Die Trying by Lee Child

picture. Adjusted the joystick to put the spreadeagled man in the

center of the screen. Zoomed right in until the image blurred.

“Hard to tell,” he said again. “It’s one of them, that’s for sure.”

“I think it was Brogan,” Webster said.

Johnson looked hard. Used his finger and thumb against the screen to

estimate the guy’s height, head to toes.

“How tall is he?” he asked.

“How tall is he?” Reacher asked suddenly.

“What?” McGrath said.

Reacher was behind McGrath in the trees, staring out at the punishment

hut. He was staring at the front wall. The wall was maybe twelve feet

long, eight feet high. Right to left there was a two-foot panel, then

the door, thirty inches wide, hinged on the right, handle on the left.

Then a panel probably seven and a half feet wide running down to the

end of the building.

“How tall is he?” Reacher asked again.

“Christ, does it matter?” McGrath said.

“I think it does,” Reacher said.

McGrath turned and stared at him.

“Five nine, maybe five ten,” he said. “Not an especially big guy.”

The cladding was made up of horizontal eight-by-fours nailed over the

frame. There was a seam halfway up. The floor was probably

three-quarters board laid over two-by-fours. Therefore the floor

started nearly five inches above the bottom of the outside cladding.

About an inch and a half below the bottom of the doorway.

“Skinny, right?” Reacher said.

McGrath was still staring at him.

Thirty-eight regular, best guess,” he said.

Reacher nodded. The walls would be two-by-fours clad inside and out

with the plywood. Total thickness five and a half inches, maybe less

if the inside cladding was thinner. Call it the inside face of the end

wall was five inches in from the corner, and the floor was five inches

up from the bottom.

“Right-handed or left-handed?” Reacher asked.

“Speak to me,” McGrath hissed.

“Which?” Reacher said.

“Right-handed,” McGrath said. “I’m pretty sure.”

The two-by-fours would be on sixteen-inch centers. That was the

standard dimension. But from the corner of the hut to the right-hand

edge of the door, the distance was only two feet. Two feet less five

inches, for the thickness of the end wall, was nineteen inches. There

was probably a two-by-four set right in the middle of that span. Unless

they skimped it, which was no problem. The wall would be stuffed with

fiberglass wadding, for insulation.

“Stand back,” Reacher whispered.

“Why?” McGrath said.

“Just do it,” Reacher replied.

McGrath moved out of the way. Reacher put his eyes on a spot ten

inches in from the end of the hut and just shy of five feet up from the

bottom. Swayed left and rested his shoulder on a tree. Raised his

M-16 and sighted it in.

“Hell are you doing?” McGrath hissed.

Reacher made no reply. Just waited for his heart to beat and fired.

The rifle cracked and the bullet punched through the siding a hundred

yards away. Ten inches from the corner, five feet from the ground.

“Hell are you doing?” McGrath hissed again.

Reacher just grabbed his arm and pulled him into the woods. Dragged

him north and waited. Two things happened. The six men burst back

into the clearing. And the door of the punishment hut opened. Brogan

was framed in the doorway. His right arm was

QVA

hanging limp. His right shoulder was shattered and pumping blood. In

his right hand, he was holding his Bureau .38. The hammer was back.

His ringer was tight on the trigger.

Readier snicked the M-16 to burst fire. Stitched five bursts of three

shells into the ground, halfway across the clearing. The six men

skidded away, like they were suddenly facing an invisible barrier or a

drop off a tall cliff. They ran for the woods. Brogan stepped out of

the hut. Stood in a bar of sunshine and tried to lift his revolver.

His arm wouldn’t work. It hung uselessly.

“Decoy,” Reacher said. “They thought I’d go in after him. He was

waiting behind the door with his gun. I knew he was the bad guy. But

they had me fooled for a moment.”

McGrath nodded slowly. Stared at the government-issue .38 in Brogan’s