by Child, Lee
“Our parade ground,” Fowler said, sourly.
Reacher nodded and scanned around. To the north and west, the high mountains. To the east, thick virgin forest. South, he could see over the distant town, across belts of trees, to the fractured ravines beyond. A cold wind lifted his new jacket and grabbed at his shirt, and he shivered.
THE BIGGER BOLTS were much harder. Much more contact area, metal to metal. Much more paint to scrape. Much more force required to turn them. The more force she used, the more the crushed end of the crutch was liable to slip off. She took off her shoe and used it to hammer the end into shape. She bent and folded the soft aluminum around the head of the bolt. Then she clamped it tight with her fingers. Clamped until the slim tendons in her arm stood out like ropes and sweat ran down her face. Then she turned the crutch, holding her breath, waiting to see which would give first, the grip of her fingers or the grip of the bolt.
THE WIND GRABBING at Reacher’s shirt also carried some faint sounds to him. He glanced at Fowler and turned to face the western edge of the parade ground. He could hear men moving in the trees. A line of men, bursting out of the forest.
They crashed out of the trees, six men line abreast, automatic rifles at the slope. Camouflage fatigues, beards. The same six guards who had stood in front of the judge’s bench that morning. Borken’s personal detail. Reacher scanned across the line of faces. The younger guy with the scar was at the left-hand end of the line. Jackson, the FBI plant. They paused and reset their course. Rushed across the leveled ground toward Reacher. As they approached, Fowler stood back, leaving Reacher looking like an isolated target. Five of the men fanned out into a loose arc. Five rifles aimed at Reacher’s chest. The sixth man stepped up in front of Fowler. No salute, but there was a deference in his stance which was more or less the same thing.
“Beau wants this guy back,” the soldier said. “Something real urgent.”
Fowler nodded.
“Take him,” he said. “He’s beginning to piss me off.”
The rifle muzzles jerked Reacher into a rough formation and the six men hustled him south through the thin belt of trees, moving fast. They passed through the shooting range and followed the beaten earth path back to the Bastion. They turned west and walked past the armory and on into the forest toward the command hut. Reacher lengthened his stride and sped up. Pulled ahead. Let his foot hit a root and went down heavily on the stones. First guy to reach him was Jackson. Reacher saw the scarred forehead. He grabbed Reacher’s arm.
“Mole in Chicago,” Reacher breathed.
“On your feet, asshole,” Jackson shouted back.
“Hide out and run for it tonight,” Reacher whispered. “Maximum care, OK?”
Jackson glanced at him and replied with a squeeze of his arm. Then he pulled him up and shoved him ahead down the path into the smaller clearing. Beau Borken was framed in his command hut doorway. He was dressed in huge baggy camouflage fatigues, dirty and disheveled. Like he had been working hard. He stared at Reacher as he approached.
“I see we gave you new clothes,” he said.
Reacher nodded.
“So let me apologize for my own appearance,” Borken said. “Busy day.”
“Fowler told me,” Reacher said. “You’ve been building abatises.”
“Abatises?” Borken said. “Right.”
Then he went quiet. Reacher saw his big white hands, opening and closing.
“Your mission is canceled,” Borken said quietly.
“It is?” Reacher said. “Why?”
Borken eased his bulk down out of the doorway and stepped close. Reacher’s gaze was fixed on his blazing eyes and he never saw the blow coming. Borken hit him in the stomach, a big hard fist on the end of four hundred pounds of body weight. Reacher went down like a tree and Borken smashed a foot into his back.
28
“HIS NAME IS Jackson,” Webster said.
“How long has he been in there?” Milosevic asked.
“Nearly a year,” Webster said.
Eleven o’clock in the morning, Thursday July third, inside Peterson. The section head at Quantico was faxing material over from Andrews down the Air Force’s own secure fax network as fast as the machines could handle it. Milosevic and Brogan were pulling it off the machines and passing it to Webster and McGrath for analysis. On the other side of the table, General Johnson and his aide were scanning a map of the northwest corner of Montana.
“You got people undercover in all these groups?” Johnson asked.
