shifted his weight and felt his hamstrings tighten. Felt the flood of
adrenalin. Fight or flight. But then Borken flung his arms wide
again. Held them out like an angel’s wings and used the awesome power
of his eyes on his people.
“I have made my decision,” he called. “Do you understand?”
There was a long pause. It went on for seconds. Then a hundred heads
snapped back.
“Yes, sir!” a hundred voices yelled.
“Do you understand?” he called again.
A hundred heads snapped back again.
“Yes, sir!” a hundred voices yelled.
“Five years on punishment detail,” Borken called. “But only if he can
prove who he is. We are informed this man is the only non-Marine in
history to win the Marine Sniper competition. We are told this man can
put six bullets through a silver dollar a thousand yards away. So I’m
going to shoot against him. Eight hundred yards. If he wins, he
lives. If he loses, he dies. Do you understand?”
A hundred heads snapped back.
“Yes, sir!” a hundred voices yelled.
The rumble from the crowd started up again. This time they sounded
interested. Reacher smiled inwardly. Smart move, he thought. They
wanted a spectacle, Borken was giving them one. Fowler breathed out
and pulled a key from his pocket. Ducked around and unlocked the
handcuffs. The chain fell to the floor. Reacher breathed out and
rubbed his wrists.
Then Fowler stepped over to Holly in the press of people. Stepped
right in front of her. She paused for a long moment and glanced at
Borken. He nodded.
“You have my word,” he said, with as much dignity as he could
recover.
She glanced at Reacher. He shrugged and nodded. She nodded back and
looked down at the Ingram. Clicked the safety on and looped the strap
off her shoulder. Grinned and dropped the gun to the floor. Fowler
bent at her feet and scooped it up. Borken raised his arms for
quiet.
To the rifle range,” he called out. “Orderly fashion. Dismiss.”
Holly limped over and walked next to Reacher.
“You won the Wimbledon?” she asked, quietly.
He nodded.
“So can you win this?” she asked.
He nodded again.
“With my head in a bag,” he said.
“Is that such a good idea?” she asked quietly. “Guy like this, he’s
not going to be happy to get beat.”
Reacher shrugged.
“He wants a big performance, he’s going to get one,” he said. “He’s
all shaken up. You started it. I want to keep it going. Long run,
it’ll do us good.”
“Well, take care,” she said.
“Watch me,” Reacher said.
Two brand-new targets were placed side by side at the extreme end of
the range. Borken’s was on the left with aTF. daubed across its
chest. Reacher’s was on the right with FBI over its heart. The rough
matting was pulled back to give maximum distance. Reacher figured he
was looking at about eight hundred and thirty yards. Fifty yards shy
of a full half-mile. A hell of a long way.
The swarm of people had settled into a rough semicircle, behind and
beside the matting. The nearer targets were flung into the undergrowth
to clear their view. Several people had field glasses. They peered up
the range and then their noise faded as one after the other they
settled into quiet anticipation.
Fowler made the trip to the armory in the clearing below. He walked
back with a rifle in each hand. One for Borken, one for Reacher.
Identical guns. The price of a small family car in each hand. They
were .50-inch Barrett Model 90s. Nearly four feet long, over
twenty-two pounds in weight. Bolt-action repeaters, fired a bullet a
full half-inch across. More like an artillery shell than a rifle
bullet.
“One magazine each,” Borken said. “Six shots.”
Reacher took his weapon and laid it on the ground at his feet. Little
Stevie marshaled the crowd backwards to clear the matting. Borken
checked his rifle and flicked the bipod legs out. Smacked the magazine
into place. He set the weapon down gently on the matting.
“I shoot first,” he said.
He dropped to his knees and forced his bulk down behind the rifle.