by Lee Child
Or he might not.
He might be more than three minutes away. Even if he reacted immediately. He would need to thread his way through the forest, possibly sixty yards or more, back to wherever he parked his bike. That could be three minutes right there.
Or not.
Realistic. Dispassionate. Overall he figured there was a good chance of success. Either Karel would let it go, or he wouldn’t, multiplied by either he was close by, or he wasn’t. Two coin tosses in a row. Disaster priced at four to one, success at four to three. Numbers didn’t lie. No cognitive bias.
He left the Mercedes running, and he left the driver’s door open. He squeezed between the trees and the truck’s enormous hood. He battled his way to where the cab towered above him. He grabbed the handles and climbed the ladder.
The door was locked.
Which he had not foreseen. For once he hadn’t known what would happen. Such a simple thing. It had never occurred to him. Not in a million years. He hung there, one foot on a step, one hand on a handle, swinging free, poked by trees. At first he was angry. Karel was stupid to leave the truck without the door open and the key in. Who the hell would do that? It was insane. Flexibility was everything. They might have needed to move the truck at any time. In-game management was always fluid. Everyone knew that.
Then he got worried. A sick hollow feeling. Where was the key, if not in the truck? The best case was bad enough. The best case said the key was in Karel’s pocket, which meant finding the guy, and taking it from him. Which would create a delay. Potentially a long delay. Which would in turn increase his exposure to any remaining hostile elements. Not good.
But it was better than the worst case. Karel’s pockets were tight. Stretch fabric, shiny black. Would he want to carry a key? Would any of them? They had left their rooms open, after all, to Shorty’s great advantage, with his flaming towels. They hadn’t wanted to carry those particular keys. Maybe they thought lumps and bumps in their pockets spoiled the look.
The worst case said Karel had left the tow truck key on room two’s dresser. To be picked up in the morning. Now to be picked up never, or years in the future as a lucky find, ashy, melted, twisted out of shape, purpose unknown.
Mark climbed down the ladder and forced his way along the hood to his car. He reversed ten yards, and turned around in the hole in the trees, and drove back the way he had come.
—
Patty saw him pass by again. She had seen him leave, minutes before. If it was really him. She was only guessing it was Mark in the car. Because of the night vision she hadn’t looked at the driver directly. The car had its headlights on. Way too bright. But as she ducked away she heard the hum of its engine, and the whoosh of its tires. She knew it was a regular type of car. Or wagon, or SUV. She just felt it was Mark inside. Running away, she thought, the first time he passed. But evidently not, because he came back again.
Maybe it wasn’t Mark after all.
She couldn’t find the quad-bikes. She didn’t think they would be deep in the trees. The spaces were too tight. It would be too easy to get wedged in forever. So she confined her search near the edges of the track. She expected to find them parked side by side, maybe backed half into the bushes, maybe angled, as if ready for action, but also leaving space for others to get by, as a courtesy, if they wanted to. But she found nothing.
She stopped walking. She was already a long way from Shorty. She didn’t know how much further she should go. She looked ahead, carefully. She was growing accustomed to the night vision. She turned around and looked behind her. The glow in the sky was bright again. Too bright to look at directly. She half turned back and checked to the south. She saw a small nocturnal creature skitter across six feet of open ground, and dive into a pile of leaves. It was lit up the same as everything else, a pale, wan, scuttling green. Probably gray in real life. Probably a rat.
She turned all the way back around.
She looked ahead again.
There was a man in front of her.
The same as before. The same nightmare vision. Out of nowhere. Out of nothing. Just suddenly there. With a bow held ready. The string was drawn back. The arrow was aimed. But not the same as before. Not at her legs. This time higher.
No Shorty behind him.
Not the same as before.
The nightmare vision spoke.
“We meet again,” it said.
She knew the voice. It was Karel. The weasel with the tow truck. From the Yugoslav army. Who looked like a blurry face in the back of a war crimes photo. She should have known. She was stupid.
Karel asked, “Where’s Shorty?”
She didn’t answer.
“Didn’t he make it? Or maybe you don’t know for sure. Maybe you went your separate ways. You ain’t a pair right now. He ain’t up ahead, because I checked. He can’t be behind you, because that would be neither use nor ornament.”
She looked away.
“Interesting,” Karel said. “Is he back there for a reason?”
She didn’t answer.
He smiled under his glassy snout.
Wide and delighted.
He said, “Is he wounded?”
No reply.
“This is exciting,” he said. “You’re out gathering roots and berries, to make a potion, to heal your man. You’re worried. You’re anxious to get back. This is a truly delightful situation. You and I are going to have so much fun.”
“I was looking for a quad-bike,” she said.
“No point,” he said. “My truck is parked in the way. No one gets out of here before me. I ain’t dumb.”
He lowered his aim.
To her legs.
“No,” she said.
“No what?”
“Yes, Shorty was wounded. Now I need to get back to him.”
“How bad was he wounded?”
“Pretty bad. I think his thigh bone is broken.”
“Shame,” Karel said.
“I need to go see him now.”
“The game says freedom of movement depends on not getting tagged.”
“Please,” she said.