Webster shook his head and smiled.
“Not all of them,” he said. “Too many groups, not enough people. I think we just got lucky.”
“I didn’t know we had people in this one,” Brogan said.
Webster was still smiling.
“Lots of things lots of people don’t know,” he said. “Safer that way, right?”
“So what is this Jackson guy saying?” Brogan asked.
“Does he mention Holly?” Johnson asked.
“Does he mention what the hell this is all about?” Milosevic asked.
Webster blew out his cheeks and waved his hand at the stack of curling fax paper. McGrath was busy sifting through it. He was separating the papers into two piles. One pile for routine stuff, the other pile for important intelligence. The routine pile was bigger. The important intelligence was sketchy.
“Analysis, Mack?” Webster said.
McGrath shrugged.
“Up to a point, pretty much normal,” he said.
Johnson stared at him.
“Normal?” he said.
Webster nodded.
“This is normal,” he said. “We got these militia groups all over the country, which is why we can’t cover them all. Too damn many. Our last count was way over four hundred groups, all fifty states. Most of them are just amateur wackos, but some of them we consider pretty serious antigovernment terrorists.”
“This bunch?” Johnson asked.
McGrath looked at him.
“This bunch is totally serious,” he said. “One hundred people, hidden out in the forest. Very well armed, very well organized, very self-contained. Very well funded, too. Jackson has reported mail fraud, phony bank drafts, a little low-grade counterfeiting. Probably armed robbery as well. The feeling is they stole twenty million bucks in bearer bonds, armored car heist up in the north of California. And, of course, they’re selling videos and books and manuals to the rest of the wackos, mail order. Big boom industry right now. And naturally they decline to pay income tax or license their vehicles or anything else that might cost them anything.”
“Effectively, they control Yorke County,” Webster said.
“How is that possible?” Johnson asked.
“Because nobody else does,” Webster said. “You ever been up there? I haven’t. Jackson says the whole place is abandoned. Everything pulled out, a long time ago. He says there’s just a couple dozen citizens still around, spread out over miles of empty territory, bankrupt ranchers, leftover miners, old folk. No effective county government. Borken just eased his way in and took it over.”
“He’s calling it an experiment,” McGrath said. “A prototype for a brand-new nation.”
Johnson nodded, blankly.
“But what about Holly?” he said.
Webster stacked the paper and laid his hand on it.
“He doesn’t mention her,” he said. “His last call was Monday, the day she was grabbed up. They were building a prison. We have to assume it was for her.”
“This guy calls in?” Brogan said. “By radio?”
Webster nodded.
“He’s got a transmitter concealed in the forest,” he said. “He wanders off when he can, calls in. That’s why it’s all so erratic. He’s been averaging one call a week. He’s pretty inexperienced and he’s been told to be cautious. We assume he’s under surveillance. Brave new world up there, that’s for damn sure.”
“Can we call him?” Milosevic asked.
�
��You’re kidding,” Webster said. “We just sit and wait.”
“Who does he report to?” Brogan asked.
“Resident Agent at Butte,” Webster said.
“So what do we do?” Johnson asked.
Webster shrugged. The room went quiet.
“Right now, nothing,” he said. “We need a position.”
The room stayed quiet and Webster just looked hard at Johnson. It was a look between one government man and another and it said: you know how it is. Johnson stared back for a long time, expressionless. Then his head moved through a fractional nod. Just enough to say: for the moment, I know how it is.
Johnson’s aide coughed into the silence.
“We’ve got missiles north of Yorke,” he said. “They’re moving south right now, on their way back here. Twenty grunts, a hundred Stingers, five trucks. They’ll be heading straight through Yorke, anytime now. Can we use them?”
Brogan shook his head.
“Against the law,” he said. “Military can’t participate in law enforcement.”
Webster ignored him and glanced at Johnson and waited. They were his men, and Holly was his daughter. The answer was better coming straight from him. There was a silence, and then Johnson shook his head.
“No,” he said. “We need time to plan.”
The aide spread his hands wide.
