six bullet holes in it. Big fresh half-inch holes. Three of them were
in a perfect straight vertical line maybe seven inches high. The other
three were curled in a loose curve to the right, running from the top
hole out and back to the middle hole and out and back again to the
bottom hole. Joseph Ray stared hard at them. Then he realized what
they were. He grinned. The six holes made a perfect capital B, right
there on the white bark. The letter covered an area of maybe seven
inches by five. About the dimensions of a fat man’s face.
Fowler shouldered past Ray and turned and leaned on the trunk. Stood
and pressed the back of his head against the ragged holes. Raised his
field glasses and looked back down the range toward the matting. He
figured he was more than a hundred and fifty yards behind the target.
The target had been more than eight hundred yards from the matting. He
did the math in his head.
“A thousand yards,” he breathed.
Fowler and Joseph Ray paced it out together on the way back to Borken.
Ray kept his stride long, just about exactly a yard. Fowler counted.
Nine hundred and ninety strides, nine hundred and ninety yards. Borken
knelt on the matting and used Ray’s field glasses. He closed one eye
and stared across the distance. He could barely even see the white
tree. Reacher watched him try to keep the surprise out of his face.
Thought to himself: you wanted a big performance, you got one. You
like it, fat boy?
“OK,” Borken said. “So let’s see how damn smart you’re going to act
now.”
The five guards that had been six when Jackson was with them formed up
in a line. They moved forward and took up position around Reacher and
Holly. The crowd started filing away, quietly. Their feet crunched
and slid on the stony ground. Then that sound was gone and the rifle
range was quiet.
Fowler stooped and picked up the guns. He hefted one in each hand and
walked away through the trees. The five guards unslung their weapons
with the loud sound of palms slapping on wood and metal.
“OK,” Borken said again. “Punishment detail.”
He turned to Holly.
“You too,” he said. “You’re not too damn valuable for that. You can
help him. He’s got a task to perform for me.”
The guards stepped forward and marched Reacher and Holly behind Borken,
slowly down through the trees to the Bastion and on along the
beaten-earth track to the command-hut clearing. They halted there. Two
of the guards peeled off and walked to the stores. They were back
within five minutes with their weapons shouldered. The first guard was
carrying a long-handled shovel in his left hand and a crowbar in his
right. The second was carrying two olive fatigue shirts. Borken took
them from him and turned to face Reacher and Holly.
Take your shirts off,” he said. Tut these on.”
Holly stared at him.
“Why?” she said.
Borken smiled.
“All part of the game,” he said. “You’re not back by nightfall, we
turn the dogs loose. They need your old shirts for the scent.”
Holly shook her head.
“I’m not undressing,” she said.
Borken looked at her and nodded.
“We’ll turn our backs,” he said. “But you only get one chance. You
don’t do it, these boys will do it for you, OK?”
He gave the command and the five guards fanned out in a loose arc,
facing the trees. Borken waited for Reacher to turn away and then
swiveled on his heels and stared up in the air.
“OK,” he said. “Get on with it.”
The men heard unbuttoning sounds and the rasp of cotton. They heard
the old shirt fall to the ground and the new one slipping on. They
heard fingernails clicking against buttons.
“Done,” Holly muttered.
Reacher took off his jacket and his shirt and shivered in the mountain
breeze. He took the new shirt from Borken and shrugged it on. Slung
the jacket over his shoulder. Borken nodded and the guard handed
Reacher the shovel and the crowbar. Borken pointed into the forest.