Child Lee. Die Trying

   Then her hands were behind his head, pulling him close. She squirmed her face up and kissed him. She kissed him angrily and hungrily on the mouth. Her arms were locking around his neck. He felt her wild breathing. He knelt and laid her gently on the soft earth. Her hands burrowed at his shirt buttons. His at hers.
   They made love naked on the forest floor, urgently, passionately, greedily, as if they were defying death itself. Then they lay panting and spent in each other's arms, gazing up at the sunlight spearing down through the leaves.
   He stroked her hair and felt her breathing slow down. He held her silently for a long time, watching the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams over her head.
   "Who knew your movements on Monday?" he asked softly.
   She thought about it. Made no reply.
   "And which of them didn't know about Jackson then?" he asked.
   No reply.
   "And which of them isn't short of money?" he asked.
   No reply.
   "And which of them is recent?" he asked. "Which of them could have come close enough to Beau Borken somewhere to get bought off? Sometime in the past? Maybe investigating the robbery thing in California?"
   She shuddered in his arms.
   "Four questions, Holly," he said. "Who fits?"
   She ran through all the possibilities. Like a process of elimination. An algorithm. She boiled the hundred names down. The first question eliminated most of them. The second question eliminated a few more. The third question eliminated a handful. It was the fourth question which proved decisive. She shuddered again.
   "Only two possibilities," she said.

33

   Milosevic and Brogan were strapped side by side in the rear of the air force chopper. McGrath and Johnson and the general's aide were crushed into the middle row of seats. The aircrew were shoulder to shoulder in the front. They lifted off from Silver Bow and clattered away northwest over the town of Butte, nose down, low altitude, looking for maximum airspeed. The helicopter was an old Bell, rebuilt with a new engine, and it was pushing a hundred and twenty miles an hour, which made for a lot of noise inside. Consequently McGrath and Johnson were screaming into their radio mikes to make themselves understood. McGrath was patched through to the Hoover Building. He was trying to talk to Harland Webster. He had one hand cupped over the mike and the other was clamping the earphone to his head. He was talking about the missile unit. He didn't know if Webster was hearing him. He just repeated his message over and over, as loud as he could. Then he flicked the switch and tore off the headset. Tossed it forward to the co-pilot.
   Johnson was talking to Peterson. Radio contact had not been restored. He limited himself to requesting an update by secure landline direct to the mobile command post in two hours' time. He failed to decipher the reply. He pulled off his headset and looked a question at McGrath. McGrath shrugged back at him. The helicopter clattered onward.

* * *

   Harland Webster heard the shrieking din cut off. He hung up his phone in the sudden silence of his office. Leaned forward and buzzed through to his secretary.
   "Car," he said.
   He walked through to the elevator and rode down to the garage. Walked over to his limousine. His driver was holding the door for him.
   "White House," he said.
   This time, the driver said nothing. Just fired it up and eased out of the garage. Bumped up and out into the afternoon rush. Crawled the sixteen hundred yards west in silence. Webster was directed to the same off-white room. He waited there a quarter-hour. Dexter came in. Clearly not pleased to see him back so soon.
   "They've stolen some missiles," Webster said.
   "What missiles?" Dexter asked.
   He described everything as well as he could. Dexter listened. Didn't nod. Didn't ask any questions. Didn't react. Just told him to wait in the room.

* * *

   The air force Bell put down on a gravel turnout two hundred yards south of where the road into Yorke narrowed and straightened into the hills. The pilot kept the engine turning and the five passengers ducked out and ran bent over until they were out of the fierce downdraft. There were vehicles on the road ahead. A random pattern of military vehicles slewed across the blacktop. One of them was turning slowly in the road. It turned in the narrow space between the rocky walls and straightened as it approached. It slowed and halted fifty yards away. General Johnson stepped out into view. The car moved forward and stopped in front of him. It was a new Chevrolet, sprayed a dull olive green. There were white stenciled letters and figures on the hood and along the sides. An officer slid out. He saluted the general and skipped around to open all the doors. The five men squeezed in and the car turned again and rolled the two hundred yards north to the mess of vehicles.
   "The command post is on its way, sir," the officer said. "Should be here inside forty minutes. The satellite trucks are an hour behind it. I suggest you wait in the car. It's getting cold outside."
   "Word from the missile unit?" Johnson asked.
   The officer shook his head in the gloom.
   "No word, sir," he said.

