Die Trying by Lee Child

automatic pistol on their belt. They all had ammunition pouches and

grenades hung regulation style from loops on their webbing. Many of

them had smeared night-camouflage on their faces.

Their uniforms were adapted from US army surplus. Camouflage jackets,

camouflage pants, jungle boots, forage caps. Same stuff as Reacher had

seen piled up in the storehouse. But each uniform had additions. Each

jacket had an immaculate shoulder flash, woven in maroon silk, spelling

out Montana Militia in an elegant curve. Each jacket had the wearer’s

name stenciled onto olive tape and sewn above the breast pocket. Some

of the men had single chromium stars punched through the fabric on the

breast pocket. Some kind of rank.

Beau Borken was standing on an upturned wooden crate, west edge of the

leveled area, his back to the forest, his massive bulk looming over his

troops. He saw Fowler and Reacher and the guards arriving through the

trees.

“Attention!” he called.

There was a shuffling as the hundred militia members snapped into

position. Reacher caught a smell of canvas on the breeze. The smell

of a hundred army-surplus uniforms. Borken waved a bloated arm and

Fowler used the chain to drag Reacher up toward the front of the

gathering. The guards seized his arms and shoulders and he was turned

and maneuvered so he was left standing next to the box, suddenly

isolated, facing the crowd.

“We all know why we’re here,” Borken called out to them.

She had no idea how far she had come. It felt like miles. Hundreds of

feet uphill. But she was still deep in the woods. The main track was

still forty yards south on her left. She felt the minutes ticking away

and her panic rising. She gripped the crutch and moved on northwest

again, as fast as she dared.

Then she saw a building ahead of her. A wooden hut, visible through

the trees. The undergrowth petered out into stony shale. She crept to

the edge of the wood and stopped. Listened hard over the roar of her

breathing. Heard nothing. She gripped the crutch and raised the

Ingram tight against the strap. Limped across the shale to the corner

of the hut. Looked out and around.

It was the clearing where they had arrived the night before. A wide

circular space. Stony. Ringed with huts. Deserted. Quiet. The

absolute silence of a recently abandoned place. She came out from

behind the hut and limped to the center of the clearing, pirouetting on

her crutch, jabbing the Ingram in a wide circle, covering the trees on

the perimeter. Nothing. Nobody there.

She saw two paths, one running west, a wider track running north. She

swung north and headed back into the cover of the trees. She forgot

all about trying to stay quiet and raced north as fast as she could

move.

“We all know why we’re here,” Borken called out again.

The orderly crowd shuffled, and a wave of whispering rose to the trees.

Reacher scanned the faces. He saw Stevie in the front rank. A

chromium star through his breast pocket. Little Stevie was an officer.

Next to Stevie he saw Joseph Ray. Then he realized Jackson was not

there. No scarred forehead. He double-checked. Scanned everywhere.

No sign of him anywhere on the parade ground. He clamped his teeth to

stop a smile. Jackson was hiding out. Holly might still make it.

She saw him. She stared out of the forest over a hundred heads and saw

him standing next to Borken. His arms were cuffed behind him. He was

scanning the crowd. Nothing in his face. She heard Borken say: we all

know why we’re here. She thought: yes, I know why I’m here. I know

exactly why I’m here. She looked left and right. A hundred people,

rifles, machine guns, pistols, grenades. Borken on the box with his

arms raised. Reacher, helpless beside him. She stood in the trees,

heart thumping, staring. Then she took a deep breath. Set the Ingram

to the single-shot position and fired into the air. Burst out of the

trees. Fired again. And again. Three shots into the air. Three

bullets gone, twenty-seven left in the magazine. She clicked the