Die Trying by Lee Child

nests. He dropped to his knees and then lay down and swam through the

pile of damp bones. Felt the roof of the tunnel lower and the sides

press in. Took a deep breath and felt the fear come back.

The fastest helicopter available on that day was a Marine Corps Night

Hawk stationed at Malmstrom. It was a long, fat, humped machine, but

it was quick. Within minutes of Johnson’s call, it was spinning up and

receiving orders to head west and north to a gravel turnout on the last

road in Montana. Then it was in the air. The Marine pilot found the

road and followed it north, fast and low, until he spotted a cluster of

army command vehicles parked tight into a rock cutting. He swung back

and put down on the turnout and waited. Saw three men racing south

toward him. One was a civilian and two were army. One was a colonel

and the other was the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff. The pilot

shrugged at his crewman who pointed upward through the plexiglass

canopy. There was a lone vapor trail maybe thirty-six thousand feet

up. Some big jet was unwinding a tight spiral and streaking south. The

pilot shrugged again and figured whatever was happening, it was

happening to the south. So he made a provisional course calculation

and was surprised when the brass clambered aboard and ordered him to

head north into the mountains.

Reacher was laughing. He was hauling himself along through the tunnel

and laughing out loud. Shaking and crying with laughter. He was no

longer afraid. The tight clamp of the rock on his body was like a

caress. He had done this once, and survived it. It was possible. He

was going to get through.

The fear had disappeared as suddenly as it had come. He had pushed

through the pile of bones in the dark and stretched out and felt the

rock clamp down against his back. His chest had seized and his throat

had gagged tight. He had felt the hot damp flush of panic and pressed

himself into the ground. He had felt his strength drain away. Then he

had focused. The job in hand. Holly. Milosevic’s revolver pushed

against the dark billow of her hair, her fabulous eyes dull with

despair. He had seen her in his mind at the end of the tunnel. Holly.

Then the tunnel seemed to straighten and become a warm smooth tube. An

exact fit for his bulky shoulders. Like it was tailored for him, and

him alone. A simple horizontal journey. He had learned a long time

ago that some things were worth being afraid of. And some things were

not. Things that he had done before and survived did not justify fear.

To be afraid of a survivable thing was irrational. And whatever else

he was, Reacher knew he was a rational man. In that split second the

fear disappeared and he felt himself relax. He was a fighter. An

avenger. And Holly was waiting for him. He thrust his arms forward

like a swimmer diving for the water and swarmed through the mountain

toward her.

He charged along with a tidy rhythm. Like marching out on the open

road, but doing it lying down in the dark. Small deft movements of

hands and feet. Head lowered. Laughing with relief. He felt the

tunnel get smaller and hug him. He slid on through. He felt the blank

wall ahead and folded himself neatly around the corner. Breathed

easily and stopped laughing. Told himself it was time for quiet. He

crawled on as fast as he could. Slowed up when he sensed the roof

soaring away above him. Crept forward until the smell of the air told

him he was nearly through.

Then he heard the helicopter. He heard the faint thumping of the

rotors in the distance. He heard feet scuffling forty yards in front

of him. The inarticulate sound of surprise and panic. He heard

Milosevic’s voice. High-pitched. West Coast accent.

“Keep that chopper away from here,” Milosevic screamed through the

door.

The noise was getting nearer. Growing louder.

“Keep it away, you hear?” Milosevic screamed. “I’ll kill her,