Die Trying by Lee Child

but Beau’s a cautious guy. And he’s the one with all the

responsibility. So our tactics are going to be nighttime outflanking

maneuvers. Encircle the UN penetration in the forest and mow it down

with crossfire. Up close and personal, right? That training’s going

pretty well. We can move fast and quiet in the dark, no lights, no

sound, no problem at all.”

Reacher looked at the forest and thought about the wall of ammunition

he’d seen. Thought about Borken’s boast: impregnable. Thought about

the problems an army faces fighting committed guerrillas in difficult

terrain. Nothing is ever really impregnable, but the casualties in

taking this place were going to be spectacular.

This morning,” Fowler said. “I hope you weren’t upset.”

Reacher just looked at him.

“About Loder, I mean,” Fowler said.

Reacher shrugged. Thought to himself: it saved me a job of work.

“We need tough discipline,” Fowler said. “All new nations go through a

phase like this. Harsh rules, tough discipline. Beau’s made a study

of it. Right now, it’s very important. But it can be upsetting, I

guess.”

“It’s you should be upset,” Reacher said. “You heard of Joseph

Stalin?”

Fowler nodded.

“Soviet dictator,” he said.

“Right,” Reacher said. “He used to do that.”

“Do what?” Fowler asked.

“Eliminate potential rivals,” Reacher said. “On trumped-up charges.”

Fowler shook his head.

“The charges were fair,” he said. “Loder made mistakes.”

Reacher shrugged.

“Not really,” he said. “He did a reasonable job.”

Fowler looked away.

“You’ll be next,” Reacher said. “You should watch your back. Sooner

or later, you’ll find you’ve made some kind of a mistake.”

“We go back a long way,” Fowler said. “Beau and me.”

“So did Beau and Loder, right?” Reacher said. “Stevie will be OK.

He’s no threat. Too dumb. But you should think about it. You’ll be

next.”

Fowler made no reply. Just looked away again. They walked together

back down the grassy half-mile. Took another beaten track north. They

stepped off the path to allow a long column of children

to file past. They were marching in pairs, boys and girls together,

with a woman in fatigues at the head of the line and another at the

tail. The children were dressed in cut-down military surplus gear and

they were carrying tall staffs in their right hands. Their faces were

blank and acquiescent. The girls had untrimmed straight hair, and the

boys had rough haircuts done with bowls and blunt shears. Reacher

stood and watched them pass. They stared straight ahead as they

walked. None of them risked a sideways glance at him.

The new path ran uphill through a thin belt of trees and came out on a

flat area fifty yards long and fifty yards wide. It had been leveled

by hand. Discarded field stone had been painted white and laid at

intervals around the edge. It was quiet and deserted.

“Our parade ground,” Fowler said sourly.

Reacher nodded and scanned around. To the north and west, the high

mountains. To the east, thick virgin forest. South, he could see over

the distant town, across belts of trees, to the fractured ravines

beyond. A cold wind lifted his new jacket and grabbed at his shirt,

and he shivered.

The bigger bolts were much harder. Much more contact area, metal to

metal. Much more paint to scrape. Much more force required to turn

them. The more force she used, the more the crushed end of the crutch

was liable to slip off. She took off her shoe and used it to hammer

the end into shape. She bent and folded the soft aluminum around the

head of the bolt. Then she clamped it tight with her fingers. Clamped

until the slim tendons in her arm stood out like ropes and sweat ran

down her face. Then she turned the crutch, holding her breath, waiting

to see which would give first, the grip of her fingers or the grip of

the bolt.

The wind grabbing at Reacher’s shirt also carried some faint sounds to

him. He glanced at Fowler and turned to face the western edge of the

parade ground. He could hear men moving in the trees. A line of men,

bursting out of the forest.