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