“Please what?”
“I don’t like the game.”
“But I do.”
“I think we should quit. It has gotten way out of hand.”
“No, I think it has gotten to the good part.”
Patty didn’t speak again. She just stood there, with her flashlight in one hand and her arrow in the other. It was the working flashlight, not even the weapon. The arrow would be good for slashing or stabbing, but the guy was ten feet away. Out of range.
He drew back the string an extra inch. The arrowhead moved backward, the same inch, toward his hand, clenched tight around the grip. The bow curved harder. It sang with tension.
It was the working flashlight .
All in one movement she dropped the arrow and found the switch and lit up the beam. It was like she remembered, from the first time, checking on the Honda’s heater hoses. A bright white beam of light, hard and focused. She aimed it right at the guy. At his face. At his big glass eye. She lit it up and pinned it down. He flinched away and his arrow fired wide and low and thrashed through the undergrowth and thumped in the ground. He ducked and squirmed and twisted. She chased him with the beam of light, like a physical weapon, jabbing, thrusting, aiming always for his face. He fell to the ground and rolled over and tore the machine off his head.
She switched off the flashlight and ran through the trees.
Chapter 41
Patty knew running would turn out either smart or dumb, depending on whether Karel caught her or not. Simple as that. At first she was hopeful. She was running well, and she figured he might be slow to get going. He might worry a little about an ambush up ahead, with the beam of light. Like a space movie on Shorty’s TV.
Then, bad news. She heard crashing feet behind her. Getting closer. She darted right and changed direction. Karel was slower to turn. She got ahead of him. He caught up again. He got
to where he was just behind her. Up ahead in the bouncing night vision she saw the track. Coming up. Closer and closer. Bright and clear. She was running toward it at an angle. There were crashing feet behind her. She burst out on the track. Karel burst out after her. He planted his feet. He raised his bow.
They were lit up by headlight beams. Amplified twenty thousand times. Like atom bombs. They ducked away. Karel flipped up his tube. Patty tore the whole apparatus off her head. The world went dark, except the car. The black Mercedes. All lit up. Slowing down. Mark at the wheel. He came to a stop. He opened the door. He got out. He stayed away from the headlights. He stepped forward in the shadows.
Karel raised his bow again.
He aimed the arrow at Patty.
But he spoke to Mark.
He said, “What’s on fire up there?”
Mark paused a beat.
“Everything’s on fire,” he said. “We’re in a whole new ball game now.”
“We?”
“You’re kind of involved. Wouldn’t you say? People have died. This is going to be no stone unturned. We should get out. Right this minute. Just you and me. We need to do it, Karel. The pressure will be heavy duty. We might not survive it if we stay.”
“Just you and me?”
“You’re my number one draft pick. The others are useless. They’re a burden. You know that.”
Karel didn’t answer.
Mark said, “We don’t have much time.”
“We have plenty,” Karel said. “The night is still young. We can’t be disturbed. No one can get in.”
“We need to talk about that. Really we need to move your truck right now.”
“Why?”
“A tactical thing. An in-game adjustment.”
“We don’t need a tactical in-game adjustment. Not now. Not anymore. Shorty is wounded, and I got Patty right here. The game is over.”
“OK, shoot her and then let’s get going.”
“I would want to go finish Shorty first.”
“You’re stalling.”
“What?”
“Do you even have the key?”
“What key?”
“The key to the truck,” Mark said. “Where is it?”
“What kind of question is that? My truck is worth a lot of money.”
Mark nodded.
“Exactly,” he said. “I’m your best friend, worried on your behalf. I hope you didn’t leave the key on your nightstand. If you did, you better call a tow truck. For your tow truck. The motel burned down. That was the first thing on fire up there.”
“I got the key right here,” Karel said. “It’s in my pocket.”
“Good to know,” Mark said. He moved the long black gun out from behind his leg, and he shot Karel four times, all in the rib cage under the arm that was holding the bow.
The gunshots were loud but dull.
The long tube on the front was a silencer, Patty thought.
Karel went down on the track, in a sudden buckling heap, with the hiss of nylon, and the clatter of his bow, and the crack of his head on the blacktop.
Mark turned the gun on Patty.
He said, “Go get the key out his pocket.”
Patty paused a beat, and then got right to it. She felt she had done worse, pulling the arrow out of Shorty’s leg. The key was warm. It was no bigger than the Honda’s.
“Throw it over here,” Mark said.
“Then you’ll shoot me,” she said.
“I could shoot you anytime. I could take the key from your cold dead hand. I’m not squeamish.”
She threw the key.
It landed at his feet.
He said, “How bad is Shorty?”
“Pretty bad,” she said.
“Can he move?”
“His leg is broken.”
“I think you and I might be the last two standing,” Mark said. “And I have to say poor old Shorty is shit out of luck with me. I’m certainly not going back to help him. He can stay where he is, as far as I’m concerned.”
Patty said nothing.
“Purely as a matter of interest, how long do you think he would survive?”
Patty didn’t answer.
“I want to know,” Mark said. “Seriously. Let’s work it out. What is it, five days without water, and five weeks without food? Except he’s not feeling great to begin with.”
