“Hell are you doing?” he asked.
“You’re one of them,” McGrath said back. “Drop the rifle, OK?”
“What?” Reacher said again.
“Just do it, OK?” McGrath said.
Reacher stared at him, incredulous. Pointed through the trees at the
sprawled bodies in the Bastion.
“What about that?” he asked. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
The Clock did not waver. It was rock-steady, pointed straight at his
head, at the apex of a perfect braced position. McGrath looked like a
picture in a training manual, except for the ropes hanging like
streamers from his wrists and ankles.
“Doesn’t that count for something?” Reacher asked again, pointing.
“Not necessarily,” McGrath growled back. “You killed Peter Bell, too.
We know that. Just because you don’t allow your troops to rape and
torture your hostages doesn’t necessarily put you on the side of the
angels.”
Reacher looked at him for a long moment, astonished Thought
hard. Then he nodded cautiously and dropped the rifle exactly halfway
between the two of them. Drop it right at his own feet, McGrath would
just tell him to kick it over toward him. Drop it too near McGrath’s
feet, and it wouldn’t work. This guy was an experienced agent. From
the look of his shooting stance, Reacher was expecting at least a basic
level of competence from him.
McGrath glanced down. Hesitated. He clearly didn’t want Reacher near
him. He didn’t want him stepping nearer to nudge the rifle on toward
him. So he slid his own foot forward to drag the weapon back close. He
was maybe ten inches shorter than Reacher, all told. Aiming the Clock
at Reacher’s head from six feet away, he was aiming it upward at a
fairly steep angle. As he slid his foot forward, he decreased his
effective height by maybe an inch, which automatically increased the
upward slope of his arms by a proportionate degree. And as he slid his
foot forward, it brought him slightly closer to Reacher, which
increased the upward angle yet more. By the time his toe was
scrabbling for the weapon, his upper arms were near his face,
interfering with his vision. Reacher waited for him to glance down
again.
He glanced down. Reacher let his knees go and fell vertically. Lashed
back upward with his forearm and batted the Clock away. Swiped a wide
arc with his other arm behind McGrath’s knees and dumped him flat on
his back in the dirt. Closed his hand over McGrath’s wrist and
squeezed gently until the Glock shook free. He picked it up by the
barrel and held it the wrong way around.
“Look at this,” he said.
He shook his cuff back and exposed the crusted weal on his left
wrist.
“I’m not one of them,” he said. “They had me handcuffed most of the
time.”
Then he held the Glock out, butt first, offering it again. McGrath
stared at it, and then stared back into the clearing. He ducked his
head left and right to take in the bodies. Glanced back at Reacher,
still confused.
“We had you down as a bad guy,” he said.
Reacher nodded.
“Evidently,” he said. “But why?”
“Video in the dry cleaners,” McGrath said. “Looked just like you were
snatching her up.”
Reacher shook his head.
“Innocent passerby,” he said.
McGrath kept on looking hard at him. Quizzically, thinking. Reacher
saw him arrive at a decision. He nodded in turn and accepted the Glock
and laid it on the forest floor, exactly between them, like its
positioning was a symbol, a treaty. He started fumbling at his shirt
bur tons Cut ends of rope flailed at his wrists and ankles.
“OK, can we start over?” he said, embarrassed.
Reacher nodded and stuck out his hand.
“Sure,” he said. “I’m Reacher, you’re McGrath. Holly’s
agent-in-charge. Pleased to meet you.”
McGrath smiled ruefully and shook hands limply. Then he started
fumbling at the knots on his wrist, one-handed.
“You know a guy called Garber?” McGrath asked.
Reacher nodded.
“Used to work for him,” he said.
“Garber told us you were clean,” McGrath said. “We didn’t believe
him.”
“Naturally,” Reacher said. “Garber always tells the truth. So nobody
ever believes him.”
“So I apologize,” McGrath said. “I’m sorry, OK? But just try and see