Die Trying by Lee Child

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