Die Trying by Lee Child

shifted his weight and felt his hamstrings tighten. Felt the flood of

adrenalin. Fight or flight. But then Borken flung his arms wide

again. Held them out like an angel’s wings and used the awesome power

of his eyes on his people.

“I have made my decision,” he called. “Do you understand?”

There was a long pause. It went on for seconds. Then a hundred heads

snapped back.

“Yes, sir!” a hundred voices yelled.

“Do you understand?” he called again.

A hundred heads snapped back again.

“Yes, sir!” a hundred voices yelled.

“Five years on punishment detail,” Borken called. “But only if he can

prove who he is. We are informed this man is the only non-Marine in

history to win the Marine Sniper competition. We are told this man can

put six bullets through a silver dollar a thousand yards away. So I’m

going to shoot against him. Eight hundred yards. If he wins, he

lives. If he loses, he dies. Do you understand?”

A hundred heads snapped back.

“Yes, sir!” a hundred voices yelled.

The rumble from the crowd started up again. This time they sounded

interested. Reacher smiled inwardly. Smart move, he thought. They

wanted a spectacle, Borken was giving them one. Fowler breathed out

and pulled a key from his pocket. Ducked around and unlocked the

handcuffs. The chain fell to the floor. Reacher breathed out and

rubbed his wrists.

Then Fowler stepped over to Holly in the press of people. Stepped

right in front of her. She paused for a long moment and glanced at

Borken. He nodded.

“You have my word,” he said, with as much dignity as he could

recover.

She glanced at Reacher. He shrugged and nodded. She nodded back and

looked down at the Ingram. Clicked the safety on and looped the strap

off her shoulder. Grinned and dropped the gun to the floor. Fowler

bent at her feet and scooped it up. Borken raised his arms for

quiet.

To the rifle range,” he called out. “Orderly fashion. Dismiss.”

Holly limped over and walked next to Reacher.

“You won the Wimbledon?” she asked, quietly.

He nodded.

“So can you win this?” she asked.

He nodded again.

“With my head in a bag,” he said.

“Is that such a good idea?” she asked quietly. “Guy like this, he’s

not going to be happy to get beat.”

Reacher shrugged.

“He wants a big performance, he’s going to get one,” he said. “He’s

all shaken up. You started it. I want to keep it going. Long run,

it’ll do us good.”

“Well, take care,” she said.

“Watch me,” Reacher said.

Two brand-new targets were placed side by side at the extreme end of

the range. Borken’s was on the left with aTF. daubed across its

chest. Reacher’s was on the right with FBI over its heart. The rough

matting was pulled back to give maximum distance. Reacher figured he

was looking at about eight hundred and thirty yards. Fifty yards shy

of a full half-mile. A hell of a long way.

The swarm of people had settled into a rough semicircle, behind and

beside the matting. The nearer targets were flung into the undergrowth

to clear their view. Several people had field glasses. They peered up

the range and then their noise faded as one after the other they

settled into quiet anticipation.

Fowler made the trip to the armory in the clearing below. He walked

back with a rifle in each hand. One for Borken, one for Reacher.

Identical guns. The price of a small family car in each hand. They

were .50-inch Barrett Model 90s. Nearly four feet long, over

twenty-two pounds in weight. Bolt-action repeaters, fired a bullet a

full half-inch across. More like an artillery shell than a rifle

bullet.

“One magazine each,” Borken said. “Six shots.”

Reacher took his weapon and laid it on the ground at his feet. Little

Stevie marshaled the crowd backwards to clear the matting. Borken

checked his rifle and flicked the bipod legs out. Smacked the magazine

into place. He set the weapon down gently on the matting.

“I shoot first,” he said.

He dropped to his knees and forced his bulk down behind the rifle.