nests. He dropped to his knees and then lay down and swam through the
pile of damp bones. Felt the roof of the tunnel lower and the sides
press in. Took a deep breath and felt the fear come back.
The fastest helicopter available on that day was a Marine Corps Night
Hawk stationed at Malmstrom. It was a long, fat, humped machine, but
it was quick. Within minutes of Johnson’s call, it was spinning up and
receiving orders to head west and north to a gravel turnout on the last
road in Montana. Then it was in the air. The Marine pilot found the
road and followed it north, fast and low, until he spotted a cluster of
army command vehicles parked tight into a rock cutting. He swung back
and put down on the turnout and waited. Saw three men racing south
toward him. One was a civilian and two were army. One was a colonel
and the other was the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff. The pilot
shrugged at his crewman who pointed upward through the plexiglass
canopy. There was a lone vapor trail maybe thirty-six thousand feet
up. Some big jet was unwinding a tight spiral and streaking south. The
pilot shrugged again and figured whatever was happening, it was
happening to the south. So he made a provisional course calculation
and was surprised when the brass clambered aboard and ordered him to
head north into the mountains.
Reacher was laughing. He was hauling himself along through the tunnel
and laughing out loud. Shaking and crying with laughter. He was no
longer afraid. The tight clamp of the rock on his body was like a
caress. He had done this once, and survived it. It was possible. He
was going to get through.
The fear had disappeared as suddenly as it had come. He had pushed
through the pile of bones in the dark and stretched out and felt the
rock clamp down against his back. His chest had seized and his throat
had gagged tight. He had felt the hot damp flush of panic and pressed
himself into the ground. He had felt his strength drain away. Then he
had focused. The job in hand. Holly. Milosevic’s revolver pushed
against the dark billow of her hair, her fabulous eyes dull with
despair. He had seen her in his mind at the end of the tunnel. Holly.
Then the tunnel seemed to straighten and become a warm smooth tube. An
exact fit for his bulky shoulders. Like it was tailored for him, and
him alone. A simple horizontal journey. He had learned a long time
ago that some things were worth being afraid of. And some things were
not. Things that he had done before and survived did not justify fear.
To be afraid of a survivable thing was irrational. And whatever else
he was, Reacher knew he was a rational man. In that split second the
fear disappeared and he felt himself relax. He was a fighter. An
avenger. And Holly was waiting for him. He thrust his arms forward
like a swimmer diving for the water and swarmed through the mountain
toward her.
He charged along with a tidy rhythm. Like marching out on the open
road, but doing it lying down in the dark. Small deft movements of
hands and feet. Head lowered. Laughing with relief. He felt the
tunnel get smaller and hug him. He slid on through. He felt the blank
wall ahead and folded himself neatly around the corner. Breathed
easily and stopped laughing. Told himself it was time for quiet. He
crawled on as fast as he could. Slowed up when he sensed the roof
soaring away above him. Crept forward until the smell of the air told
him he was nearly through.
Then he heard the helicopter. He heard the faint thumping of the
rotors in the distance. He heard feet scuffling forty yards in front
of him. The inarticulate sound of surprise and panic. He heard
Milosevic’s voice. High-pitched. West Coast accent.
“Keep that chopper away from here,” Milosevic screamed through the
door.
The noise was getting nearer. Growing louder.
“Keep it away, you hear?” Milosevic screamed. “I’ll kill her,