Reacher watched them. Eight trusted lieutenants, acting out a
reasonable imitation of sentry duty.
He watched them for a couple of minutes. Slid his rifle to his
shoulder. He was less than a hundred yards away. He could hear the
rattle of the shale as the sentries moved around. He clicked the
selector to the single-shot position. He had nineteen shells in the
box, and he needed to fire a minimum of eight. He needed to be
cautious with ammunition.
The M-16 is a good rifle. Easy to use, easy to maintain. Easy to aim.
The carrying handle has a grooved top which lines up with an identical
groove in the front sight. At a hundred yards, you squint down the
handle groove and let it merge with the front groove, and what you see
is what you hit. Reacher rested his weight on the rock and lined up
the first target. Practiced the slight sweep that would take him onto
the second. And the third. He rehearsed the full sequence of eight
shots. He didn’t want his elbow snagging somewhere in the middle.
He returned to the first target. Waited a beat and fired. The sound
of the shot crashed through the mountains. The right front tire of the
first truck exploded. He swept the sights onto the left front. Fired
again. The truck dropped to its rims like a stunned ox falling to its
knees.
He kept firing steadily. He had fired five shots and hit five tires
before anybody reacted. As he fired the sixth he saw in the corner of
his eye the sentries diving for cover. Some were just dropping to the
ground. Others were running for the shed. He fired the seventh.
Paused before the eighth. The farthest tire was the hardest shot. The
angle was oblique. The sidewall was unavailable to him. He was going
to have to fire at the treads. Possible that the shell might glance
off. He fired. He hit. The tire burst. The front of the last truck
dropped.
The nearest sentry was still on his feet. Not heading for the shed.
Just standing and staring toward the rock Reacher was behind. Raising
his rifle. It was an M-16, same as Reacher’s. Long magazine, thirty
shells. The guy was standing there, sighting it in on the rock. A
brave man, or an idiot. Reacher crouched and waited. The guy fired.
His weapon was set on automatic. He loosed off a burst of three. Three
shots in a fifth of a second. They smashed into the trees fifteen feet
above Reacher’s head. Twigs and leaves drifted down and landed near
him. The guy ran ten yards closer. Fired again. Three more shells.
Way off to Reacher’s left. He heard the whine of the bullets and the
thunking as they hit the trees before he heard the muzzle blast.
Bullets which travel faster than sound do that. You hear it all in
reverse order. The bullet gets there before the sound of the shot.
Reacher had decisions to take. How close was he going to let this guy
get? And was he going to fire a warning shot? The next burst of three
was nearer. Low, but nearer. Not more than six feet away. Reacher
decided: not much damn closer, and no warning shot. The guy was all
pumped up. No percentage in trying a warning shot. This guy was not
going to get calmed down in any kind of a hurry.
He lay on his side. Straightened his legs and came out at the base of
the rock. Fired once and hit the guy in the chest. He went down in a
heap on the shale. The rifle flew off to his right. Reacher stayed
where he was. Watched carefully. The guy was still alive. So Reacher
fired again. Hit him through the top of the head. Kinder not to leave
him with a sucking chest wound for the last ten minutes of his life.
The echoes of the brief firefight died into the mountain silence and
then the air was still. The other seven guys were nowhere. The trucks
were all resting nose-down on their front rims. Disabled. Maybe they