* * *

   Webster waited most of an hour. Then the door of the small off-white room cracked open. A secret service agent stood there. Blue suit, curly wire running up out of his collar to his earpiece.
   "Please come with me, sir," the agent said.
   Webster stood up and the guy raised his hand and spoke into his cuff. Webster followed him along a quiet corridor and into an elevator. The elevator was small and slow. It took them down to the first floor. They walked along another quiet corridor and paused in front of a white door. The agent knocked once and opened it.
   The president was sitting in his chair behind his desk. The chair was rotated away and he had his back to the room. He was staring out through the bulletproof windows at the darkness settling over the garden. Dexter was in an armchair. Neither asked him to sit down. The president didn't turn around. As soon as he heard the door click shut, he started speaking.
   "Suppose I was a judge," he said. "And suppose you were some cop and you came to me for a warrant?"
   Webster could see the president's face reflected in the thick glass. It was just a pink smudge.
   "OK, sir, suppose I was?" he said.
   "What have you got?" the president asked him. "And what haven't you got? You don't even know for sure Holly's there at all. You've got an undercover asset in place and he hasn't confirmed it to you. You're guessing, is all. And these missiles? The army has lost radio contact. Could be temporary. Could be any number of reasons for that. Your undercover guy hasn't mentioned them."
   "He could be experiencing difficulties, sir," Webster said. "And he's been told to be cautious. He doesn't call in with a running commentary. He's undercover, right? He can't just disappear into the forest any old time he wants to."
   The president nodded. The pink smudge in the glass moved up and down. There was a measure of sympathy there.
   "We understand that, Harland," he said. "We really do. But we have to assume that with matters of this magnitude, he's going to make a big effort, right? But you've heard nothing. So you're giving us nothing but speculation."
   Webster spread his hands. Spoke directly to the back of the guy's head.
   "Sir, this is a big deal," he said. "They're arming themselves, they've taken a hostage, they're talking about secession from the Union."
   The president nodded.
   "Don't you understand, that's the problem?" he said. "If this were about three weirdos in a hut in the woods with a bomb, we'd send you in there right away. But it isn't. This could lead to the biggest constitutional crisis since 1860."
   "So you agree with me," Webster said. "You're taking them seriously."
   The president shook his head. Sadly, like he was upset but not surprised Webster didn't get the point.
   "No," he said. "We're not taking them seriously. That's what makes this whole thing so damn difficult. They're a bunch of deluded idiots, seeing plots everywhere, conspiracies, muttering about independence for their scrubby little patch of worthless real estate. But the question is: how should a mature democratic nation react to that? Should it massacre them all, Harland? Is that how a mature nation reacts? Should it unleash deadly force against a few deluded idiot citizens? We spent a generation condemning the Soviets for doing that. Are we going to do the same thing?"
   "They're criminals, sir," Webster said.
   "Yes, they are," the president agreed, patiently. "They're counterfeiters, they own illegal weapons, they don't pay federal taxes, they foment racial hatred, maybe they even robbed an armored car. But those are details, Harland. The broad picture is they're disgruntled citizens. And how do we respond to that? We encourage disgruntled citizens in Eastern Europe to stand up and declare their nationhood, right? So how do we deal with our own disgruntled citizens, Harland? Declare war on them?"
   Webster clamped his jaw. He felt adrift. Like the thick carpets and the quiet paint and the unfamiliar scented air inside the Oval Office were choking him.
   "They're criminals," he said again. It was all he could think of to say.
   The president nodded. Still a measure of sympathy.
   "Yes, they are," he agreed again. "But look at the broad picture, Harland. Look at their main offense. Their main offense is they hate their government. If we deal with them harshly for that, we could face a crisis. Like we said, there are maybe sixty million Americans ready to be tipped over the edge. This administration is very aware of that, Harland. This administration is going to tread very carefully."
   "But what about Holly?" he asked. "You can't just sacrifice her."
   There was a long silence. The president kept his chair turned away.
   "I can't react because of her, either," he said quietly. "I can't allow myself to make this personal. Don't you see that? A personal, emotional, angry response would be wrong. It would be a bad mistake. I have to wait and think. I've talked it over with the general. We've talked for hours. Frankly, Harland, he's pissed at me, and, again frankly, I don't blame him. He's just about my oldest friend and he's pissed at me. So don't talk to me about sacrifice, Harland. Because sacrifice is what this office is all about. You put the greater good in front of friendship, in front of all your own interests. You do it all the time. It's what being president means."
   There was another long silence.
   "So what are you saying to me, Mr. President?" Webster asked.
   Another long silence.
   "I'm not saying anything to you," the president said. "I'm saying you're in personal command of the situation. I'm saying come see Mr. Dexter Monday morning, if there's still a problem."

