people was moving northwest out of the Bastion. McGrath raised the
Clock again and Reacher snicked the M-16 back to singles. He had
twelve shells left. Too few to waste, even with the A2’s economy
measure. Then they saw women through the trees. Women and children.
Some men with them. Family groups. They were marching in columns of
two. Reacher saw Joseph Ray, a woman at his side, two boys marching
blankly in front of him. He saw the woman from the mess kitchen,
marching side by side with a man. Three children walking stolidly in
front of them.
“Where are they going?” McGrath whispered.
“The parade ground,” Reacher said. “Borken ordered it, right?”
“Why don’t they just run for it?” McGrath said.
Reacher shrugged and said nothing. He had no explanation. He stood
concealed and watched the blank faces pass through the dappled woods.
Then he touched McGrath’s arm and they sprinted on through the trees
and came out behind the mess hall. Reacher glanced cautiously around.
Stretched up and grabbed at the roof overhang. Put a foot up on the
window ledge and hauled himself up onto the shingles. Crawled up the
slope of the roof and steadied himself against the bright metal
chimney. Raised the stolen field glasses and trained them southeast,
down toward the town, thinking: OK, but what the hell else is
happening? And where?
General Johnson’s aide had the most aptitude with the computer
controls, either from familiarity with such things, or from being
younger. He used the rubber knobs and the joystick to focus on the
area in front of the courthouse steps. Then he zoomed out a touch to
frame the view. He had the western face of the courthouse on the right
of the screen and the eastern face of the ruined county office on the
left. In between were the two lawns, one abandoned and scrubby, the
other still reasonably flat. The road ran vertically up the center of
the picture, like a map. The jeep which had brought McGrath in was
still there where they had dumped it. The aide used it to check his
focus. It came in crisp and clear. It was a military surplus vehicle.
Smudged white stencils. They could see the windshield folded down, and
a canvas map case and a jerry can for fuel and a short-handled shovel
clipped on the rear.
They all saw the two men bring Holly out. From above, they were in a
perfect straight diagonal line, with Holly alone in the middle, like
the shape you see when a die rolls a three. They brought her out and
waited. Then they saw a huge figure lumbering down the courthouse
steps behind them. Borken. He stepped into the road and looked up.
Right into the camera, invisible seven miles above him. He stared and
waved. Raised his right hand high. There was a black gun in it. Then
he looked down and fiddled with something in his left hand. Raised it
to his ear. The radio on the desk in front of Webster crackled.
Webster picked it up and flipped it open.
“Yes?” he said.
They saw Borken waving up at the camera again.
“See me?” he said.
“We see you,” Webster said quietly.
“See this?” Borken asked.
He raised the gun again. The general’s aide zoomed in tight. Borken’s
huge bulk filled the screen. Upturned pink face, black pistol held
high.
“We see it,” Webster said.
The aide zoomed back out. Borken resumed his proper perspective.
“Sig-Sauer P226,” Borken said. “You familiar with that weapon?”
Webster paused. Glanced around.
“Yes,” he said.
“Nine-millimeter,” Borken said. “Fifteen shots to a clip.”
“So?” Webster asked.
Borken laughed. A loud sound in Webster’s ear.
“Time for some target practice,” Borken said. “And guess what the
target is?”
They saw the two men move toward Holly. Then they saw Holly’s crutch
come up. She held it level with both hands. She smashed it hard into
the first man’s gut. She whipped it back and swung it. Spun and hit
the second man in the head. But it was light aluminum. No weight
behind it. She dropped it and her hands went to her pockets. Came out