Die Trying by Lee Child

face.

What had Borken said on the radio? He had said: like you’re watching

us with those damn planes. But what had the general’s aide told him

back in the Butte office? You look up and you see a tiny vapor trail

and you think it’s TWA. You don’t think it’s the air force checking if

you’ve shined your shoes this morning. So how did Borken know there

were surveillance planes in the sky? Because he had been told. But by

who? Who the hell knew?

He glanced around wildly and the first thing he saw was a dog coming at

him from dead ahead. Then another. They bounded through the trees at

him. He heard a sound from behind him. The crunch of feet and the

flick of branches. Then the same sound from his right. The snicking

and slapping of a weapon from his left. The dogs were at his feet. He

spun in a panic-stricken circle. All around him men were coming at him

through the trees. Lean, bearded men, in camouflage gear, carrying

rifles and machine guns. Grenades slung from their webbing. Maybe

fifteen or twenty men. They stepped forward calmly and purposefully.

They were in a complete ring, right around him. He turned one way,

then the other. He was surrounded. They were raising their weapons.

He had fifteen or twenty automatic weapons pointing straight at him

like spokes in a wheel.

They stood silent, weapons ready. McGrath glanced from one to the

next, in a complete wild circle. Then one of them stepped forward.

Some kind of an officer. His hand went straight in under McGrath’s

jacket. Jerked the .38 out of his holster. Then the guy’s hand went

into McGrath’s pocket. Closed over the speed loader and pulled it out.

The guy slipped both items into his own pocket and smiled. Swung his

fist and hit McGrath in the face. McGrath staggered and was prodded

back forward with the muzzle of a rifle. Then he heard tires on the

road. The grumble of a motor. He glanced left and caught a flash of

olive green in the sun. A jeep. Two men in it. The soldiers pressed

in and forced him out of the forest. They jostled him through the

trees and onto the shoulder. He blinked in the sun. He could feel his

nose was bleeding. The jeep rolled forward and stopped alongside him.

The driver stared at him with curiosity. Another lean, bearded man in

uniform. In the passenger seat was a huge man wearing black. Beau

Borken. McGrath recognized him from his Bureau file photograph. He

stared at him. Then Borken leaned over and grinned.

“Hello, Mr. McGrath,” he said. “You made good time.”

FORTY-ONE

REACHER WATCHED THE WHOLE THING HAPPEN. HE WAS A HUNDRED and fifty

yards away in the trees. Northwest of the ambush, high up the slope on

the other side of the road. There was a dead sentry at his feet. The

guy was lying in the dirt with his head at right angles to his neck.

Reacher had his field glasses raised to his eyes. Watching. Watching

what, he wasn’t exactly sure.

He had caught the gist of the radio conversation in the Bastion. He

had heard Borken’s side. He had guessed the replies. He had heard the

southern lookouts calling in on the walkie-talkies. He knew about the

Marines on the bridge. He knew about Webster and Johnson sitting there

alongside them, on the end of the line.

He had wondered who else was down there. Maybe more military, maybe

more FBI. The military wouldn’t come. Johnson would have ordered them

to sit tight. If anybody came, it would be the FBI. He figured they

might have substantial numbers standing by. He figured they would be

coming in, sooner or later. He needed to exploit them. Needed to use

them as a diversion while he got Holly out. So he had moved southeast

to wait for their arrival. Now, an hour later, he was gazing down at

the short stocky guy getting loaded into the jeep. Dark suit, white

shirt, town shoes. FBI, for sure.

But not the hostage rescue team. This guy had no equipment. The HRT