* * *

   Nobody waited in the car. Too restless for that. They got out into the chill mountain air and milled aimlessly around. Johnson and his aide strolled north with the driver and looked at the proposed location for the command post. McGrath and Brogan and Milosevic kept themselves apart as a threesome. McGrath smoked, lost in thought. Time to time, he would duck back into the army Chevrolet and use the earphone. He called the Montana State Police, the power company, the phone company, the Forest Service.
   Brogan and Milosevic strolled north. They found an armored vehicle. Not a tank, some kind of a personnel carrier. There were the officer who had met them with the car and maybe eight soldiers near it. Big, silent men, pitching tents on the shoulder in the lee of the rocks. Brogan and Milosevic nodded a greeting to them and strolled back south. They rejoined McGrath and waited.
   Within forty minutes they all heard the faint roar of heavy diesels far to the south. The noise built and then burst around the curve. There was a small convoy of trucks. Big, boxy vehicles, mounted high on exaggerated drive trains big wheels, huge tires, axles grinding around. They roared nearer, moving slow in low gear. The officer from the car ran to meet them. Pointed them up to where he wanted them. They roared slowly past and stopped two abreast in the road where it straightened into the rock cutting.
   There were four vehicles. Black and green camouflage, rolls of netting on the flanks, stenciled numbers and big single stars in white. The front two trucks bristled with antennas and small dishes. The rear two were accommodations. Each vehicle had hydraulic jacks at each corner. The drivers lowered the jacks and the weight came up off the tires. The jacks pushed against the camber of the road and leveled the floors. Then the engines cut off and the loud diesel roaring died into the mountain silence.
   The four drivers vaulted down. They ran to the rear of their trucks and opened the doors. Reached in and folded down short aluminum ladders. Went up inside and flicked switches. The four interiors lit up with green light. The drivers came back out. Regrouped and saluted the officer.
   "All yours, sir," the point man said.
   The officer nodded. Pointed to the Chevy.
   "Drive back in that," he said. "And forget you were ever here."
   The point man saluted again.
   "Understood, sir," he said.
   The four drivers walked to the Chevy. Their boots were loud in the silence. They got in the car and fired it up. Turned in the road and disappeared south.

* * *

   Back in his office, Webster found the Borken profile on his desk and a visitor waiting for him. Green uniform under a khaki trenchcoat, maybe sixty, sixty-five, iron-gray stubble on part of his head, battered brown leather briefcase under his arm, battered canvas suit carrier on the floor at his feet.
   "I understand you need to talk to me," the guy said. "I'm General Garber. I was Jack Reacher's CO for a number of years."
   Webster nodded.
   "I'm going to Montana," he said. "You can talk to me there."
   "We anticipated that," Garber said. "If the Bureau can fly us out to Kalispell, the air force will take us on the rest of the way by helicopter."
   Webster nodded again. Buzzed through to his secretary. She was off-duty.
   "Shit," Webster said.
   "My driver is waiting," Garber said. "He'll take us out to Andrews."
   Webster called ahead from the car and the Bureau Lear was waiting ready. Twenty minutes after leaving the White House Webster was in the air heading west over the center of the city. He wondered if the president could hear the scream of his engines through his thick bulletproof glass.

* * *

   The air force technicians arrived with the satellite trucks an hour after the command post had been installed. There were two vehicles in their convoy. The first was similar to the command post itself; big, high, boxy, hydraulic jacks at each corner, a short aluminum ladder for access. The second was a long flatbed truck with a big satellite dish mounted high on an articulated mechanism. As soon as it was parked and level, the mechanism kicked in and swung the dish up to find the planes, seven miles up in the darkening sky. It locked on and the delicate electronics settled down to tracking the moving signals. There was a continuous motor sound as the dish moved through a subtle arc, too slowly for the eye to detect. The techs hauled out a cable the thickness of a sapling's trunk from the flatbed and locked it into a port on the side of the closed truck. Then they swarmed up inside and fired up the monitors and the recorders.
   McGrath hitched a ride with the soldiers in the armored carrier. They rumbled a mile south and met a waiting Montana State Police cruiser on the road. The State guy conferred with McGrath and opened his trunk. Pulled out a box of red danger flares and an array of temporary road signs. The soldiers jogged south and put a pair of flares either side of a sign reading: Danger, Road Out. They came back north and set up a trio of flares in the center of the blacktop with a sign reading: Bridge Out Ahead. Fifty yards farther north, they blocked the whole width of the road with more flares. They strung Road Closed signs across behind them. When the State guy had slalomed his way back south and disappeared, the soldiers took axes from their vehicle and started felling trees. The armored carrier nudged them over and pushed them across the road, engine roaring, tires squealing. It lined them up in a rough zigzag. A vehicle could get through, but only if it slowed to a dead crawl and threaded its way past. Two soldiers were posted as sentries on the shoulders. The other six rode back north with McGrath.
   Johnson was in the command vehicle. He was in radio contact with Peterson. The news was bad. The missile unit had been out of radio contact for more than eight hours. Johnson had a rule of thumb. He had learned it by bitter experience in the jungles of Vietnam. The rule of thumb said: when you've lost radio contact with a unit for more than eight hours, you mark that unit down as a total loss.