“We can plan,” he said. “We’ve got radio contact, ground-to-ground. We should go for it, General.”
“Against the law,” Brogan said again.
Johnson made no reply. He was thinking hard. McGrath riffled through the pile of papers and pulled the sheet about the dynamite packing Holly’s prison walls. He held it facedown on the shiny table. But Johnson shook his head again.
“No,” he said again. “Twenty men against a hundred? They’re not frontline troops. They’re not infantry. And their Stingers won’t help us. I assume these terrorists don’t have an air force, right? No, we wait. Bring the missile unit right back here, fastest. No engagement.”
The aide shrugged and McGrath slipped the dynamite report back into the pile. Webster looked around and slapped both palms lightly on the tabletop.
“I’m going back to D.C.,” he said. “Got to get a position.”
Johnson shrugged his shoulders. He knew nothing could start without a trip back to D.C. to get a position. Webster turned to McGrath.
“You three move up to Butte,” he said. “Get settled in the office there. If this guy Jackson calls, put him on maximum alert.”
“We can chopper you up there,” the aide said.
“And we need surveillance,” Webster said. “Can you get the Air Force to put some camera planes over Yorke?”
Johnson nodded.
“They’ll be there,” he said. “Twenty-four hours a day. We’ll give you a live video feed into Butte. A rat farts, you’ll see it.”
“No intervention,” Webster said. “Not yet.”
29
SHE HEARD FOOTSTEPS in the corridor at the exact moment the sixth bolt came free. A light tread. Not Jackson. Not a man treading carefully. A woman, walking normally. The steps halted outside her door. There was a pause. She rested the long tube back on the frame. A key went into the lock. She pulled the mattress back into place. Dragged the blanket over it. Another pause. The door opened.
A woman came into the room. She looked like all of them looked, white, lean, long straight hair, strong plain face, no makeup, no adornment, red hands. She was carrying a tray, with a white cloth mounded up over it. No weapon.
“Lunch,” she said.
Holly nodded. Her heart was pounding. The woman was standing there, the tray in her hands, looking around the room, staring hard at the new pine walls.
“Where do you want this?” she asked. “On the bed?”
Holly shook her head.
“On the floor,” she said.
The woman bent and placed the tray on the floor.
“Guess you could use a table,” she said. “And a chair.”
Holly glanced down at the flatware and thought: tools.
“You want me to get them to bring you a chair?” the woman asked.
“No,” Holly said.
“Well, I could use one,” the woman said. “I’ve got to wait and watch you eat. Make sure you don’t steal the silverware.”
Holly nodded vaguely and circled around the woman. Glanced at the open door. The woman followed her gaze and grinned.
“Nowhere to run,” she said. “We’re a long way from anywhere, and there’s some difficult terrain in the way. North, you’d reach Canada in a couple of weeks, if you found enough roots and berries and bugs to eat. West, you’d have to swim the river. East, you’d get lost in the forest or eaten by a bear, and even if you didn’t, you’re still a month away from Montana. South, we’d shoot you. The border is crawling with guards. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“The road is blocked?” Holly asked.
The woman smiled.
“We blew the bridge,” she said. “There is no road, not anymore.”
“When?” Holly asked her. “We drove in.”
“Just now,” the woman said. “You didn’t hear it? I guess you wouldn’t, not with these walls.”
“So how does Reacher get sent out?” Holly asked. “He’s supposed to be carrying some sort of a message.”
The woman smiled again.
“That plan has changed,” she said. “Mission canceled. He’s not going.”
“Why not?” Holly asked.
The woman looked straight at her.
“We found out what happened to Peter Bell,” she said.
Holly went quiet.
“Reacher killed him,” the woman said. “Suffocated him. In North Dakota. We were just informed. But I expect you know all about it, right?”
Holly stared at her. She thought: Reacher’s in big trouble. She saw him, handcuffed and alone somewhere.
“How did you find out?” she asked quietly.
The woman shrugged.
“We have a lot of friends,” she said.
Holly kept on staring at her. She thought: the mole. They know we were in North Dakota. Takes a map and a ruler to figure out where we are now. She saw computer keyboards clicking and Jackson’s name scrolling up on a dozen screens.
