“Fox?” Vladimir said.
“I didn’t see it,” Sokolov said. “But probably.”
“It ran away again.”
“OK, then.” Sokolov turned back to his own pair of monitors. Glanced at the West view, checked the South, and settled into his regular cadence again.
Cash had a cadence of his own. He was inching his night scope along at what he guessed was the speed of a walking man. But every five seconds he would sweep it suddenly forward and back in case his estimate was off. During one of those rapid traverses he picked up on what looked like a pale green shadow.
“Reacher, I can see you,” he whispered. “You’re visible, soldier.”
Reacher’s voice came back: “What scope have you got on that thing?”
“Litton,” Cash said.
“Expensive, right?”
“Thirty-seven hundred dollars.”
“Got to be better than a lousy thermal camera.”
Cash didn’t reply.
Reacher said: “Well, I’m hoping so, anyway.”
He walked on. Probably the most unnatural thing a human can force himself to do, to walk slowly and surely toward a building that likely has a rifle in it pointing directly at his center mass. If Chenko had any sense at all he would wait, and wait, and wait, until his target was pretty close. And Chenko seemed to have plenty of sense. Fifty yards would be good. Or thirty-five, like Chenko’s range out of the parking garage. Chenko was pretty good at thirty-five yards. That had been made very clear.
He walked on. Transferred the phone to his left and held it near his ear. Took the knife out of his pocket and unsheathed it and held it right-handed, low and easy. Heard Cash say: “You’re totally visible now, soldier. You’re shining like the north star. It’s like you’re on fire.”
Forty yards to go.
Thirty-nine.
Thirty-eight.
“Helen?” he said. “Do it again.”
He heard her voice: “OK.”
He walked on. Held his breath.
Thirty-five yards.
Thirty-four.
Thirty-three.
He breathed out. He walked on doggedly. Twenty-nine yards to go. He heard panting in his ear. Helen, running. He heard Yanni ask, off-mike: “How close is he?” Heard Cash answer: “Not close enough.”
Vladimir leaned forward and said, “There it is again.” He put his fingertip on the screen, as if touch might tell him something. Sokolov glanced across. Sokolov had spent many more hours with the screens than Vladimir. Primarily surveillance had been his job. His, and Raskin’s.
“That’s no fox,” he said. “It’s way too big.”
He watched for five more seconds. The image was weaving left and right at the very limit of the camera’s range. Recognizable size, recognizable shape, inexplicable motion. He stood up and walked to the door. Braced his hands on the frame and leaned out into the hallway.
“Chenko!” he called. “North!”
Behind his back on the West screen a shape as big as his thumb grew larger. It looked like a painting-by-numbers figure done in fluorescent colors. Lime green on the outside, then a band of chrome yellow, with a core of hot red.
Chenko walked through an empty bedroom and opened the window as high as it would go. Then he backed away into the darkness. That way he was invisible from below and invulnerable except to a shot taken from the third story of an adjacent building, and there were no adjacent buildings. He switched on his night scope and raised his rifle. Quartered the open ground two hundred yards out, up and down, left and right.
He saw a woman.
She was running crazily, barefoot, darting left and right, out and back, like she was dancing or playing a phantom game of soccer. Chenko thought: What? He squeezed the slack out of his trigger and tried to anticipate her next pirouette. Tried to guess where her chest would be a third of a second after he fired. He waited. Then she stopped moving. She stood completely still, facing the house, arms out wide like a target.
Chenko pulled the trigger.
Then he understood. He stepped back to the hallway.
“Decoy!” he screamed. “Decoy!”
______
Cash saw the muzzle flash and called, “Shot fired,” and jumped his scope to the north window. The lower pane was raised, the upper pane was fixed. No point in putting a round through the opening. The upward trajectory would guarantee a miss. So he fired at the glass. He figured if he could get a hail of jagged shards going, then that might ruin somebody’s night.