* * *

   Webster and Garber did not talk during the plane ride. That was Webster's choice. He was experienced enough as a bureaucrat to know that whatever he heard from Garber, he'd only have to hear all over again when the full team was finally assembled. So he sat quietly in the noisy jet whine and read the Borken profile from Quantico. Garber was looking questions at him, but he ignored them. Explain it to Garber now, and he'd only have to do it all over again for McGrath and Johnson.
   The evening air at Kalispell was cold and gray for the short noisy walk across the apron to the air force Bell. Garber identified himself to the co-pilot, who dropped a short ladder to the tarmac. Garber and Webster scrambled up inside and sat where they were told. The co-pilot signaled with both hands that they should fasten their harnesses and that the ride would take about twenty-five minutes. Webster nodded and listened to the beat of the rotor as it lifted them all into the air.

* * *

   General Johnson had just finished another long call to the White House when he heard the Bell clattering in. He stood framed in the command-post doorway and watched it put down on the same gravel turnout, two hundred yards south. He saw two figures spill out and crouch away. He saw the chopper lift and yaw and turn south.
   He walked down and met them halfway. Nodded to Garber and pulled Webster to one side.
   "Anything?" he asked.
   Webster shook his head.
   "No change," he said. "White House is playing safe. You?"
   "Nothing," Johnson said.
   Webster nodded. Nothing more to say.
   "What we got here?" he asked.
   "Far as the White House knows, nothing," Johnson said. "We've got two camera planes in the air. Officially, they're on exercises. We've got eight Marines and an armored car. They're on exercises too. Their COs know where they are, but they don't know exactly why, and they're not asking."
   "You sealed the road?" Webster asked.
   Johnson nodded.
   "We're all on our own up here," he said.

