face.
What had Borken said on the radio? He had said: like you’re watching
us with those damn planes. But what had the general’s aide told him
back in the Butte office? You look up and you see a tiny vapor trail
and you think it’s TWA. You don’t think it’s the air force checking if
you’ve shined your shoes this morning. So how did Borken know there
were surveillance planes in the sky? Because he had been told. But by
who? Who the hell knew?
He glanced around wildly and the first thing he saw was a dog coming at
him from dead ahead. Then another. They bounded through the trees at
him. He heard a sound from behind him. The crunch of feet and the
flick of branches. Then the same sound from his right. The snicking
and slapping of a weapon from his left. The dogs were at his feet. He
spun in a panic-stricken circle. All around him men were coming at him
through the trees. Lean, bearded men, in camouflage gear, carrying
rifles and machine guns. Grenades slung from their webbing. Maybe
fifteen or twenty men. They stepped forward calmly and purposefully.
They were in a complete ring, right around him. He turned one way,
then the other. He was surrounded. They were raising their weapons.
He had fifteen or twenty automatic weapons pointing straight at him
like spokes in a wheel.
They stood silent, weapons ready. McGrath glanced from one to the
next, in a complete wild circle. Then one of them stepped forward.
Some kind of an officer. His hand went straight in under McGrath’s
jacket. Jerked the .38 out of his holster. Then the guy’s hand went
into McGrath’s pocket. Closed over the speed loader and pulled it out.
The guy slipped both items into his own pocket and smiled. Swung his
fist and hit McGrath in the face. McGrath staggered and was prodded
back forward with the muzzle of a rifle. Then he heard tires on the
road. The grumble of a motor. He glanced left and caught a flash of
olive green in the sun. A jeep. Two men in it. The soldiers pressed
in and forced him out of the forest. They jostled him through the
trees and onto the shoulder. He blinked in the sun. He could feel his
nose was bleeding. The jeep rolled forward and stopped alongside him.
The driver stared at him with curiosity. Another lean, bearded man in
uniform. In the passenger seat was a huge man wearing black. Beau
Borken. McGrath recognized him from his Bureau file photograph. He
stared at him. Then Borken leaned over and grinned.
“Hello, Mr. McGrath,” he said. “You made good time.”
FORTY-ONE
REACHER WATCHED THE WHOLE THING HAPPEN. HE WAS A HUNDRED and fifty
yards away in the trees. Northwest of the ambush, high up the slope on
the other side of the road. There was a dead sentry at his feet. The
guy was lying in the dirt with his head at right angles to his neck.
Reacher had his field glasses raised to his eyes. Watching. Watching
what, he wasn’t exactly sure.
He had caught the gist of the radio conversation in the Bastion. He
had heard Borken’s side. He had guessed the replies. He had heard the
southern lookouts calling in on the walkie-talkies. He knew about the
Marines on the bridge. He knew about Webster and Johnson sitting there
alongside them, on the end of the line.
He had wondered who else was down there. Maybe more military, maybe
more FBI. The military wouldn’t come. Johnson would have ordered them
to sit tight. If anybody came, it would be the FBI. He figured they
might have substantial numbers standing by. He figured they would be
coming in, sooner or later. He needed to exploit them. Needed to use
them as a diversion while he got Holly out. So he had moved southeast
to wait for their arrival. Now, an hour later, he was gazing down at
the short stocky guy getting loaded into the jeep. Dark suit, white
shirt, town shoes. FBI, for sure.
But not the hostage rescue team. This guy had no equipment. The HRT