“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 of 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.”
41
REACHER WATCHED THE whole thing happen. He was a hundred and fifty yards away in the trees. Northwest of the ambush, high up the slope on the other side of the road. There was a dead sentry at his feet. The guy was lying in the dirt with his head at right angles to his neck. Reacher had his field glasses raised to his eyes. Watching. Watching what, he wasn’t exactly sure.
He had caught the gist of the radio conversation in the Bastion. He had heard Borken’s side. He had guessed the replies. He had heard the southern lookouts calling in on the walkie-talkies. He knew about the Marines on the bridge. He knew about Webster and Johnson sitting there alongside them, on the end of the line.
He had wondered who else was down there. Maybe more military, maybe more FBI. The military wouldn’t come. Johnson would have ordered them to sit tight. If anybody came, it would be the FBI. He figured they might have substantial numbers standing by. He figured they would be coming in, sooner or later. He needed to exploit them. Needed to use them as a diversion while he got Holly out. So he had moved southeast to wait for their arrival. Now, an hour later, he was gazing down at the short stocky guy getting loaded into the jeep. Dark suit, white shirt, town shoes. FBI, for sure.
But not the Hostage Rescue Team. This guy had no equipment. The HRT came in all loaded down with paramilitary gear. Reacher was familiar with their procedures. He had read some of their manuals. Heard about some of their training. He knew guys who had been in and out of Quantico. He knew how the HRT worked. They were a high-technology operation. They looked like regular soldiers, in blue. They had vehicles. This guy he was watching was on foot in the forest. Dressed like he had just stepped out of a meeting.
It was a puzzle. Eight Marines. No Hostage Rescue Team. An unarmed search-and-rescue Chinook. Then Reacher suddenly thought maybe he understood. Maybe this was a very clandestine operation. Low-profile. Invisible. They had tracked Holly all the way west from Chicago, but for some reason they maybe weren’t gathering any kind of a big force. They were dealing with it alone. Some tactical reason. Maybe a political reason. Maybe something to do with Holly and the White House. Maybe the policy was to deal with this secretly, deal with it hard, tackle it with a tight little team. So tight the right hand didn’t know what the left was doing. Hence the unarmed search-and-rescue chopper. It had come in blind. Hadn’t known what it was getting into.
In which case this ambushed guy he was watching was direct from Chicago. Part of the original operation that must have started up back on Monday. He looked like a senior guy. Maybe approaching fifty. Could be Brogan, Holly’s section head. Could even be McGrath, the top boy. In either case that made Milosevic the mole. Question was, was he up here as well, or was he still back in Chicago?
The jeep turned slowly in the road. The Bureau guy in the suit was in back, jammed between two armed men. His nose was bleeding and Reacher could see a swelling starting on his face. Borken had twisted his bulk around and was talking at him. The rest of the ambush squad was forming up in the road. The jeep drove past them, north toward town. Passed by thirty yards from where Reacher was standing in the trees. He watched it go. Turned and picked up his rifle. Strolled through the woods, deep in thought.
His problem was priority order. He had a rule: stick to the job in hand. The job in hand was getting Holly away safe. Nothing else. But this Bureau guy was in trouble. He thought about Jackson. The last Bur
eau guy they’d gotten hold of. Maybe this new guy was heading for the same fate. In which case, he ought to intervene. And he liked the look of the guy. He looked tough. Small, but strong. A lot of energy. Some kind of charisma there. Maybe an ally would be a smart thing to have. Two heads, better than one. Two pairs of hands. Four trigger fingers. Useful. But his rule was: stick to the job in hand. It had worked for him many times over the years. It was a rule which had served him well. Should he bend that rule? Or not? He stopped and stood concealed in the forest while the ambush squad marched by on the road. Listened to the sound of their footsteps die away. Stood there and thought about the guy some more and forced himself toward a tough decision.
