle of that span. Unless they skimped it, which was no problem. The wall would be stuffed with Fiberglas wadding, for insulation.
“Stand back,” Reacher whispered.
“Why?” McGrath said.
“Just do it,” Reacher replied.
McGrath moved out of the way. Reacher put his eyes on a spot ten inches in from the end of the hut and just shy of five feet up from the bottom. Swayed left and rested his shoulder on a tree. Raised his M-16 and sighted it in.
“Hell are you doing?” McGrath hissed.
Reacher made no reply. Just waited for his heart to beat and fired. The rifle cracked and the bullet punched through the siding a hundred yards away. Ten inches from the corner, five feet from the ground.
“Hell are you doing?” McGrath hissed again.
Reacher just grabbed his arm and pulled him into the woods. Dragged him north and waited. Two things happened. The six men burst back into the clearing. And the door of the punishment hut opened. Brogan was framed in the doorway. His right arm was hanging limp. His right shoulder was shattered and pumping blood. In his right hand, he was holding his Bureau .38. The hammer was back. His finger was tight on the trigger.
Reacher snicked the M-16 to burst fire. Stitched five bursts of three shells into the ground, halfway across the clearing. The six men skidded away, like they were suddenly facing an invisible barrier or a drop off a tall cliff. They ran for the woods. Brogan stepped out of the hut. Stood in a bar of sunshine and tried to lift his revolver. His arm wouldn’t work. It hung uselessly.
“Decoy,” Reacher said. “They thought I’d go in after him. He was waiting behind the door with his gun. I knew he was the bad guy. But they had me fooled for a moment.”
McGrath nodded slowly. Stared at the government-issue .38 in Brogan’s hand. Remembered his own being confiscated. He raised the Glock and wedged his wrist against a tree. Sighted down the barrel.
“Forget it,” Reacher said.
McGrath kept his eyes on Brogan and shook his head.
“I’m not going to forget it,” he said quietly. “Bastard sold Holly out.”
“I meant forget the Glock,” Reacher said. “That’s a hundred yards. Glock won’t get near. You’d be lucky to hit the damn hut from here.”
McGrath lowered the Glock and Reacher handed him the M-16. Watched with interest as McGrath sighted it in.
“Where?” Reacher asked.
“Chest,” McGrath said.
Reacher nodded.
“Chest is good,” he said.
McGrath steadied himself and fired. He was good, but not really good. The rifle was still set to burst fire, and it loosed three rounds. The first hit Brogan in the upper left of his forehead, and the other two stitched upward and blasted fragments off the door frame. Good, but not very. But good enough to do the job. Brogan went down like a marionette with the strings cut. He just telescoped into the ground, right in front of the doorway. Reacher took the M-16 back and sprayed the trees on the edge of the clearing until the magazine clicked empty. Reloaded and handed the Glock back to McGrath. Nodded him east through the forest. They turned together and walked straight into Joseph Ray. He was unarmed and half dressed. Blood dried on his face like brown paint. He was fumbling with his shirt buttons. They were done up into the wrong holes.
“Women and children are going to die,” he said.
“You all got an hour, Joe,” Reacher said back to him. “Spread the word. Anybody wants to stay alive, better head for the hills.”
The guy just shook his head.
“No,” he said. “We’ve got to assemble on the parade ground. Those are our instructions. We’ve got to wait for Beau there.”
“Beau won’t be coming,” Reacher said.
Ray shook his head again.
“He will be,” he said. “You won’t beat Beau, whoever you are. Can’t be done. We got to wait for him. He’s going to tell us what to do.”
“Run for it, Joe,” Reacher said. “For Christ’s sake, get your kids out of here.”
“Beau says that they have to stay here,” Ray said. “Either to enjoy the fruits of victory, or to suffer the consequences of defeat.”
Reacher just stared at him. Ray’s bright eyes shone out. His teeth flashed in a brief defiant smile. He ducked his head and ran away.
“Women and children are going to die?” McGrath repeated.
“Borken’s propaganda,” Reacher said. “He’s got them all convinced compulsory suicide is the penalty for getting beat around here.”
“And they’re standing still for it?” McGrath asked.
“He controls them,” Reacher said. “Worse than you can imagine.”
“I’m not interested in beating them,” McGrath said. “Right now, I just want to get Holly out.”
“Same thing,” Reacher said.