34

   Reacher and Holly sat alone in the forest, backs to two adjacent pines, staring at the mound above Jackson's grave. They sat like that until the afternoon light faded and died. They didn't speak. The forest grew cold. The time for the decision arrived.
   "We're going back," Holly said.
   It was a statement, not a question. A lot of resignation in her voice. He made no reply. He was breathing low, staring into space, lost in thought. Reliving in his mind her taste and smell. Her hair and her eyes. Her lips. The feel of her, strong and lithe and urgent underneath him.
   "Nightfall," she said.
   "Not just yet," he said.
   "We have to," she said. "They'll send the dogs after us."
   He didn't speak again. Just sat there, eyes locked into the distance.
   "There's nowhere else to go," she said.
   He nodded slowly and stood up. Stretched and caught his breath as his tired muscles cramped. Helped Holly up and took his jacket down off the tree and shrugged it on. Left the crowbar lying in the dirt next to the shovel.
   "We leave tonight," he said. "Shit's going to hit the fan tomorrow. Independence Day."
   "Sure, but how?" she asked.
   "I don't know yet," he said.
   "Don't take risks on my account," she said.
   "You'd be worth it," he said.
   "Because of who I am?" she asked.
   He nodded.
   "Because of who you are," he said. "Not because of who your father is. Or your damn godfather. And no, I didn't vote for him."
   She stretched up and kissed him on the mouth.
   "Take care, Reacher," she said.
   "Just be ready," he said. "Maybe midnight."
   She nodded. They walked the hundred yards south to the rocky outcrop. Turned and walked the hundred yards east to the clearing. Came out of the woods straight into a semicircle of five guards waiting for them. Four rifles. Center man was Joseph Ray. He was in charge of the detail, with a Glock 17 in his hand.
   "She goes back to her room," Ray said. "You go in the punishment hut."
   The guards formed up. Two of them stepped either side of Holly. Her eyes were blazing and they didn't try to take her elbows. Just walked slowly beside her. She turned and glanced back at Reacher.
   "See you later, Holly," Reacher called.
   "Don't you bet on that, Ms Johnson," Joseph Ray said, and laughed.
   He escorted Reacher to the door of the punishment hut. Took out a key and unlocked the door. Swung it open. Pushed Reacher through, gun out and ready. Then he pulled the door closed again and relocked it.
   The punishment hut was the same size and shape as Borken's command hut. But it was completely empty. Bare walls, no windows, lights meshed with heavy wire. On the floor near one end was a perfect square of yellow paint, maybe twelve inches by twelve. Apart from that the hut was featureless.
   "You stand on that square," Ray said.
   Reacher nodded. He was familiar with that procedure. Being forced to stand at attention, hour after hour, never moving, was an effective punishment. He had heard about it, time to time. Once, he'd seen the results. After the first few hours, the pain starts. The back goes, then the agony spreads upward from the shins. By the second or third day, the ankles swell and burst and the thigh bones strike upward and the neck collapses.
   "So stand on it," Ray said.
   Reacher stepped to the corner of the hut and bent to the floor. Made a big show of brushing the dust away with his hand. Turned and lowered himself gently so he was sitting comfortably in the angle of the walls. Stretched his legs out and folded his hands behind his head. Crossed his ankles and smiled.
   "You got to stand on the square," Ray said.
   Reacher looked at him. He had said: believe me, I know tanks. So he had been a soldier. A grunt, in a motorized unit. Probably a loader, maybe a driver.
   "Stand up," Ray said.
   Give a grunt a task, and what's the thing he's most afraid of? Getting chewed out by an officer for failing to do it, that's what.
   "Stand up, damn it," Ray said.
   So either he doesn't fail, or if he does, he conceals it. No grunt in the history of the world has ever just gone to his officer and said: I couldn't do it, sir.
   "I'm telling you to stand up, Reacher," Ray said quietly.
   If he fails, he keeps it a big secret. Much better that way.
   "You want me to stand up?" Reacher asked.
   "Yeah, stand up," Ray said.
   Reacher shook his head.
   "You're going to have to make me, Joe," he said.
   Ray was thinking about it. It was a reasonably slow thought process. Its progress was visible in his body language. First the Glock came up. Then it went back down. Shooting at the prisoner was its own admission of failure. It was the same thing as saying: I couldn't make him do it, sir. Then he glanced at his hands. Glanced across at Reacher. Glanced away. Unarmed combat was rejected. He stood there in a fog of indecision.
   "Where did you serve?" Reacher asked him.
   Ray shrugged.
   "Here and there," he said.
   "Like where and where?" Reacher asked.
   "I was in Germany twice," Ray said. "And I was in Desert Storm."
   "Driver?" Reacher asked.
   "Loader," Ray answered.
   Reacher nodded.
   "You boys did a good job," he said. "I was in Desert Storm. I saw what you boys did."
   Ray nodded. He took the opening, like Reacher knew he would. If you can't let them beat you, you let them join you. Ray moved casually to his left and sat down on the floor, back against the door, Glock resting against his thigh. He nodded again.
   "We whupped them," he said.
   "You sure did," Reacher said. "You whupped them real good. So, Germany and the desert. You liked it there?"
   "Not much," Ray said.
   "You liked their systems?" Reacher asked.
   "What systems?" Ray asked back.
   "Their governments," Reacher said. "Their laws, their liberties, all that stuff."
   Ray looked mystified.
   "Never noticed," he said. "Never paid any attention."
   "So how do you know they're better than ours?" Reacher asked.
   "Who says they're better?" Ray said.
   "You do," Reacher said. "Last night you were telling me how bad it is here in America. Got to be better everywhere else, right?"
   Ray shook his head.
   "I never told you that," he said.
   "So is it or isn't it?" Reacher asked.
   "I don't know," Ray said. "Probably. Lot of things wrong with America."
   Reacher nodded.
   "Lot of things," he said. "I agree with you. But I'll tell you something. It's better in America than everyplace else. I know because I've been everyplace else. Everyplace else is worse. A lot worse. Lot of things wrong in America, but plenty more things wrong everyplace else. You guys should think about that."
