“Here goes,” he said.
He turned side-on and raised his arm. Held it out absolutely straight,
shoulders turned like a duelist in an old movie. Squinted down the
barrel and fired. The pistol kicked silently and there was a puff of
dust in the ground, three feet from where Holly was standing still.
Borken laughed again.
“Bad shot,” he said. “I need the practice. Might take me a while to
get close. But I’ve got fourteen more shells, right?”
He fired again. A puff of dust from the earth. Three feet the other
side of the stump.
Thirteen left,” Borken said. “I guess CNN is your best bet, right?
Call them and tell them the whole story. Make it an official
statement. Get Webster to back you up. Then patch them through on
this radio. You won’t give me my fax line, I’m going to have to
communicate direct.”
“You’re crazy,” Johnson said.
“You’re the one who’s crazy,” Borken said. “I’m a force of history. I
can’t be stopped. I’m shooting at your daughter. The president’s
godchild. You don’t understand, Johnson. The world is changing. I’m
changing it. The world must be my witness.”
Johnson was silent. Stunned.
“OK,” Borken said. “I’m going to hang up now. You make that call.
Thirteen bullets left. I don’t hear from CNN, the last one kills
her.”
Johnson heard the line go dead and looked up at the screens
QQ1
and saw Borken drop the radio on the ground. Saw him raise the
Sig-Sauer two-handed. Saw him sight it in. Saw him put a round right
between his daughter’s feet.
Reacher rested against the warm chimney and lowered the glasses. Ran a
desperate calculation through his head. A calculation involving time
and distance. He was twelve hundred yards away to the northwest. He
couldn’t get there in time. And he couldn’t get there silently. He
lay chest down on the roof of the mess hall and called down to McGrath.
His voice was already quiet and relaxed. Like he was ordering in a
restaurant.
“McGrath?” he said. “Go break into the armory. It’s the hut on the
end, apart from the others.”
“OK,” McGrath called. “What do you want?”
“You know what a Barren looks like?” Reacher called. “Big black
thing, scope, big muzzle brake on it. Find a full magazine. Probably
be next to them.”
“OK,” McGrath said again.
“And hurry,” Reacher said.
Garber’s view up from the south cleared when the two soldiers came back
around and stood behind Beau Borken. They hung back, like they didn’t
want to put him off his aim. Borken was maybe sixty feet from Holly,
shooting up the rise of the knoll. Garber was seventy yards away down
the steep slope. Holly was just left of straight ahead. Borken was
just to the right. His black bulk was perfectly outlined against the
whiteness of the south wall of the courthouse. Garber saw that
somebody had blanked the upper-story windows with new white wood.
Borken’s head was framed dead center against one of the new rectangles.
Garber smiled. It would be like shooting for a small pink bulls eye on
a sheet of white paper. He snicked the M-16 to burst fire and checked
it visually. Then he raised it to his shoulder.
McGrath stretched up on his toes and passed the Barrett up toward
Reacher. Reacher stretched his hand down and pulled it up. Glanced at
it and passed it back down.
“Not this one,” he said. “Find one with the serial number ending in
five-zero-two-four, OK?”
“Why?” McGrath called.
“Because I know for sure it shoots straight,” Reacher said. “I used it
before.”
“Christ,” McGrath said. He set off again at a dead run. Reacher lay
back on the roof, trying to keep his heartbeat under control.
Borken’s tenth shot was still wide, but not by much. Holly jumped as
far as her cuffs would allow. Borken took to pacing back and forth in
delight. He was pacing and laughing and stopping to shoot. Garber was
tracking his huge bulk left and right against the whiteness of the
building. Just waiting for him to stop moving. Because Garber had a
rule: make the first shot count.