Sokolov was watching the crazy heat image on Vladimir’s screen when he heard Chenko’s shot and his shouted warning. He glanced back at the door and turned to the South monitor. Nothing there. Then he heard return fire and shattering glass upstairs. He pushed back from the table and stepped to the door.
“Are you OK?” he called.
“Decoy,” Chenko called back. “Has to be.”
Sokolov turned and checked all four screens, very carefully.
“No,” he called. “Negative. Definitely nothing incoming.”
Reacher touched the front wall of the house. Old plank siding, painted many times. He was ten feet south of the driveway, ten feet south of the front door, near a window that looked into a dark empty room. The window was a tall rectangle with a lower pane that slid upward behind the upper pane. Maybe the upper pane slid down over the lower pane, too. Reacher didn’t know the name for the style. He had rarely lived in houses and had never owned one. Sash? Double-hung? He wasn’t sure. The house was much older than it had looked from a distance. Maybe a hundred years. Hundred-year-old house, hundred-year-old window. But did the window still have a hundred-year-old catch? He pressed his cheek against the lower pane and squinted upward.
He couldn’t see. Too dark.
Then he heard the shooting. Two rounds, one close, one not, shattering glass.
Then he heard Cash in his ear: “Helen? You OK?”
He heard no reply.
Cash asked again: “Helen? Helen?”
No reply.
Reacher put the phone in his pocket. Worked the blade of his knife up into the gap where the bottom of the upper casement overlapped the top of the lower casement. He moved the blade right to left, slowly, carefully, feeling for a catch. He found one, dead-center. Tapped it gently. It felt like a heavy brass tongue. It would pivot through ninety degrees, in and out of a socket.
But which way?
He pushed it right to left. Solid. He pulled the knife out and worked it back in an inch left of center. Slid it back until he found the tongue again. Pushed it left to right.
It moved.
He pushed it hard, and knocked it right out of its socket.
Easy.
He lifted the lower pane high and rolled over the sill into the room.
Cash eased forward and swung his rifle through ninety degrees until it was sighted due east along the fence. He stared through the scope. Saw nothing. He moved back into cover. Raised his phone.
“Helen?” he whispered.
No response.
Reacher moved through the empty room to the door. It was closed. He put his ear against it. Listened hard. Heard nothing. He turned the handle slowly, carefully. Opened the door very slowly. Leaned out. Checked the hallway.
Empty.
There was light from an open doorway fifteen feet ahead on his left. He paused. Lifted one foot at a time and wiped the soles of his shoes on his pants. Wiped his palms. He took a single step. Tested the floor. No sound. He moved ahead slowly, silently. Boat shoes. Good for something. He kept close to the wall, where the floor would be strongest. He stopped a yard shy of the lighted doorway. Took a breath. Moved on.
Stopped in the doorway.
He was looking at two guys from behind. They were seated side by side with their backs to him at a long table. Staring at TV monitors. At ghostly green images of darkness. On the left, Vladimir. On the right, a guy he hadn’t seen before. Sokolov? Must be. To Sokolov’s right, a yard
away from him, a handgun rested on the very end of the table. A Smith & Wesson Model 60. The first stainless steel revolver produced anywhere in the world. Two-and-a-half-inch barrel. A five-shooter.
Reacher took a long silent step into the room. Paused. Held his breath. Reversed the knife in his hand. Held the blade an inch from its end between the ball of his thumb and the knuckle of his first finger. Raised his arm. Cocked it behind his head. Snapped it forward.
Threw the knife.
It buried itself two inches deep in the back of Sokolov’s neck.
Vladimir glanced right, toward the sound. Reacher was already moving. Vladimir glanced back. Saw him. Pushed himself away from the table and half-rose. Reacher watched him calculate the distance between himself and the gun. Saw him decide to go for it. Reacher stepped into his charge and ducked under his swinging left hook and buried his shoulder in his chest and wrapped both arms around his back and jacked him bodily off his feet. Just lifted him up and turned him away from the table.
And then squeezed.