They walked on in silence, through the trees in the direction o
f the Bastion.
“How did you know?” McGrath asked. “About Brogan?”
Reacher shrugged.
“I just felt it,” he said. “His face, I guess. They like hitting people in the face. They did it to you. But Brogan was unmarked. I saw his face, no damage, no blood. I figured that was wrong. The excitement of an ambush, the tension, they’d have worked it off by roughing him up a little. Like they did with you. But he was theirs, so he just walked in, handshakes all around.”
McGrath nodded. Put his hand up and felt his nose.
“But what if you were wrong?” he said.
“Wouldn’t have mattered,” Reacher said. “If I was wrong, he wouldn’t have been standing behind the door. He’d have been down on the floor with a bunch of broken ribs, because all that thumping around would have been for real.”
McGrath nodded again.
“And all that shouting,” Reacher said. “They paraded along, real slow, with the guy shouting his head off. They were trying to attract my attention.”
“They’re good at that,” McGrath said. “Webster’s worried about it. He doesn’t understand why Borken seems so set on getting attention, escalating this whole thing way bigger than he needs to.”
They were in the woods. Halfway between the small clearing and the Bastion. Reacher stopped. Like the breath had been knocked out of him. His hands went up to his mouth. He stood breathless, like all the air had been sucked off the planet.
“Christ, I know why,” he said. “It’s a decoy.”
“What?” McGrath asked.
“I’m getting a bad feeling,” Reacher said.
“About what?” McGrath asked him, urgently.
“Borken,” Reacher said. “Something doesn’t add up. His intentions. Strike the first blow. But where’s Stevie? You know what? I think there are two first blows, McGrath. This stuff up here and something else, somewhere else. A surprise attack. Like Pearl Harbor, like his damn war books. That’s why he’s set on escalating everything. Holly, the suicide thing. He wants all the attention up here.”
44
HOLLY WAS STANDING upright and facing her door when they came for her. The tight wrap on her knee was drying stiff. So she had to stand, because her leg would no longer bend. And she wanted to stand, because that was the best way to do it.
She heard the footsteps in the lobby. Heard them clatter up the stairs. Two men, she estimated. She heard them halt outside her door. Heard the key slide in and the lock click back. She blinked once and took a breath. The door opened. Two men crowded in. Two rifles. She stood upright and faced them. One stepped forward.
“Outside, bitch,” he said.
She gripped her crutch. Leaned on it heavily and limped across the floor. Slowly. She wanted to be outside before anybody realized she could move better than they thought. Before anybody realized she was armed and dangerous.
“STRIKE THE FIRST blow,” Reacher said. “I interpreted that all wrong.”
“Why?” McGrath asked urgently.
“Because I haven’t seen Stevie,” Reacher said. “Not since early this morning. Stevie’s not here anymore. Stevie’s gone somewhere else.”
“Reacher, you’re not making any sense,” McGrath said.
Reacher shook his head like he was clearing it and snapped back into focus. Set off racing east through the trees. Talking quiet, but urgently.
“I was wrong,” he said. “Borken said they were going to strike the first blow. Against the system. I thought he meant the declaration of independence. I thought that was the first blow. The declaration, and the battle to secure this territory. I thought that was it. On its own. But they’re doing something else as well. Somewhere else. They’re doing two things at once. Simultaneous.”
“What are you saying?” McGrath asked.
“Attention,” Reacher said. “The declaration of independence is focusing attention up here in Montana, right?”
“Sure,” McGrath said. “They planned to have CNN and the United Nations up here watching it happen. That’s a lot of attention.”
“But they’d have been in the wrong place,” Reacher said. “Borken had a bookcase full of theory telling him not to do what they expect. A whole shelf all about Pearl Harbor. And I overheard him talking in the mine. When he was fetching the missile launcher. Fowler was with him. Borken told Fowler by tonight this place will be way down the list of priorities. So they’re doing something else someplace else as well. Something different, maybe something bigger. Twin blows against the system.”
“But what?” McGrath asked. “And where? Near here?”
“No,” Reacher said. “Probably far away. Like Pearl Harbor was. They’re reaching out, trying to land a killer blow somewhere. Because there’s a time factor here. It’s all coordinated.”
McGrath stared at him.
