approaching quietly and cautiously. Somebody with no official
business. She stood up slowly. Stepped out of the bathroom and pulled
the door to hide the dismantled tub. Limped back toward the bed as the
lock clicked and the door opened.
A man came into the room. He was a youngish man, dressed in camouflage
fatigues, black smears on his face. A vivid red scar running laterally
across his forehead. A machine gun slung at his shoulder. He turned
and closed the door, quietly. Turned back with his fingers to his
lips.
She stared at him. Felt her anger rising. This time, she wasn’t
chained up. This time, the guy was going to die. She smiled a crazy
smile at the logic of it. The bathroom was going to save her. She was
a high-status prisoner. Supposed to be held with dignity and respect.
Somebody came in to abuse her, and she killed him, they couldn’t argue
with that, could they?
But the guy with the scar just held his fingers to his lips and nodded
toward the bathroom. He crept quietly over and pushed the door.
Gestured for her to follow. She limped after him. He glanced down at
the side panel on the floor and shook his head. Reached in and started
the shower. Set it running hard against the empty tub.
They’ve got microphones,” the guy said. They’re listening for me.”
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
He squatted down and put the panel back on the bath.
“No good,” he said. There’s no way out.”
“Got to be,” she said.
The guy shook his head.
They had a trial run,” he said. The commander put one of the guys who
built this place in here. Told him if he didn’t get out, he’d cut his
arms off. So I assume he tried real hard.”
“And what happened?” she asked.
The guy shrugged.
The commander cut his arms off,” he said.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked again.
“FBI,” the guy said. “Counter-terrorism. Undercover. I guess I’m
going to have to get you out.”
“How?” she asked.
Tomorrow,” he said. “I can get a jeep. We’ll have to make a run for
it. I can’t call in for assistance because they’re scanning for my
transmitter. We’ll just get the jeep and head south and hope for the
best.”
“What about Readier?” she asked. “Where have they taken him?”
“Forget him,” the guy said. “He’ll be dead by morning.”
Holly shook her head.
“I’m not going without him,” she said.
“Loder displeased me,” Beau Borken said.
Reacher shrugged and glanced downward. Loder had squirmed up into a
sideways sitting position, crammed into the angle between the floor and
the wall.
“Did he displease you?” Borken asked.
Reacher made no reply.
“Would you like to kick him?” Borken asked.
Reacher kept quiet. He could see where this game was going. If he
said yes, he’d be expected to hurt the guy badly. Which he had no
objection to in principle, but he’d prefer to do it on his own terms.
If he said no, Borken would call him a coward with no sense of natural
justice and no self-respect. An obvious game, with no way to win. So
he kept quiet, which was a tactic he’d used a thousand times before:
when in doubt, just keep your mouth shut.
“In the face?” Borken asked. “In the balls, maybe?”
Loder was staring up at Reacher. Something in his face. Reacher saw
what it was. His eyes widened in surprise. Loder was pleading with
him to give him a kicking, so that Borken wouldn’t.
“Loder, lie down again,” Borken said.
Loder squirmed his hips away from the wall and dropped his shoulders to
the floor. Wriggled and pushed until he was lying flat on his back.
Borken nodded to the nearest guard.
“In the face,” he said.
The guard stepped over and used the sole of his boot to force Loder’s
head sideways, so his face was presented to the room. Then he stepped
back and kicked out. A heavy blow from a heavy boot. Loder’s head
snapped backward and thumped into the wall. Blood welled from his
nose. Borken watched him bleed for a long moment, mildly interested.