“I’ll go help him,” Patty said.
“Suppose you couldn’t. I guess he could try to crawl his way out, but he must be dehydrating fast and feeling weak by now. Crawling might increase the risk of infection. And it would certainly increase his exposure to predators. Some of those critters like to chew on an open wound.”
“Let me go help him.”
“No, I think he should be left on his own right now.”
“Why do you even care? You said you were only catering to other people’s grubby desires. The other people are out of the picture now. So you’re done. Take the key and move the truck and get out of here. Leave us alone.”
Mark shook his head.
“Shorty burned my motel,” he said. “That’s why I care. Forgive me for feeling a tiny bit vengeful.”
“You made us play the game. Starting a fire was a valid move.”
“And leaving him to die is a valid response.”
Patty looked away. At Karel, lifeless on the blacktop, caught by the spread of the headlight beams. All harsh white light and jagged black shadows.
She looked back.
She said, “What are you going to do with me?”
“Always the same question,” Mark said. “You sound like a broken record.”
“I have a right to know.”
“You’re a witness.”
“I said all along you wouldn’t let us win. The game was bullshit.”
“It served its purpose. You should see what’s in the back of my car.”
“Let me go see to Shorty. Come with me. Do it there. Both of us.”
“That’s romantic,” he said.
She didn’t answer.
“Where is he exactly?” Mark asked.
“A ways back.”
“Too far. I’m sorry. I really need to get going. Let’s do it here. Just you.”
He aimed the gun. She saw it clearly in the headlight spill. She recognized the brand from the TV shows she watched. A Glock, she was sure. Boxy, detailed, finely wrought. The tube on the front was satin finished. A precision component. It looked like it cost a thousand dollars. She breathed out. Patricia Marie Sundstrom, twenty-five, two years of college, a sawmill worker. Briefly happy with a potato farmer she met in a bar. Happier than she ever expected to be. Happier than she knew. She wanted to see him again. Just one more time.
Something moved behind Mark’s left shoulder.
She saw it in the corner of her eye. In the deep black shadows beyond the headlight beams. A flash of something white. Ten feet back. Suspended in the air. Eyes, she thought. Or teeth. Like a smile. She listened. She heard nothing. Just the rustle of the car’s idling engine, and the soft wet burble of its patient exhaust.
Then she sensed a shape. Behind Mark’s back. A dark void. Like a tree was moving.
Crazy.
She looked away.
Mark asked, “Ready?”
“I’m glad your motel burned down,” she said. “I just wish you had been in it.”
“That’s not nice,” he said.
She looked back at him.
There was a man right behind him.
A giant. He had stepped into the headlight wash. In his left hand was a single arrow. On his head he was wearing a night vision device with the tube flipped up. He was six inches taller than Mark and about twice as wide.
He was huge.
He was silent.
He stepped up right behind Mark’s back, not more than a foot away, like two men in a crowded queue, to get in the hockey game, or get on a plane. He reached around with his right hand and closed it over Mark’s wrist. He eased Mark�
��s arm sideways, keeping it straight, keeping it level, effortlessly, like slowly and steadily opening a door, through a perfect ninety-degree arc, until the Glock was aimed sideways at nothing. He reached around with his left hand and clamped a bent elbow over Mark’s upper body and crushed him to his chest. He touched the point of his arrow to the hollow of Mark’s throat. Neither man moved. They looked like they were clasped together, ready to dance the tango. Except Mark was the wrong way around.
The big man said, “Drop the weapon.”
A deep voice, but quiet. Almost intimate. As if intended for Mark’s ear alone, which was only inches away. In tone it sounded more like a suggestion than a command. But with a bleak implication behind it.
Mark didn’t drop it.
Patty saw muscles bunching in the giant’s right forearm. Their contours were exaggerated by the harsh flat light. They looked like rocks in a bag. There was no expression on his face. She realized he was crushing Mark’s wrist. Slowly, steadily, inexorably. Relentlessly. Mark yelped and breathed fast. She heard bones click and creak and move. Mark jerked and thrashed.
The big man kept on squeezing.
Mark dropped the gun.
“Good choice,” the big man said.
But he didn’t let go. He didn’t change the tango-dancing stance.
He said, “What’s your name?”
Mark didn’t answer.
Patty said, “His name is Mark.”
“Mark what?”
“I don’t know. Who are you?”
“Long story,” the big man said.
His muscles bunched again.
Mark squirmed.
“What’s your last name?” the big man asked.
Bones clicked and creaked and moved.
“Reacher,” Mark gasped.
Chapter 42
A hundred yards back Reacher had seen the woman light up the hunter with the flashlight beam, and then run like hell. He had seen the hunter chase after her. He had chased after both of them. He caught up in time to see the Mercedes arrive. He crossed the track in the dark way behind it, and crept up on the far side. He heard most of the conversation. The tow truck key, and Shorty, and the burned motel. He had heard the guy say he thought he and the woman were the last two standing. Her name was Patty Sundstrom, according to the banker, just before he died. Shorty would be Shorty Fleck. Canadians. Stranded.