   Ray looked across through the gloom.
   "You think we're wrong?" he asked.
   Reacher nodded.
   "I know you're wrong," he said. "For certain. All that stuff you were telling me is bullshit. All of it. It's not happening."
   "It is happening," Ray said. "Beau says so."
   "Think about it, Joe," Reacher said. "You were in the service. You saw how it all operated. You think those guys could organize all that stuff and keep it a secret? They ever even give you a pair of boots the right size?"
   Ray laughed.
   "Not hardly," he said.
   "Right," Reacher said. "So if they can't organize your damn boots, how can they organize all this other stuff Beau is talking about? What about these transmitters hidden in all the new cars? You think Detroit can do all that stuff? They'd be recalling them all because they didn't work right. You a gambling man, Joe?"
   "Why?" he asked.
   "What are the odds?" Reacher said. "Against they could organize a huge massive conspiracy like that and keep it all a secret for years and years?"
   A slow smile spread across Ray's face and Reacher saw that he was losing. Like talking to the wall. Like teaching a chimpanzee to read.
   "But they haven't kept it a secret," Ray said triumphantly. "We found out about it. I told you, Beau's got the proof. He's got the documents. It's not a secret at all. That's why we're here. Beau's right, no doubt about it. He's a smart guy."
   Reacher closed his eyes and sighed.
   "You better hope so," he said. "He's going to need to be."
   "He's a smart guy," Ray said again. "And he's got staying power. He's putting us all together. There were a dozen groups up here. Their leaders quit and left. All their people came and joined Beau because they trust him. He's a smart guy, Reacher, and he's our only hope left. You won't change anybody's mind about him. You can forget about that. Far as we're concerned we love him, and we trust him to do right."
   "What about Jackson?" Reacher asked. "You think he did right about that?"
   Ray shrugged.
   "Jackson was a spy," he said. "Shit like that happens. Beau's studied the history. It happened in 1776, right? Redcoats had spies all over. We hanged them then, just the same. Plenty of old ladies back east got old oak trees in their front yards, famous for being where they strung up the redcoat spies. Some of them charge you a buck and a half just to take a look at them. I know, I went there once."
   "What time is lights-out here?" Reacher asked.
   "Ten o'clock," Ray said. "Why?"
   Reacher paused. Stared at him. Thought back over their conversation. Gazed at his lean, mobile face. Looked into his crazy eyes, burning deep under his brow.
   "I got to be someplace else after lights-out," Reacher said.
   Ray laughed again.
   "And you think I'm going to let you?" he said.
   Reacher nodded.
   "If you want to live," he said.
   Ray lifted the pistol off his thigh and pointed it one-handed at Reacher's head.
   "I'm the one got the gun here," he said.
   "You wouldn't live to pull the trigger," Reacher said.
   "Trigger's right here," Ray said. "You're all the way over there."
   Reacher waved him a listen-up gesture. Leaned forward and spoke quietly.
   "I'm not really supposed to tell you this," he said. "But we were warned we'd meet a few guys smarter than the average, and we're authorized to explain a couple of things to them, if the operational circumstances make it advisable."
   "What circumstances?" Ray asked. "What things?"
   "You were right," Reacher said. "Most of the things you've said are correct. A couple of inaccuracies, but we spread a little disinformation here and there."
   "What are you talking about?" Ray asked.
   Reacher lowered his voice to a whisper.
   "I'm World Army," he said. "Commander of the advance party. I've got five thousand UN troops in the forest. Russians mostly, a few Chinese. We've been watching you on the satellite surveillance. Right now, we've got an X-ray camera on this hut. There's a laser beam pointed at your head. Part of the SDI technology."
   "You're kidding," Ray said.
   Reacher shook his head. Deadly serious.
   "You were right about the microchips," he said. "Look at this."
   He stood up slowly and pulled his shirt up to his chest. Turned slightly so Ray could see the huge scar on his stomach.
   "Bigger than the modern ones," he said. "The latest ones go in with no mess at all. The ones we put in the babies. But these old ones work just the same. The satellites know where I am at all times, like you said. You start to pull that trigger, the laser blows your head off."
   Ray's eyes were burning. He looked away from Reacher's scar and glanced nervously up at the roof.
   "Suis pas american," Reacher said. "Suis un sold at franfais, agent du gouvernement mondial de puis plusieurs annees, parti en mission clandestine ily a deux mois. Efaut evaluer I'element de risque que votre ban de represent par id!"
   He spoke as fast as he could and ended up sounding exactly like an educated Parisian woman. Exactly like he recalled his dead mother sounding. Ray nodded slowly.
   "You foreign?" he asked.
   "French," Reacher said. "We operate international brigades. I said I'm here to check out the degree of risk you people represent to us."
   "I saw you shooting," Ray said. "I spotted it. A thousand yards."
   "Guided by satellite," Reacher said. "I told you, SDI technology, through the microchip. We can all shoot two miles, perfect score every time."
   "Christ," Ray said.
   "I need to be out in the open at ten o'clock," Reacher said. "It's a safety procedure. You got a wife here?"
   Ray nodded.
   "What about kids?" Reacher asked. "Any of these kids yours?"
   Ray nodded again.
   "Sure," he said. "Two boys."
   "If I'm not out by ten, they all die," Reacher said. "If I get taken prisoner, the whole place gets incinerated. Can't afford for my microchip to get captured. I told them you guys wouldn't understand how it works but my chief said some of you could be smarter than I thought. Looks like my chief was right."
   Ray nodded proudly and Reacher checked his watch.
   "It's seven-thirty, right?" he said. "I'm going to sleep two and a half hours. The satellite will wake me at ten exactly. You wait and see."
   He lay back down on the floor and curled his arm under his head. Set the alarm in his head for two minutes to ten. Said to himself: don't let it fail me tonight.