“What’s going to happen to Reacher?” she asked.
“A life for a life,” the woman said. “That’s the rule here. Same for your friend Reacher as for anybody else.”
“But what’s going to happen to him?” Holly asked again.
The woman laughed.
“Doesn’t take much imagination,” she said. “Or maybe it does. I don’t expect it’s going to be anything real simple.”
Holly shook her head.
“It was self-defense,” she said. “The guy was trying to rape me.”
The woman looked at her, scornfully.
“So how is that self-defense?” she said. “Wasn’t trying to rape Reacher, was he? And you were probably asking for it, anyhow.”
“What?” Holly said.
“Shaking your tail at him?” the woman said. “We know all about smart little city bitches like you. Poor old Peter never stood a chance.”
Holly just stared at her. Then she glanced at the door.
“Where is Reacher now?” she asked.
“No idea,” the woman said. “Chained to a tree somewhere, I guess.”
Then she grinned.
“But I know where he’s going,” she said. “The parade ground. That’s where they usually do that sort of stuff. We’re all ordered up there to watch the fun.”
Holly stared at her. Then she swallowed. Then she nodded.
“Will you help me with this bed?” she asked. “Something wrong with it.”
The woman paused. Then she followed her over.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.
Holly pulled the blanket back and heaved the mattress onto the floor.
“The bolts see
m a little loose,” she said.
“Where?” the woman said.
“Here,” Holly said.
She used both hands on the long tube. Whipped it upward and spun and smashed it like a blunt spear into the side of the woman’s head. The flange hit her like a metal fist. Skin tore and a neat rectangle of bone punched deep into her brain and she bounced off the mattress and was dead before she hit the floor. Holly stepped carefully over the tray of lunch and limped calmly toward the open door.
30
HARLAND WEBSTER GOT back to the Hoover Building from Colorado at three o’clock Thursday afternoon, East Coast time. He went straight to his office suite and checked his messages. Then he buzzed his secretary.
“Car,” he said.
He went down in his private elevator to the garage and met his driver. They walked over to the limousine and got in.
“White House,” Webster said.
“You seeing the President, sir?” the driver asked, surprised.
Webster scowled forward at the back of the guy’s head. He wasn’t seeing the President. He didn’t see the President very often. He didn’t need reminding of that, especially not by a damn driver sounding all surprised that there even was such a possibility.
“Attorney General,” he said. “White House is where she is right now.”
His driver nodded silently. Cursed himself for opening his big mouth. Drove on smoothly and unobtrusively. The distance between the Hoover Building and the White House was exactly sixteen hundred yards. Less than a mile. Not even far enough to click over the little number in the speedometer on the limousine’s dash. It would have been quicker to walk. And cheaper. Firing up the cold V-8 and hauling all that bulletproof plating sixteen hundred yards really ate up the gas. But the Director couldn’t walk anywhere. Theory was he’d get assassinated. Fact was, there were probably about eight people in the city who would recognize him. Just another D.C. guy in a gray suit and a quiet tie. Anonymous. Another reason old Webster was never in the best of tempers, his driver thought.
WEBSTER KNEW THE Attorney General pretty well. She was his boss, but his familiarity with her did not come from their face-to-face meetings. It came instead from the background checks the Bureau had run prior to her confirmation. Webster probably knew more about her than anybody else on earth did. Her parents and friends and ex-colleagues all knew their own separate perspectives. Webster had put all of those together and he knew the whole picture. Her Bureau file took up as much disk space as a short novel. Nothing at all in the file made him dislike her. She had been a lawyer, faintly radical at the start of her career, built up a decent practice, grabbed a judgeship, never annoyed the law enforcement community, without ever becoming a rabid foaming-at-the-mouth pain in the ass. An ideal appointment, sailed through her confirmation with no problem at all. Since then, she had proven to be a good boss and a great ally. Her name was Ruth Rosen and the only problem Webster had with her was that she was twelve years younger than him, very good-looking, and a whole lot more famous than he was.
