Die Trying by Lee Child

Whichever one is the good guy, he still thinks Reacher’s his enemy. And

whichever one is the bad guy, he knows Reacher’s his enemy.”

Webster looked away. Turned back to the bank of screens.

Borken put the radio back in the pocket of his black uniform. Drummed

his fingers on the judge’s desk. Looked at the people looking back at

him.

“One camera is enough,” he said.

“Sure,” Milosevic said. “One is as good as two.”

“We don’t need interference right now,” Borken said. “So we should

nail Reacher before we do anything else.”

Milosevic glanced around, nervously.

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m staying in here. I just want my

money.”

Borken looked at him. Still thinking.

“You know how to catch a tiger?” he asked. “Or a leopard or

something? Out in the jungle?”

“What?” Milosevic asked.

“You tether a goat to a stake,” Borken said. “And lie in wait.”

“What?” Milosevic asked again.

“Reacher was willing to rescue McGrath, right?” Borken said. “So

maybe he’s willing to rescue your pal Brogan, too.”

General Garber heard the commotion and risked moving up a few yards. He

made it to where the trees thinned out and he crouched. Shuffled

sideways to his left to get a better view. The courthouse was dead

ahead up the rise. The south wall was face-on to him, but he had a

narrow angle down the front. He could see the main entrance. He could

see the steps up to the door. He saw a gaggle of men come out. Six

men. There were two flanking point men, alert, scanning around, rifles

poised. The other four were carrying somebody, spreadeagled,

face-down. The person had been seized by the wrists and the ankles. It

was a man. Garber could tell by the voice. He was bucking and

thrashing and screaming. It was Brogan.

Garber went cold. He knew what had happened to Jackson. McGrath had

told him. He raised his rifle. Sighted in on the nearer point man.

Tracked him smoothly as he moved right to left. Then his peripheral

vision swept the other five. Then he thought about the sentry screen

behind him. He grimaced and lowered the rifle. Impossible odds. He

had a rule: stick to the job in hand. He’d preached it like a gospel

for forty years. And the job in hand was to get Holly Johnson out

alive. He crept backward into the forest and shrugged at the two men

beside him.

The Chinook crew had clambered out of their wrecked craft and stumbled

away into the forest. They had thought they were heading south, but in

their disorientation they had moved due north. They had passed

straight through the sentry screen without knowing anything about it

and come upon a three-star general sitting at the base of a pine. The

general had hauled them down and told them to hide. They thought they

were in a dream, and they were hoping to wake up. They said nothing

and listened as the screaming faded behind the ruined county offices.

Reacher and McGrath heard it minutes later. Faintly, at first, deep in

the forest to their left. Then it built louder. They moved together

level with a gap between huts where they could see across the Bastion

to the mouth of the track. They were ten feet into the forest, far

enough back to be well concealed, far enough forward to observe.

They saw the two point men burst out into the sunlight. Then four more

men, walking in step, rifles slung, leaning outward, arms

counterbalancing something heavy they were carrying. Something that

was bucking and thrashing and screaming.

“Christ,” McGrath whispered. That’s Brogan.”

Reacher stared for a long time. Silent. Then he nodded.

“I was wrong,” he said. “Milosevic is the bad guy.”

McGrath clicked the Clock’s trigger to release the safety device.

“Wait,” Reacher whispered.

He moved right and signaled McGrath to follow. They stayed deep in the

trees and paralleled the six men and Brogan across the clearing. The

men were moving slow across the shale, and Brogan’s screaming was

getting louder. They looped past the bodies and the tent pegs and the

cut ropes and walked on.