could be driven out of the bowl, but the first of the mountain hairpins
was going to strip the blown tires right off. The trucks were
neutralized. No doubt about that.
Reacher crawled backward ten yards and stood up in the trees. Jogged
down the slope and headed back toward the Bastion. Seventeen shells in
the Glock, nine in the rifle. Progress, at a price.
The dogs found him halfway back. Two big rangy animals. German
shepherds. He saw them at the same time as they saw him. They were
loping along with that kind of infinite energy big dogs display. Long
bounding strides, eager expressions, wet mouths gaping. They stopped
short on stiff front legs and switched direction in a single fluid
stride. Thirty yards away. Then twenty. Then ten. Acceleration. New
energy in their movement. Snarls rising in their throats.
People, Reacher was certain about. Dogs were different. People had
freedom of choice. If a man or a woman ran snarling toward him, they
did so because they chose to. They were asking for whatever they got.
His response was their problem. But dogs were different.
No free will. Easily misled. It raised an ethical problem. Shooting
a dog because it had been induced to do something unwise was not the
sort of thing Reacher wanted to do.
He left the Clock in his pocket. The rifle was better. It was about
two and a half feet longer than the handgun. An extra two and a half
feet of separation seemed like a good idea. The dogs stopped short of
him. The fur on their shoulders was raised. The fur down their backs
was raised, following their spines. They crouched, front feet splayed,
heads down, snarling loudly. They had yellow teeth. Lots of them.
Their eyes were brown. Reacher could see fine dark eyelashes, like a
girl’s.
One of them was forward of the other. The leader of the pack. He knew
dogs had to have a pecking order. Two dogs, one of them had to be
superior to the other. Like people. He didn’t know how dogs worked it
out for themselves. Posturing, maybe. Maybe smell. Maybe fighting.
He stared at the forward dog. Stared into its eyes. Time to time, he
had heard people talking about dogs. They said: never show fear. Stare
the dog down. Don’t let it know you’re afraid. Reacher wasn’t afraid.
He was standing there with an M16 in his hands. The only thing he was
worried about was having to use it.
He stared silently at the dog like he used to stare at some service guy
gone bad. A hard, silent stare like a physical force, like a cold,
crushing pressure. Bleak, cold eyes, unblinking. It had worked a
hundred times with people. Now it was working with the lead dog.
The dog was only partially trained. Reacher could see that. It could
go through the motions. But it couldn’t deliver. It hadn’t been
trained to ignore its victim’s input. It was eye to eye with him,
backing off fractionally like his glare was a painful weight on its
narrow forehead. Reacher turned up the temperature. Narrowed his eyes
and bared his own teeth. Sneered like a tough guy in a bad movie. The
dog’s head dropped. Its eyes swiveled upward to maintain contact. Its
tail dropped down between its legs.
“Sit,” Reacher said. He said it calmly but firmly. Plenty of emphasis
on the plosive consonant at the end of the word. The dog moved
automatically. Shuffled its hind legs inward and sat. The other dog
followed suit, like a shadow. They sat side by side and stared up at
him.
“Lie down,” Reacher said.
The dogs didn’t move. Just stayed sitting, looking at him, puzzled.
Maybe the wrong word. Not the command they were accustomed to.
“Down,” Reacher said.
They slid their front paws forward and dropped their bellies to the
forest floor. Looking up at him.
“Stay,” Reacher said.
He gave them a look like he meant it and moved off south. Forced
himself to walk slow. Five yards into the trees, he turned. The dogs
were still on the ground. Their necks were twisted around, watching
him walk away.