35

   "I refuse to believe it," general Garber said.
   "He's involved," Webster said in reply. "That's for damn sure. We got the pictures, clear as day."
   Garber shook his head.
   "I was promoted lieutenant forty years ago," he said. "Now I'm a three-star general. I've commanded thousands of men. Tens of thousands. Got to know most of them well. And out of all of them, Jack Reacher is the single least likely man to be involved in a thing like this."
   Garber was sitting ramrod-straight at the table in the mobile command post. He had shed his khaki raincoat to reveal an old creased uniform jacket. It was a jacket which bore the accumulated prizes of a lifetime of service. It was studded with badges and ribbons. It was the jacket of a man who had served forty years without ever making a single mistake.
   Johnson was watching him carefully. Garber's grizzled old head was still. His eyes were calm. His hands were laid comfortably on the table. His voice was firm, but quiet. Definite, like he was being asked to defend the proposition that the sky was blue and the grass was green.
   "Show the general the pictures, Mack," Webster said.
   McGrath nodded and opened his envelope. Slid the four stills over the table to Garber. Garber held each one up in turn, tilted to catch the green light from the overhead. Johnson was watching his eyes. He was waiting for the flicker of doubt, then the flicker of resignation. He saw neither.
   "These are open to interpretation," Garber said.
   His voice was still calm. Johnson heard an officer loyally defending a favored subordinate. Webster and McGrath heard a policeman of sorts expressing a doubt. They figured forty years' service had bought the guy the right to be heard.
   "Interpretation how?" Webster asked.
   "Four isolated moments out of a sequence," Garber said. "They could be telling us the wrong story."
   Webster leaned over and pointed at the first still.
   "He's grabbing her stuff," he said. "Plain as day, General."
   Garber shook his head. There was silence. Just electronic hum throughout the vehicle. Johnson saw a flicker of doubt. But it was in McGrath's eyes, not Garber's. Then Brogan rattled his way up the ladder. Ducked his head into the truck.
   "Surveillance tapes, chief," he said. "We've been reviewing the stuff the planes got earlier. You should come see it."
   He ducked out again and the four men glanced at each other and got up. Walked the short distance through the cold evening to the satellite truck and up the ladder. Milosevic was in shirt sleeves, bathed in the blue light from a bank of video screens. He shuttled a tape back and pressed play. Four screens lit up with a perfect clear overhead view of a tiny town. The quality of the picture was magnificent. Like a perfect movie picture, except filmed vertically downward, not horizontal.
   "Yorke," Milosevic said. "The old courthouse, bottom right. Now watch."
   He hit fast wind and watched the counter. Slowed the tape and hit play again.
   "This is a mile and a quarter away," he said. "The camera tracked northwest. There's a parade ground, and this rifle range."
   The camera had zoomed out for a wide view of the area. There were two clearings with huts to the south and a flat parade ground to the north. In between was a long narrow scar in the undergrowth, maybe a half-mile long and twenty yards wide.
   The camera zoomed right out for a moment, to establish the scale, then it tightened in on a crowd at the eastern end of the range. Then it tightened farther to a small knot of people standing on some brown matting. There were four men clearly visible. And one woman. General Johnson gasped and stared at his daughter.
   "When was this?" he asked.
   "Few hours ago," Milosevic said. "She's alive and well."
   He froze the picture and tapped his fingernail four times on the glass.
   "Reacher," he said. "Stevie Stewart. We figure this one is Odell Fowler. And the fat guy is Beau Borken. Matches his file photo from California."
   Then he hit play again. The camera held steady on the matting, from seven miles up in the sky. Borken pressed his bulk to the floor and lay motionless. Then a silent puff of dust was seen under the muzzle of his rifle.
   "They're shooting a little over eight hundred yards," Milosevic said. "Some kind of a competition, I guess."
   They watched Borken's five final shots, and then Reacher picked up his rifle.
   "That's a Barrert," Garber said.
   Reacher lay motionless and then fired six silent shots, well spaced. The crowd milled around, and eventually Reacher was lost to sight in the trees to the south.
   "OK," Webster said. "How do you want to interpret that, General Garber?"
   Garber shrugged. A dogged expression on his face.
   "He's one of them, no doubt about it," Webster said. "Did you see his clothes? He was in uniform. Showing off on the range? Would they give him a uniform and a rifle to play with if he wasn't one of their own?"
   Johnson spooled the tape back and froze it. Looked at Holly for a long moment. Then he walked out of the trailer. Called over his shoulder to Webster.
   "Director, we need to go to work," he said. "I want to make a contingency plan well ahead of time. No reason for us not to be ready for this."
   Webster followed him out. Brogan and Milosevic stayed at the video console. McGrath was watching Garber. Garber was staring at the blank screen.
   "I still don't believe it," he said.
   He turned and saw McGrath looking at him. Nodded him out of the trailer. The two men walked together into the silence of the night.
   "I can't prove it to you," Garber said. "But Reacher is on our side. I'll absolutely guarantee that, personally."
   "Doesn't look that way," McGrath said. "He's the classic type. Fits our standard profile perfectly. Unemployed ex-military, malcontent, dislocated childhood, probably full of all kinds of grievances."
   Garber shook his head.
   "He's none of those things," he said. "Except unemployed ex-military. He was a fine officer. Best I ever had. You're making a big mistake."
   McGrath saw the look on Garber's face.
   "So you'd trust him?" he asked. "Personally?"
   Garber nodded grimly.
   "With my life," he said. "I don't know why he's there, but I promise you he's clean, and he's going to do what needs doing, or he's going to die trying."

