by Lee Child
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 closed 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.
Slide, scrape, crunch, tap. He was using the side of his foot to sweep the glass aside. Into a pile. Then he was stepping forward to sweep the next arc. He would want a clear two-foot walkway through the room. No danger of slipping or sliding.
How far had he got?
Reacher crept to the next staircase. It was identical to the last one. Wide, shallow, doglegged. He walked up backward, listening hard. Slide, scrape, crunch, tap. He crossed the half-landing. Kept on going forward. The third-floor hallway had the same layout as the one below, but it wasn’t carpeted. Just bare boards. There was an upright chair in the center of the corridor. All the doors were open. North was to the right. Reacher could feel night air coming in. He stayed close to the wall. Crept onward. The noises got louder. He flattened against the wall. Took a breath. Pivoted slowly and stepped to his left. Into a doorway.
Chenko was twelve feet from him. Facing away. Facing the window. The lower pane had been pushed up behind the upper pane. Both panes had been blown out. The room was cold. The floor was covered in glass. Chenko was clearing a path from the door toward the window. He had about three feet left to go. His rifle was upright against the wall, six feet from him. He was stooped, looking down, concentrating hard on his task. It was an important task. Skidding on a pebble of glass could cost him precious time in a firefight. Chenko had discipline.
And ten seconds to live.
Reacher put the knife in his pocket. Freed his right hand. Flexed it. Stepped forward. Just walked slow and silent down the path that Chenko had cleared. Four quiet paces. Chenko sensed it. He straightened. Reacher caught him around the neck from behind. One-handed. He gripped hard. Took one more long fast stride and stiff-armed Chenko forward with it and threw him out the open window, headfirst.
“I warned you,” he whispered into the darkness below. “You should have put me down when you had the chance.” Then he took out his phone.
“Gunny?” he whispered.
“Here.”
“Third-floor window, where you returned fire. You see it?”
“I see it.”
“A guy just fell out. If he gets up again, shoot him.”
Then he put the phone away and went looking for the attic door.
He found Rosemary Barr completely unharmed, sitting upright on the attic floor. Her feet were taped, her wrists were taped, her mouth was taped. Reacher put his finger to his lips. She nodded. He cut her free with the bloodstained knife and helped her stand. She was unsteady for a moment. Then she shook herself and gave a kind of nod. Then a smile. Reacher guessed that whatever fear she had felt and whatever reaction she was feeling right now had both been neutralized by some kind of a steely determination to help her brother. If she survived, he would survive. That belief had kept her going.
“Have they gone?” she whispered.
“All except Raskin and the Zec,” Reacher whispered back.
“No, Raskin killed himself. I heard them talking. The Zec made him do it. Because he let you steal his cell phone.”
“Where’s the Zec likely to be?”
“He’s in the living room most of the time. Second floor.”
“Which door?”
“Last on the left.”
“OK, stay here,” Reacher whispered. “I’ll round him up and I’ll be right back.”
“I can’t stay here. You have to get me out.”
He paused. “OK, but you’ve got to be real quiet. And don’t look left or right.”
“Why not?”
“Dead people.”
“I’m glad,” Rosemary said.
Reacher held her arm down the stairs to the third-floor hallway. Then he went ahead alone to the second. All quiet. The last door on the left was still closed. He waved her down. They made the turn together and headed to the first floor. To the front of the house. To the room he had entered through. He helped her over the sill and out the window, to the dirt below. He pointed.
“Follow the driveway to the road,” he said. “Turn right. I’ll tell the others you’re coming. There’s a guy in black with a rifle. He’s one of ours.”
She stood still for a second. Then she bent down and took off her low-heeled shoes and held them in her hands and started running like hell, due west, through the dirt, toward the road. Reacher took out his phone.
“Gunny?” he whispered.
“Here.”
“Rosemary Barr is heading your way.”
“Outstanding.”
“Round up the others and meet her halfway. There’s no more operational night vision. Then stand by. I’ll get back to you.”
“Roger that.”
Reacher put the phone away. Backtracked through the silent house, on his way to find the Zec.
CHAPTER 17
In the end, it came down to waiting. Wait, and good things come to you. And bad things. Reacher crept back to the second floor. The last door on the left was still closed. He ducked into the kitchen. Linsky was on the floor, on his back in a pool of blood. Reacher relit the flame under the kettle. Then he stepped out to the hallway. Walked quietly to the front of the house and leaned on the wall beyond the last door on the left.
And waited.
The kettle boiled after five minutes. The whistle started low and quiet, and then the note and the volume rose to full blast. Within ten seconds the second floor of the house was full of an insane shrieking. Ten seconds after that, the door on Reacher’s right opened. A small man stepped out. Reacher let him take a pace forward and then spun him around and jammed the Smith 60 hard in the base of his throat.
And stared.
The Zec. He was a wide, ancient, twisted, stooped, battered old man. A wraith. Barely human. He was covered in livid scars and patches of discolored skin. His face was lined and drooping and seething with rage and hatred and cruelty. He was unarmed. His ruined hands didn’t seem capable of holding a weapon. Reacher forced him down the hallway. Into the kitchen, backward. To the stove. The noise from the kettle was unbearable. Reacher used his left hand and killed the flame. Then he hauled the Zec back toward the living room. The kettle’s whistle died away, like an air raid siren winding down. The house went quiet again.
“It’s over,” Reacher said. “You lost.”
“It’s never over,” the Zec replied. Hoarse voice, low, guttural.
“Guess again,” Reacher said. He kept the Smith hard against the Zec’s throat. Too low and too cl
ose for him to see it. He eased the hammer back. Slowly, carefully. Deliberately. Loudly. Click-click-click-crunch. An unmistakable sound.
“I’m eighty years old,” the Zec said.
“I don’t care if you’re a hundred,” Reacher said. “You’re still going down.”
“Idiot,” the Zec said back. “I meant I’ve survived things worse than you. Since long before you were born.”
“Nobody’s worse than me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re nothing.”
“You think?” Reacher said. “You were alive this morning and you won’t be tomorrow. After eighty years. That makes me something, don’t you think?”
No answer.
“It’s over,” Reacher said. “Believe me. Long and winding road, OK, I understand all of that, but this is the end of it. Had to happen sometime.”
No response.
“You know when my birthday is?” Reacher asked.
“Obviously not.”
“It’s in October. You know what day?”
“Of course not.”
“You’re going to find out the hard way. I’m counting in my head. When I reach my birthday, I’m going to pull the trigger.”
He started counting in his head. First, second. He watched the Zec’s eyes. Fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth. No response. Tenth, eleventh, twelfth.
“What do you want?” the Zec said.
Negotiation time.
“I want to talk,” Reacher said.
“Talk?”
“The twelfth,” Reacher said. “That’s how long you lasted. Then you gave it up. You know why? Because you want to survive. It’s the deepest instinct you’ve got. Obviously. Otherwise how would you have gotten as old as you are? It’s probably a deeper instinct than I could ever understand. A reflex, a habit, roll the dice, stay alive, make the next move, take the next chance. It’s in your DNA. It’s what you are.”
