that would get set out on the kitchen counter by somebody making a stew
or a stroganoff.
They saw the guy lay the knife flat on McGrath’s chest. Then he used
both hands to fold back the flaps on McGrath’s jacket. He loosened
McGrath’s tie and pulled it sideways, almost up under his ear. Then he
grasped the shirt and tore it open. The cotton pulled apart under the
knife, leaving the knife where it was, now next to the skin. The guy
pulled the tails out of the waistband and tucked the shirt right back
to the sides. Carefully, well out of the way, like he was a surgeon
faced with a difficult emergency procedure.
They saw the guy pick up the knife again. He was squatted down to
McGrath’s right, leaning over slightly, holding the knife. He was
holding it point-down, close to McGrath’s belly. The electronic pink
of McGrath’s skin was reflected in the faces of the watchers inside the
observation vehicle.
They saw the guy raise the knife an inch. They saw his index finger
slide along the back of the blade, like he was adjusting his grip for
extra precision. They saw the blade move down. The pale sun glinted
on the steel. Then their view was disrupted. A silent puff of pink
mist obscured the picture. When it cleared, the knife was still in the
guy’s hand. But the guy had no head. His whole head was a shattered
pink wound, and he was toppling slowly sideways.
FORTY-TWO
THE LEFT-HAND GUARD WENT DOWN EASILY ENOUGH, TOO. REACHER put a bullet
through the side of his head, just above the ear, and he fell heavily,
right on top of the spreadeagled Bureau guy. But the right-hand guard
reacted. He spun away and hurdled the taut ropes, racing for the
trees. Reacher paused a beat and dropped him ten feet away. The guy
sprawled and slid noisily through the shale and put up a slick of dust.
Twitched once and died.
Then Reacher waited. The last staccato echo of the three shots came
back off the farthest mountains and faded into quiet. Reacher watched
the trees, all around the Bastion. Watched for movement. The sunlight
was bright. Too bright to be sure. There was a lot of contrast
between the brightness of the clearing and the dark of the forest. So
he waited.
Then he came out from behind the radio hut at a desperate run. He
sprinted straight across the clearing to the mess in the middle. Hauled
the bodies out of the way. The guard was sprawled right on top of the
Bureau guy. The unit leader was across his legs. He dumped them out
of the way and found the knife. Sawed through the four coarse ropes.
Dragged the Bureau guy upright and pushed him off back the way he’d
come. Then he grabbed the two nearest rifles and sprinted after him.
Caught him up halfway. The guy was just tottering along. So Reacher
caught him under the arms and bundled him to safety. Threw him well
into the trees behind the huts and stood bent over, panting. Then he
took the magazines off the new rifles and put one in his pocket and one
on his own gun. They were both the elongated thirty-shot versions.
He’d been down to six rounds. Now he had sixty. A ten-fold increase.
And he had another pair of hands.
“Are you Brogan?” he asked. “Or McGrath?”
The guy answered stiffly and neutrally. There was fear and panic and
confusion in his face.
“McGrath,” he said. “FBI.”
Reacher nodded. The guy was shaken up, but he was an ally. He took
Fowler’s Clock out of his pocket and held it out to him, butt first.
McGrath was panting quietly and glancing wildly toward the deep cover
of the trees. There was aggression in his stance. His hands were
balled into fists.
“What?” Reacher asked him, concerned.
McGrath darted forward and snatched the Clock and stepped back. Raised
it and went into a shooting stance and pointed it two-handed. At
Reacher’s head. The cut ends of the ropes trailed down from his
wrists. Reacher just stared blankly at him.