Best route to a silent kill against a guy as big as Vladimir was simply to crush him to death. No hitting, no shooting, no banging around. As long as his arms and his legs couldn’t connect with anything solid there would be no noise. No shouting, no screaming. Just a long labored barely-audible tubercular sound as the last breath he had taken came back out, never to be replaced.
Reacher held Vladimir a foot off the ground and squeezed with all his strength. He crushed Vladimir’s chest in a bear hug so vicious and sustained and powerful that no human could have survived it. Vladimir wasn’t expecting it. He thought this was some kind of a preamble. Not the main event. When he figured it out, he went crazy with panic. He rained desperate blows down on Reacher’s back and flailed with his feet at his shins. Stupid, Reacher thought. You’re just burning oxygen. And you ain’t getting more, pal. Better believe it. He tightened his grip. Crushed harder. And harder. And then harder, in a remorseless subliminal rhythm that said: More, and More, and More. His teeth ground together. His heart pounded. His muscles swelled as big and hard as river rocks and started burning. He could feel Vladimir’s rib cage moving, clicking, separating, cracking, crushing. And his last living breath leaking out of his starving lungs.
Sokolov moved.
Reacher staggered under Vladimir’s weight. Turned clumsily on one leg. Kicked out and caught the hilt of the knife with his heel. Sokolov stopped moving. Vladimir stopped moving. Reacher kept the pressure full on for another whole minute. Then he eased off slowly and bent down and laid the body gently on the floor. Squatted down. Breathed hard. Checked for a pulse.
No pulse.
He stood up and pulled Cash’s knife out of Sokolov’s neck and used it to cut Vladimir’s throat, ear to ear. For Sandy, he thought. Then he turned back and cut Sokolov’s throat, too. Just in case. Blood soaked the tabletop and dripped to the floor. It didn’t spurt. It just leaked. Sokolov’s heart had already stopped pumping. He squatted down again and cleaned the blade on Vladimir’s shirt, one side, then the other. He pulled the phone out of his pocket. Heard Cash say: “Helen?”
He whispered: “What’s up?”
Cash answered, “We took an incoming round. I can’t raise Helen.”
“Yanni, move left,” Reacher said. “Find her. Franklin, you there?”
Franklin said, “Here.”
“Stand by to call the medics,” Reacher said.
Cash asked, “Where are you?”
“In the house,” Reacher said.
“Opposition?”
“Unsuccessful,” Reacher said. “Where did the shot come from?”
“Third-floor window, north. Which makes sense, tactically. They’ve got the sniper up there. They can direct him based on what they see from the cameras.”
“Not anymore,” Reacher said. He dropped the phone back in his pocket. Picked up the gun. Checked the cylinder. It was fully loaded. Five Smith & Wesson .38 Specials. He moved out to the hallway with the knife in his right hand and the gun in his left. Went looking for the basement door.
Cash heard Yanni talking to herself as she moved away to his left. Low voice, but clear, like a running commentary. She was saying: “I’m moving east now, keeping low, staying tight against the fence in the darkness. I’m looking for Helen Rodin. We know they fired at her. Now she’s not answering her phone. We’re hoping she’s OK, but we’re worried that she isn’t.”
Cash listened until he couldn’t hear her anymore. He shook his head in bemusement. Then he ducked his eye to the scope and watched the house.
Rosemary Barr wasn’t in the basement. It took Reacher less than a minute to be completely certain of that. It was a wide-open space, musty, dimly lit, uninterrupted and totally empty except for the foundations of three brick chimneys.
Reacher paused at the circuit breaker box. He was tempted to throw the switch. But Chenko had a night sight, and he didn’t. So he just crept back up the stairs.
Yanni found Helen Rodin’s shoes literally by stumbling over them. They were placed neatly side by side at the base of the fence. High heels, black patent, gleaming slightly in the ragged moonlight. Yanni kicked them accidentally and heard the sound of empty footwear. She bent and picked them up. Hung them on the fence by their heels.
“Helen?” she whispered. “Helen? Where are you?”
Then she heard a voice: “Here.”
“Where?”
“Here. Keep going.”
