The M-16 uses bullets designated M855. Common NATO rounds, 5.56
millimeters in caliber, just a fraction under a quarter-inch wide.
Fairly heavy for their size, because they are a sandwich of lead and
steel inside a copper jacket. Designed for penetration. Those stray
rounds which hit the courthouse were going to impact the siding at two
thousand miles an hour. They were going to punch through the old wood
like it wasn’t there at all. They were going to smash through the
unstable dynamite like a train wreck. The energy of their impact was
going to act like a better blasting cap than anything any mining
company had ever possessed. That was what those bullets were designed
to do. Some committee had asked for a bullet capable of shooting
through the sides of ammunition trucks. And that’s what had been
delivered.
So Reacher wasn’t shooting. Three sentries, he might have risked it.
He figured he could get off three aimed shots in maybe three seconds.
Too fast for any reaction. But six was too many. They were too spaced
out. Too much physical movement was required between rounds. The
later targets would have time to react. Not much time. Certainly not
enough to be accurate. That was the problem.
Reversing the geometry would be no help, either. He could work himself
right around to the south. It would take him maybe twenty minutes to
skirt around in the trees and come back at them from the opposite
direction. But then what? He would be looking at his targets, uphill.
The courthouse would be right behind them. He could hit each of them
in the head, no problem at all. But he couldn’t ask the bullets just
to stop there in midair. He couldn’t prevent those high-energy
copper-jackets bursting on out of the back of those skulls and heading
on their uphill trajectories straight toward the courthouse’s
second-story walls. He shook his head and lowered his rifle.
McGrath saw Borken conferring with somebody on the edge of the
clearing. It was the guy who had led the ambush squad. The guy who
had taken his gun and his bullets and punched him in the face. The two
of them were glancing at their watches and glancing up at the sky. They
were nodding. Borken slapped the guy on the shoulder and turned away.
Ducked into the trees and disappeared back toward the town. The ambush
leader started in toward McGrath. He was smiling. He was unslinging
his rifle.
“Show time,” he called.
He stepped near and reversed the rifle in his hands as he did so.
Smashed the butt into McGrath’s stomach. McGrath went down on the
shale. One guard jammed the muzzle of his rifle into McGrath’s throat.
The other jammed his into McGrath’s stomach, right where the blow had
landed.
“Lie still, asshole,” the unit leader said. “I’ll be back in a
minute.”
McGrath could not move his head because of the rifle in his throat, but
he followed the guy with his eyes. He was going into the next-to-last
hut in line. Not the armory, which stood on its own. Some kind of an
equipment store. He came out with a mallet and ropes and four metal
objects. Dull green, army issue. As he got nearer, McGrath recognized
what they were. They were tent pegs. Maybe eighteen inches long,
designed for some kind of big mess tent.
The guy dropped his load on the shale. The metal pegs clinked on the
stones. The guy nodded to the soldier with the gun in McGrath’s belly
who straightened up and stepped away. The unit leader took his place.
Used his own weapon to keep McGrath pinned down.
The soldier got busy. He seemed to know what he was supposed to do. He
used the mallet to drive the first peg into the ground. The ground was
stony and the guy had to work hard. He was swinging the mallet in a
big arc and using a lot of force. He drove the peg down until it was
two-thirds buried. Then he paced off maybe eight feet and started
driving the second. McGrath followed him with his eyes. When the
second peg was in, the guy paced another eight feet at a right angle