Die Trying by Lee Child

hold on tight around his neck. It was the only way she could stay

upright.

“Excuse me, please,” she muttered.

The leader gestured with his Glock over to his left. They were in a

large cow barn. No cows, but they hadn’t been long absent, judging by

the odor. The truck was parked in a wide central aisle. Either side

were cow stalls, roomy, made up from galvanized steel-piping

efficiently welded together. Reacher twisted and held Holly’s waist

and the two of them hopped and staggered over to the stall the guy with

the Clock was pointing at. Holly seized a railing and held on,

embarrassed.

“Excuse me,” she muttered again.

Reacher nodded and waited. The driver with the shotgun covered them

and the leader walked away. He heaved the big door open and stepped

through. Reacher caught a glimpse of darkening sky. Cloudy. No clue

at all to their location.

The leader was gone five minutes. There was silence in the barn. The

other two guys stood still, weapons out and ready. The jumpy guy with

the Clock was staring at Reacher’s face. The driver with the shotgun

was staring at Holly’s breasts. Smiling a half-smile. Nobody spoke.

Then the leader stepped back in. He was carrying a second pair of

handcuffs and two lengths of heavy chain.

“You’re making a big mistake here,” Holly said to him. “I’m an FBI

agent.”

“I know that, bitch,” the guy said. “Now be quiet.”

“You’re committing a serious crime,” Holly said.

“I know that, bitch,” the guy said again. “And I told you to be quiet.

Another word out of you, I’ll shoot this guy in the head. Then you can

spend the night with a corpse chained to your wrist, OK?”

He waited until she nodded silently. Then the driver with the shotgun

took up position behind them and the leader unlocked their cuff and

freed their wrists. He looped one of the chains around the stall

railing and locked the ends into the spare half of the cuff dangling

from Reacher’s left arm. Pulled it and rattled it to check it was

secure. Then he dragged Holly two stalls away and used the new cuffs

and the second length of chain to lock her to the railing, twenty feet

from Reacher. Her knee gave way and she fell heavily with a gasp of

pain onto the dirty straw. The leader ignored her. Just walked back

to where Reacher was chained up. Stood right in front of him.

“So who the hell are you, asshole?” he said.

Reacher didn’t reply. He knew the keys to both cuffs were in this

guy’s pocket. He knew it would take him about a second and a half to

snap his neck with the loop of chain hanging off his wrist. But the

other two guys were out of reach. One Clock, one shotgun, too far away

to grab before he’d unlocked himself, too near to get

Q7

a chance to do that. He was dealing with a reasonably efficient set of

opponents. So he just shrugged and looked at the straw at his feet. It

was clogged with dung.

“I asked you a damn question,” the guy said.

Readier looked at him. In the corner of his eye he saw the jumpy guy

ratchet his Clock upward a degree or two.

“I asked you a question, asshole,” the leader said again, quietly.

The jumpy guy’s Clock was jutting forward. Then it was straight out,

shoulder-high. Aimed right at Reacher’s head. The muzzle was

trembling through a small jerky circle, but probably not trembling

enough to make the guy miss. Not from that sort of a close distance.

Readier looked from one guy to the other. The guy with the shotgun

tore his attention away from Holly’s breasts. He raised the weapon to

his hip. Pointed it in Reacher’s direction. It was an Ithaca 37.

Twelve-bore. The five-shot version with the pistol grip and no

shoulder stock. The guy racked a round into the chamber. The

crunch-crunch of the mechanism was loud in the barn. It echoed off the

metal walls. Died into silence. Reacher saw the trigger move through

the first eighth-inch of its short travel.