“Stay,” he called again.
They stayed. He walked.
He could hear people in the Bastion. The sound of a fair-sized crowd
trying to keep quiet. He heard it when he was still north of the
parade ground. He skirted the area in the trees and walked around the
far end of the rifle range. Came through the trees behind the mess
hall. Opposite the kitchen door. He walked a circle deep in the woods
behind the buildings until he got an angle. Crept forward to take a
look.
There were maybe thirty people in the Bastion. They were standing in a
tight group. Edging forward into a cluster. All men, all in
camouflage fatigues, all heavily armed. Rifles, machine guns, grenade
launchers, pockets bulging with spare magazines. The crowd ebbed and
flowed. Shoulders touched and parted. Reacher glimpsed Beau Borken in
the center of the mass of people. He was holding a small black radio
transmitter. Reacher recognized it. It was Jackson’s. Borken had
retrieved it from Fowler’s pocket He was holding it up to “his ear.
Staring into space like he’d just switched it on and was waiting for a
reply.
FORTY
MCGRATH SNATCHED THE RADIO FROM HIS POCKET. FLIPPED IT open and stared
at it. It was crackling loudly in his hand. Webster stepped forward
and took it from him. Ducked back to the cover of the rock face and
clicked the button.
“Jackson?” he said. “This is Harland Webster.”
McGrath and Johnson crowded in on him. The three men crouched against
the rock wall. Webster moved the unit an inch from his ear so the
other two could listen in. In the cover of the rock, in the silence of
the mountains, they could hear it crackling and hissing and the fast
breathing of a person on the other end. Then they heard a voice.
“Harland Webster?” the voice said. “Well, well, the head man
himself.”
“Jackson?” Webster said again.
“No,” the voice said. This is not Jackson.”
Webster glanced at McGrath.
“So who is it?” he asked.
“Beau Borken,” the voice said. “And as of today, I guess that’s
President Borken. President of the Free States of America. But feel
free to speak informally.”
“Where’s Jackson?” Webster asked.
There was a pause. Nothing to hear except the faint electronic sound
of FBI telecommunications technology. Satellites and microwaves.
“Where’s Jackson?” Webster asked again.
“He died,” the voice said.
Webster glanced at McGrath again.
“How?” he asked.
“Just died,” Borken said. “Relatively quickly, really.”
“Was he sick?” Webster asked.
There was another pause. Then there was the sound of laughter. A
high, tinny sound. A loud, shrieking laugh which overloaded Webster’s
earpiece and spilled into distortion and bounced off the rock wall.
“No, he wasn’t sick, Webster,” Borken said. “He was pretty healthy, up
until the last ten minutes.”
“What did you do to him?” Webster asked.
“Same as I’m going to do to the general’s little girl,” Borken said.
“Listen up, and I’ll tell you the exact details. You need to pay
attention, because you need to know what you’re dealing with here.
We’re serious here. We mean business, you understand? You
listening?”
Johnson pushed in close. White and sweating.
“You crazy bastards,” he yelled.
“Who’s that?” Borken asked. That the general himself?”
“General Johnson,” Webster said.
There was a chuckle on the radio. Just a short, satisfied sound.
“A full house,” Borken said. “The director of the FBI and the joint
chairman. We’re flattered, believe me. But I guess the birth of a new
nation deserves nothing less.”
“What do you want?” Webster asked.
“We crucified him,” Borken said. “We found a couple of trees a yard
apart, and we nailed him up. We’re going to do that to your daughter,
General, if you step out of line. Then we cut his balls off. He was
pleading and screaming for us not to, but we did it anyway. We can’t
do that to your kid, her being a woman and all, but we’ll find some
equivalent, you know what I mean? Do you think she’ll be screaming and
pleading, General? You know her better than me. Personally, I’m
betting she will be. She likes to think she’s a tough cookie, but when