GENERAL GARBER WATCHED the whole thing happen, too. He was a hundred and fifty yards south of the ambush. West side of the road, behind a rocky outcrop, exactly three hundred yards south of where Reacher had been. He had waited three minutes and then followed McGrath in through the ravine. Garber was also a reasonably fit man, but a lot older, and it had cost him a lot to keep pace with McGrath. He had arrived at the rocky outcrop and collapsed, out of breath. He figured he had maybe fifteen or twenty minutes to recover before the rendezvous took place. Then his plan was to follow behind the three agents and see what was going to happen. He didn’t want anybody making mistakes about Jack Reacher.
But the rendezvous had never happened. He had watched the ambush and realized a lot of mistakes had been made about a lot of things.
“YOU’RE GOING TO die,” Borken said.
McGrath was jammed between two soldiers on the back seat of the jeep. He was bouncing around because the road was rough. But he couldn’t move his arms, because the seat was not really wide enough for three people. So he put the shrug into his injured face instead.
“We’re all going to die,” he said. “Sooner or later.”
“Sooner or later, right,” Borken said. “But for you, it’s going to be sooner, not later.”
Borken was twisted around in the front seat, staring. McGrath looked past him at the vast blue sky. He looked at the small white clouds and thought: Who was it? Who knew? Air Force operational personnel, he guessed, but that link was ludicrous. Had to be somebody nearer and closer. Somebody more involved. The only possibilities were Johnson or his aide, or Webster himself, or Brogan, or Milosevic. Garber, conceivably. He seemed pretty hot on excusing this Reacher guy. Was this some military police conspiracy to overthrow the Joint Chiefs?
“Who was it, Borken?” he asked.
“Who was what, dead man?” Borken asked back.
“Who’s been talking to you?” McGrath said.
Borken smiled and tapped his finger on his temple.
“Common cause,” he said. “This sort of issue, there are a lot more people than you think on our side.”
McGrath glanced back to the sky and thought about Dexter, safe in the White House. What had Webster said he’d said? Twelve million people? Or was it sixty-six million? >
“You’re going to die,” Borken said again.
McGrath shifted his focus back.
“So tell me who it was, before I do,” he said.
Borken grinned at him.
“You’ll find out,” he said. “It’s going to be a big surprise.”
The jeep pulled up in front of the courthouse. McGrath twisted and looked up at it. There were six soldiers standing guard outside the building. They were fanned into a rough arc, facing south and east.
“She in there?” he asked.
Borken nodded and smiled.
“Right now she is,” he said. “I may have to get her out later.”
The walkie-talkie on his belt burst into life. A loud burst of static and a quick distorted message. He pressed the key and bent his head down. Acknowledged the information without unclipping the unit. Then he pulled the radio transmitter from his pocket. Flipped it open and pulled up the short antenna. Pressed the send button.
“Webster?” he said. “You lied to me. Twice. First, there were three of your agents down there with you. We just rounded them all up.”
He listened to the response. Kept the radio tight against his ear. McGrath could not hear what Webster was saying.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Borken said. “They weren’t all on your side. Some people in this world will do anything for money.”
He paused for a response. Apparently there was none.
“And you bullshitted me,” Borken said. “You weren’t going to fix the line at all, were you? You were just stringing me along.”
Webster was starting a reply, but Borken cut him off.
“You and Johnson,” he said. “You can get off the bridge now. The Marines stay there. We’re watching. You and Johnson walk back to your trucks. Get yourselves in front of those TVs. Should be some interesting action pretty soon.”
He clicked off the radio and folded it back into his pocket. A big wide smile on his face.
“You’re going to die,” he said to McGrath for the third time.
“Which one?” McGrath asked. “Brogan or Milosevic?”
Borken grinned again.
“Guess,” he said. “Figure it out for yourself. You’re supposed to be the big smart federal investigator. Agent-in-Charge, right?”
The driver jumped down and pulled a pistol from his holster. Aimed it two-handed at McGrath’s head. The left-hand guard squeezed out and unslung his rifle. Held it ready. The right-hand guy did the same. Then Borken eased his bulk down.
“Out,” he said. “We walk from here.”