“They planned it well,” Reacher said. “Getting everybody’s attention fixed up here. Independence. That stuff they were going to do with you. They were going to kill you slowly, with the cameras watching. Then the threats of mass suicide, women and children dying. A high-stakes siege. So nobody would be looking anywhere else. Borken’s cleverer than I thought. Twin blows, each one covering for the other. Everybody’s looking up here, then something big happens someplace else, everybody’s looking down there, and he consolidates his new nation back up here.”
“But where is it happening, for God’s sake?” McGrath asked. “And what the hell is it?”
Reacher stopped and shook his head.
“I just don’t know,” he said.
Then he froze. There was a crashing noise up ahead and a patrol of six men burst around a tight thicket of pines and stopped dead in front of them. They had M-16s in their hands, grenades on their belts, and surprise and delight on their faces.
BORKEN HAD DEPLOYED every man he had to the search for Reacher, except for the two he had retained to deal with Holly. He heard them start down the courthouse stairs. He pulled the radio from his pocket and flipped it open. Extended the stubby antenna and pressed the button.
“Webster?” he said. “Get focused in, OK? We’ll talk again in a minute.”
He didn’t wait for any reply. Just snapped the radio off and turned his head as he tracked the sound of the footsteps on their way outside.
FROM SEVENTY-FIVE YARDS south, Garber saw them come out the door and down the steps. He had moved out of the woods. He had moved forward and crouched behind the outcrop of rock. He figured that was safe enough, now he had backup of a sort. The Chinook crewmen were thirty yards behind him, well separated, well hidden, instructed to yell if anybody approached from the rear. So Garber was resting easy, staring up the slope at the big white building.
He saw two armed men, bearded, starting down the steps. They were dragging a smaller figure with a crutch. A halo of dark hair, neat green fatigues. Holly Johnson. He had never seen her before. Only in the photographs the Bureau men had shown him. The photographs had not done her justice. Even from seventy-five yards, he could feel the glow of her character. Some kind of radiant energy. He felt it, and pulled his rifle closer.
THE M-16 IN Reacher’s hands was a 1987 product manufactured by the Colt Firearms Company in Hartford, Connecticut. It was the A2 version. Its principal new feature was the replacement of automatic fire with burst fire. For the sake of economy, the trigger relocked after each burst of three shells. The idea was to waste less ammunition.
Six targets, three shells each from the fresh magazine, a total of eighteen shells and six trigger pulls. Each burst of three shells took a fifth of a second, so the firing sequence itself amounted to just one and a fifth seconds. It was pulling the trigger over and over again which wasted the time. It wasted so much time for Reacher that he ran into trouble after the fourth guy was down. He wasn’t aiming. He was just tracking a casual left-to-right arc, close range into the bodies in front of him. The opposing rifles were coming up as a unit. The first four never got there. But the fifth and the sixth were already rais
ed horizontal by the time the fourth went back down, two and a quarter seconds into the sequence.
So Reacher gambled. It was the sort of instinctive gamble you take so fast that to call it a split-second decision is to understate the speed by an absurd factor. He skipped his M-16 straight to the sixth guy, totally sure that McGrath would take the fifth guy with the Glock. The sort of instinctive gamble you take based on absolutely nothing at all except a feeling, which is itself based on absolutely nothing at all except the look of the guy, and how he compares with the look of other people worth trusting in the past.
The flat crack of the Glock was lost under the rattle of the M-16, but the fifth guy went down simultaneous with the sixth. Reacher and McGrath crashed sideways together into the brush and flattened into the ground. Stared through the sudden dead silence at the cordite smoke rising gently through the shafts of sunlight. No movement. No survivors. McGrath blew a big sigh and stuck out his hand, from flat on the ground. Reacher twisted around and shook it.
“You’re pretty quick for an old guy,” he said.
“That’s how I got to be an old guy,” McGrath said back.
They stood up slowly and ducked back farther into the trees. Then they could hear more people moving toward them in the forest. A stream of people was moving northwest out of the Bastion. McGrath raised the Glock again and Reacher snicked the M-16 back to singles. He had twelve shells left. Too few to waste, even with the A2’s economy measure. Then they saw women through the trees. Women and children. Some men with them. Family groups. They were marching in columns of two. Reacher saw Joseph Ray, a woman at his side, two boys marching blankly in front of him. He saw the woman from the mess kitchen, marching side by side with a man. Three children walking stolidly in front of them.