Yanni walked on. Found a black shape rolled tight against the base of the fence.
“I dropped my phone,” Helen said. “Can’t find it.”
“Are you OK?”
“He missed me. I was leaping around like a madwoman. But the bullet came real close. It scared me. I just dropped my phone and ran.”
Helen sat up. Yanni squatted next to her.
“Look,” Helen said. She was holding something in the palm of her hand. Something bright. A coin. A quarter, new and shiny.
“What is it?” Yanni said.
“A quarter,” Helen said.
“So what?”
“Reacher gave it to me.”
Helen was smiling. Yanni could see the white of her teeth in the moonlight.
Reacher crept down the first-floor hallway. Opened doors and searched rooms to the left and right as he went. They were all empty. All unused. He paused at the bottom of the stairs. Backed away into an empty twelve-by-twenty space that might once have been a parlor. Crouched and laid the knife on the floor and pulled out his phone.
“Gunny?” he whispered.
Cash answered: “You back with us?”
“Phone was in my pocket.”
“Yanni found Helen. She’s OK.”
“Good. The basement and the first floor are clear. I think you were right after all. Rosemary must be in the attic.”
“You going upstairs now?”
“I guess I’ll have to.”
“Body count?”
“Two down so far.”
“Lots more upstairs, then.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Roger that.”
Reacher put the phone back in his pocket and retrieved the knife from the floor. Stood up and crept out to the hallway. The staircase was in the back of the house. It was wide, doglegged, and shallow-pitched. Quite grand. There was a wide landing halfway up where the dogleg reversed direction. He went up the first half-flight backward. It made more sense that way. He wanted to know right away if there was someone in the second-floor hallway looking down over the banister. He kept close to the wall. If stairs creaked at all, they creaked most in the middle of a tread. He went slowly, feeling with his heels, putting them down gently and deliberately. And quietly. Boat shoes. Good for something. After five up-and-back steps, his head was about level with the second-story floor. He raised the gun. Took another step. Now he could see the whole of the hallway. It was empty. It was a quiet carpeted space lit by a single low-wattage bulb. Nothing to see, except six clos
ed doors, three on a side. He breathed out and made it to the half-landing. Shuffled left and crept up the second part of the dogleg going forward. Stepped off the staircase. Into the hallway.
Now what?
Six closed doors. Who was where? He moved slowly toward the front of the house. Listened at the first door. Heard nothing. He moved on. Heard nothing at the second door. Moved on again but before he reached the third door he heard sounds from the floor above. Sounds that were coming down through the floor. Sounds that he didn’t understand. Sliding, scraping, crunching noises, repeated rhythmically, with a single light footfall at the end of every sequence. Slide, scrape, crunch, tap. Slide, scrape, crunch, tap. He stared up at the ceiling. Then the third door opened and Grigor Linsky stepped out into the hallway right in front of him. And froze.
He was wearing his familiar double-breasted suit. Gray color, boxy shoulders, cuffed pants. Reacher stabbed him in the throat. Instantly, right-handed, instinctively. He buried the blade and jerked it left. Sever the windpipe. Keep him quiet. He stepped aside to avoid the fountain of blood. Caught him under the arms from behind and dragged him back into the room he had come out of. It was a kitchen. Linsky had been making tea. Reacher turned out the light under the kettle. Put the gun and the knife on the counter. Bent down and clamped Linsky’s head between his hands and twisted it left and jerked it right. Broke his neck. The snap was loud enough to worry about. It was a very quiet house. Reacher retrieved the gun and the knife and listened at the door. Heard nothing except: Slide, scrape, crunch, tap. Slide, scrape, crunch, tap. He stepped back into the hallway. Then he knew.
Glass.
Cash had returned fire through Chenko’s favored northern vantage point and like all good snipers had sought maximum damage from his one shot. And in turn, like all good snipers, Chenko was keeping his physical environment operational. He was cleaning up the broken glass. He had a twenty-five percent chance of being directed back to that particular window and he wanted his passage through the room clear.
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