* * *

   Exactly six miles north, Holly was trusting to the same instinct. They had taken her disassembled bed away, and she was lying on the thin mattress on the floorboards. They had taken the soap and the shampoo and the towel from the bathroom as a punishment. They had left the small pool of blood from the dead woman's head untouched. It was there on the floor, a yard from her makeshift bed. She guessed they thought it would upset her. They were wrong. It made her happy. She was happy to watch it dry and blacken. She was thinking about Jackson and staring at the stain like it was a Rorschach blot telling her: you're coming out of the shadow now, Holly.

* * *

   Webster and Johnson came up with a fairly simple contingency plan. It depended on geography. The exact same geography they assumed had tempted Borken to choose Yorke as the location for his bastion. Like all plans based on geography, it was put together using a map. Like all plans put together using a map, it was only as good as the map was accurate. And like most maps theirs was way out of date.
   They were using a large-scale map of Montana. Most of its information was reliable. The main features were correct. The western obstacle was plain to see.
   "We assume the river is impassable, right?" Webster said.
   "Right," Johnson agreed. The spring melts are going to be in full flow. Nothing we can do there before Monday. When we get some equipment."
   The roads were shown in red like a man had placed his right hand palm-down on the paper. The small towns of Kalispell and Whitefish nestled under the palm. Roads fanned out like the four fingers and the thumb. The index finger ran up through a place called Eureka to the Canadian border. The thumb ran out northwest through Yorke and stopped at the old mines. That thumb was now amputated at the first knuckle.
   "They assume you'll come up the road," Johnson said. "So you won't. You'll loop east to Eureka and come in through the forest."
   He ran his pencil down the thumb and across the back of the hand. Back up the index finger and stopped it at Eureka. Fifty miles of forest lay between Eureka and Yorke. The forest was represented on the map by a large green stain. Deep and wide. They knew what that green stain meant. They could see what it meant by looking around them. The area was covered in virgin forest. It ran rampant up and down the mountainsides. Most places the vegetation was so dense a man could barely squeeze between the tree trunks. But the green stain to the east of Yorke was a national forest. Owned and operated by the Forest Service. The green stain showed a web of threads running through it. Those threads were Forest Service tracks.
   "I can get my people here in four hours," Webster said. The hostage rescue team. On my own initiative, if it comes to it."
   Johnson nodded.
   "They can walk right through the woods," he said. "Probably drive right through."
   Webster nodded.
   "We called the Forest guys," he said. They're bringing us a detailed plan."
   "Perfect," Johnson said. "If things turn bad, you call your team in, send them direct to Eureka, we'll all make a little noise on the southern flank, and they muscle in straight through from the east."
   Webster nodded again. The contingency plan was made. Until the National Forests guy came up the short aluminum ladder into the command post. McGrath brought him inside with Milosevic and Brogan. Webster made the introductions and Johnson asked the questions. Straight away the Forest guy started shaking his head.
   "Those tracks don't exist," he said. "At least, most of them don't."
   Johnson pointed to the map.
   "They're right here," he said.
   The Forest guy shrugged. He had a thick book of topographical plans under his arm. He opened it up to the correct page. Laid it over the map. The scale was much larger, but it was obvious the web of threads was a different shape.
   "Mapmakers know there are tracks," the guy said. "So they just show them any old place."
   "OK," Johnson said. "We'll use your maps."
   The Forest guy shook his head.
   "These are wrong, too," he said. "They might have been right at some stage, but they're wrong now. We spent years closing off most of these tracks. Had to stop the bear hunters getting in. Environmentalists made us do it. We bulldozed tons of dirt into the openings of most of the through tracks. Ripped up a lot of the others. They'll be totally overgrown by now."
   "OK, so which tracks are closed?" Webster asked. He had turned the plan and was studying it.
   "We don't know," the guy said. "We didn't keep very accurate records. Just sent the bulldozers out. We caught a lot of guys closing the wrong tracks, because they were nearer, or not closing them at all, because that was easier. The whole thing was a mess."
   "So is there any way through?" Johnson asked.
   The Forest guy shrugged.
   "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. No way of knowing, except to try it. Could take a couple of months. If you do get through, keep a record and let us know, OK?"