it my way. You’ve been public enemy number one for five days.”
Reacher waved the apology away and stood up and helped McGrath to his
feet. Bent back down to the dirt and picked up the Glock and handed it
to him.
“Your nose OK?” he asked.
McGrath slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. Touched his nose
gently and grimaced.
“Bastard hit me,” he said. “I think it’s broken. Just turned and hit
me, like they couldn’t wait.”
There was a noise in the woods, off to the left. Reacher caught
McGrath’s arm and pulled him deeper into the forest. Pushed through
the brush and got facing east. He stood silently and listened for
movement. McGrath was taking the ropes off his ankles and winding
himself up to ask a question.
“So is Holly OK?” he said.
Reacher nodded. But grimly.
“So far,” he said. “But it’s going to be a hell of a problem getting
her out.”
“I know about the dynamite,” McGrath said. That was the last thing
Jackson called in. Monday night.”
“It’s a problem,” Reacher said again. “One stray round, and she’s had
it. And there are a hundred trigger-happy people up here. Whatever we
do, we need to do it carefully. Have you got reinforcements coming in?
Hostage rescue?”
McGrath shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said. “Politics.”
“Maybe that’s good,” Reacher said. “They’re talking about mass suicide
if they look like getting beat. Live free or die, you know?”
“Whichever,” McGrath said. “Their choice. I don’t care what happens
to them. I just care about Holly.”
They fell silent and crept together through the trees. Stopped deep in
the woods, about level with the back of the mess hall. Now Reacher was
winding himself up to ask a question. But he waited, frozen, a finger
to his lips. There was noise to his left. A patrol, sweeping the
fringe of the forest. McGrath made to move, but Reacher caught his arm
and stopped him. Better to stand stock still than to risk making noise
of their own. The patrol came nearer. Reacher raised his rifle and
switched it to rapid fire. Smothered the sound of the click with his
palm. McGrath held his breath. The patrol was visible, ten feet away
through the trees. Six men, six rifles. They were glancing
rhythmically as they walked, left and right, left and right, between
the edge of the sunny clearing and the dark green depths of the woods.
Reacher breathed out, silently. Amateurs, with poor training and bad
tactics. The bright sun in their eyes on every second glance was
ruining their chances of seeing into the gloom of the forest. They
were blind. They passed by without stopping. Reacher followed the
sound of their progress and turned back to McGrath.
“Where are Brogan and Milosevic?” he whispered.
McGrath nodded, morosely.
“I know,” he said, quietly. “One of them is bent. I finally figured
that out about half a second before they grabbed me up.”
“Where are they?” Reacher asked again.
“Up here somewhere,” McGrath said. “We came in through the ravine
together, a mile apart.”
“Which one is it?” Readier asked.
McGrath shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Can’t figure it out. I’ve been going over
and over it. They both did good work. Milosevic found the dry
cleaner. He brought the video in. Brogan did a lot of work tracing it
all back here to Montana. He traced the truck. He liaised with
Quantico. My gut says neither one is bent.”
“When was I ID’d?” Reacher asked.
“Thursday morning,” McGrath said. “We had your complete history.”
Reacher nodded.
“He called it in right away,” he said. These people suddenly knew who
I was, Thursday morning.”
McGrath shrugged again.
They were both there at the time,” he said. “We were all down at
Peterson.”
“Did you get Holly’s fax?” Reacher asked.
“What fax?” McGrath said. “When?”
This morning,” Reacher said. “Early, maybe ten to five? She faxed you
a warning.”
“We’re intercepting their line,” McGrath said. “In a truck,” down the
road here. But ten to five, I was in bed.”
“So who was minding the store?” Reacher asked.
McGrath nodded.
“Milosevic and Brogan,” he said, sourly. The two of them. Ten to five