Die Trying by Lee Child

“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.