Die Trying by Lee Child

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, Readier,” 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 Clock 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.

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