Child, Lee – Without Fail

her head in his arms. All her litheness was gone. She was

completely limp and still, like her clothes were empty. But her

eyes were wide open. They were moving slowly from side to

side, searching, like she was curious about something.

‘Is he OK?’ she whispered.

Her voice was very quiet, but alert.

‘Secure,’ Reacher said.

He slid a hand under her neck. He could feel her earpiece

wire. He could feel blood. She was soaked with it. It was pulsing

out. More than pulsing. It was like a warm hard jet, driven by

the whole of her blood pressure. It forced and bubbled its way

out between his clamped fingers like a strong bathtub faucet

being turned high and low, high and low. He raised her head

and let it fall back a fraction and saw a ragged exit wound in the

right front side of her throat. It was leaking blood. Like a river.

Like a flood. It was arterial blood, draining out of her.

‘Medics,’ he called.

Nobody heard him. His voice didn’t carry. There was too

269

much noise. The agents around him were firing up at the

warehouse roof. There was a continuous crashing and booming

of guns. Spent shell cases were ejecting and hitting him on the

back and bouncing off and hitting the ground with small brassy

sounds he could hear quite well.

l’ell me it wasn’t one of us,’ Froelich whispered.

‘It wasn’t one of you,’ he said.

She dropped her chin to her chest. Welling blood flooded out

between the folds of her skin. Poured down and soaked her

shirt. Pooled on the ground and ran away between the ridges in

the concrete. He flattened his hand hard against the back of her

neck. It was slippery. He pressed harder. The flow of blood

loosened his grip, like it was hosing his hand away. His hand

was slipping and floating on the tide.

‘Medics,’ he called again, louder.

But he knew it was useless. She probably weighed about

one-twenty, which meant she had eight or nine pints of blood in

her. Most of them were already gone. He was kneeling in them.

Her heart was doing its job, thumping away valiantly, pumping

her precious blood straight out onto the concrete around his

legs.

‘Medics,’ he screamed.

Nobody came.

She looked straight up at his face. ‘Remember?’ she

whispered.

He bent closer.

‘How we met?’ she whispered.

‘I remember,’ he said.

She smiled weakly, like his answer satisfied her completely.

She was very pale now. There was blood everywhere on the

ground. It was a vast spreading pool. It was warm and slick.

Now it was frothing and foaming at her neck. Her arteries were

empty and filling with air. Her eyes moved in her head and then

settled on his face. Her lips were stark white. Turning blue.

They fluttered soundlessly, rehearsing her last words.

‘I love you, Joe,’ she whispered.

Then she smiled, peacefully.

‘I love you too,’ he said.

He held her for long moments more until she bled out and

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died in his arms about the same time Stuyvesant gave the

cease-firing order. There was sudden total silence. The strong

coppery smell of hot blood and the cold acid stink of gunsmoke

hung in the air. Reacher looked up and back and saw a cameraman

shouldering his way towards him with his lens tilting down

like a cannon. Saw Neagley stepping into his path. Saw the

cameraman pushing her. She didn’t seem to move a muscle but

suddenly the cameraman was falling. He saw Neagley catch the

camera and heave it straight over the execution wall. He heard

it crash to the ground. He heard an ambulance siren starting up

far in the distance. Then another. He heard cop cars. Feet

running. He saw Stuyvesant’s pressed grey pants next to his

face. He was standing in Froelich’s blood.

Stuyvesant did nothing at all. Just stood there for what felt

like a very long time, until they all heard the ambulance in the

yard. Then he bent down and tried to pull Reacher away.

Reacher waited until the paramedics got very close. Then he

laid Froelich’s head gently on the concrete. Stood up, sick and cramped and unsteady. Stuyvesant caught his elbow and

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