Die Trying by Lee Child

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.