McGrath shrugged and eased himself down into the circle of weapons. Borken stepped behind him and caught his arms. Cuffed his wrists together behind his back. Then he shoved him forward. Pointed beyond the ruined county office.
“Up there, dead man,” he said.
They left the jeep behind them next to the courthouse. The two guards formed up. McGrath stumbled across the street and up onto the lumpy knoll. He was pushed past the dead tree. He was pushed left until he found the path. He followed it around behind the old building. The rough ground bit up through the thin soles of his ruined city shoes. He might as well have been walking barefoot.
“Faster, asshole,” Borken grunted at him.
The guards were behind him, prodding him forward with the muzzles of their rifles. He picked up the pace and stumbled on through the woods. He felt the blood clotting on his lip and nose. After a mile, he came out into the clearing he recognized from the surveillance pictures. It looked bigger. From seven miles overhead, it had looked like a neat hole in the trees, with a tidy circle of buildings. From ground level, it looked as big as a stadium. Rough shale on the floor of the clearing, big wooden huts propped expertly on solid concrete piles.
“Wait here,” Borken said.
He walked away and the two guards took up station either side of McGrath as he gazed around. He saw the communications hut, with the phone wire and the whip antenna. He saw the other buildings. Smelled stale institutional food coming out of the largest. Saw the farthest hut, standing on its own. Must be their armory, he thought.
He glanced up and saw the vapor trails in the sky. The urgency of the situation was written up there, white on blue. The planes had abandoned their innocent east-west trawling. Their trails had tightened into continuous circles, one just inside the other. They were flying around and around, centered seven miles above his head. He stared up at them and mouthed: help! He wondered if their lenses were good enough to pick that out. Wondered if maybe Webster or Johnson or Garber or Johnson’s gofer could lip-read. His best guess was: yes, and no.
REACHER’S PROBLEM WAS a hell of an irony. For the first time in his life, he wished his opponents were better shots. He was concealed in the trees a hundred yards northwest of the courthouse. Looking down at six sentries. They were ranged in a loose arc, to the south and east beyond the big white building. Reacher’s rifle was trained on the nearest man. But he wasn’t shooting. Because if he did, the six men were going to shoot back. And
they were going to miss.
Reacher was happy with an M-16 and a range of a hundred yards. He could pretty much absolutely guarantee to hit what he wanted with that weapon at that range. He would bet his life on it. Many times, he had. And normally, the worse shots his opponents were, the happier he’d be about it. But not in this situation.
He would be shooting from a northwest direction. His opponents would be shooting back from the southeast. They would hear his shots, maybe see some muzzle flash, they would take aim, and they would fire. And they would miss. They would shoot high and wide. The targets on the rifle range were mute evidence for that conclusion. There had been some competent shooting at three and four hundred yards. The damaged targets bore witness to that fact. But Reacher’s experience was that guys who could shoot just about competently at three or four hundred yards on a range would be useless in a firefight. Lying still on a mat and sighting in on a target in your own time was one thing. Shooting into a noisy confused hailstorm of bullets was a very different thing. A different thing entirely. The guy defending the missile trucks had proved that. His salvos had been all over the place. And that was the problem. Shooting back from the southeast, these guys’ stray rounds were going to be all over the place, too. Up and down, left and right. The down rounds and the left rounds were no problem. They were just going to damage the scrubby vegetation. But the up rounds and the right rounds were going to hit the courthouse.
The M-16 uses bullets designated M855. Common NATO rounds, 5.56 millimeters in caliber, just a fraction under a quarter-inch wide. Fairly heavy for their size, because they are a sandwich of lead and steel, inside a copper jacket. Designed for penetration. Those stray rounds which hit the courthouse were going to impact the siding at two thousand miles an hour. They were going to punch through the old wood like it wasn’t there at all. They were going to smash through the unstable dynamite like a train wreck. The energy of their impact was going to act like a better blasting cap than anything any mining company had ever possessed. That was what those bullets were designed to do. Some committee had asked for a bullet capable of shooting through the sides of ammunition trucks. And that’s what had been delivered.
Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16] Page 80
