automatic pistol on their belt. They all had ammunition pouches and
grenades hung regulation style from loops on their webbing. Many of
them had smeared night-camouflage on their faces.
Their uniforms were adapted from US army surplus. Camouflage jackets,
camouflage pants, jungle boots, forage caps. Same stuff as Reacher had
seen piled up in the storehouse. But each uniform had additions. Each
jacket had an immaculate shoulder flash, woven in maroon silk, spelling
out Montana Militia in an elegant curve. Each jacket had the wearer’s
name stenciled onto olive tape and sewn above the breast pocket. Some
of the men had single chromium stars punched through the fabric on the
breast pocket. Some kind of rank.
Beau Borken was standing on an upturned wooden crate, west edge of the
leveled area, his back to the forest, his massive bulk looming over his
troops. He saw Fowler and Reacher and the guards arriving through the
trees.
“Attention!” he called.
There was a shuffling as the hundred militia members snapped into
position. Reacher caught a smell of canvas on the breeze. The smell
of a hundred army-surplus uniforms. Borken waved a bloated arm and
Fowler used the chain to drag Reacher up toward the front of the
gathering. The guards seized his arms and shoulders and he was turned
and maneuvered so he was left standing next to the box, suddenly
isolated, facing the crowd.
“We all know why we’re here,” Borken called out to them.
She had no idea how far she had come. It felt like miles. Hundreds of
feet uphill. But she was still deep in the woods. The main track was
still forty yards south on her left. She felt the minutes ticking away
and her panic rising. She gripped the crutch and moved on northwest
again, as fast as she dared.
Then she saw a building ahead of her. A wooden hut, visible through
the trees. The undergrowth petered out into stony shale. She crept to
the edge of the wood and stopped. Listened hard over the roar of her
breathing. Heard nothing. She gripped the crutch and raised the
Ingram tight against the strap. Limped across the shale to the corner
of the hut. Looked out and around.
It was the clearing where they had arrived the night before. A wide
circular space. Stony. Ringed with huts. Deserted. Quiet. The
absolute silence of a recently abandoned place. She came out from
behind the hut and limped to the center of the clearing, pirouetting on
her crutch, jabbing the Ingram in a wide circle, covering the trees on
the perimeter. Nothing. Nobody there.
She saw two paths, one running west, a wider track running north. She
swung north and headed back into the cover of the trees. She forgot
all about trying to stay quiet and raced north as fast as she could
move.
“We all know why we’re here,” Borken called out again.
The orderly crowd shuffled, and a wave of whispering rose to the trees.
Reacher scanned the faces. He saw Stevie in the front rank. A
chromium star through his breast pocket. Little Stevie was an officer.
Next to Stevie he saw Joseph Ray. Then he realized Jackson was not
there. No scarred forehead. He double-checked. Scanned everywhere.
No sign of him anywhere on the parade ground. He clamped his teeth to
stop a smile. Jackson was hiding out. Holly might still make it.
She saw him. She stared out of the forest over a hundred heads and saw
him standing next to Borken. His arms were cuffed behind him. He was
scanning the crowd. Nothing in his face. She heard Borken say: we all
know why we’re here. She thought: yes, I know why I’m here. I know
exactly why I’m here. She looked left and right. A hundred people,
rifles, machine guns, pistols, grenades. Borken on the box with his
arms raised. Reacher, helpless beside him. She stood in the trees,
heart thumping, staring. Then she took a deep breath. Set the Ingram
to the single-shot position and fired into the air. Burst out of the
trees. Fired again. And again. Three shots into the air. Three
bullets gone, twenty-seven left in the magazine. She clicked the