Die Trying by Lee Child

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.