Die Trying by Lee Child

The guy opposite Reacher seemed to be the leader. The bigger one. The

calmer one. He looked between Reacher and the woman and jerked his

automatic’s barrel toward the kerb.

“In the car, bitch,” the guy said. “And you, asshole.” He spoke

urgently, but quietly. With authority. Not much of an accent. Maybe

from California, Reacher thought. There was a sedan at the kerb. It

had been waiting there for them. A big car, black, expensive. The

driver was leaning across behind the front passenger seat. He was

stretching over to pop the rear door. The guy opposite Reacher

motioned with the gun again. Reacher didn’t move. He glanced left and

right. He figured he had about another second and a half to make some

kind of an assessment. The two guys with the nine-millimeter

automatics didn’t worry him too much. He was one-handed, because of

the dry-cleaning, but he figured the two guys would go down without too

much of a problem. The problems lay beside him and behind him. He

stared up into the dry-cleaner’s window and used it like a mirror.

Twenty yards behind him was a solid mass of hurrying people at a

crosswalk. A couple of stray bullets would find a couple of targets.

No doubt about that. No doubt at all. That was the problem behind

him. The problem beside him was the unknown woman. Her capabilities

were an unknown quantity. She had some kind of a bad leg. She would

be slow to react. Slow to move. He wasn’t prepared to go into combat.

Not in that environment, and not with that partner.

The guy with the Californian accent reached up and grabbed Reacher’s

wrist where it was pinned against his collar by the weight of the nine

clean garments hanging down his back. He used it to pull him toward

the car. His trigger finger still looked ready to go to work. Reacher

was watching it, corner of his eye. He let the woman’s arm go. Stepped

over to the car. Threw the bags into the rear seat and climbed in

after them. The woman was pushed in behind him. Then the jumpy guy

crowded in on them and slammed the door. The leader got in front on

the right. Slammed the door. The driver nudged the selector and the

car moved smoothly and quietly away down the street.

The woman was gasping in pain and Reacher figured she had the jumpy

guy’s gun jammed in her ribs. The leader was twisted around in the

front seat with his gun hand resting against the thick leather

headrest. The gun was pointing straight at Reacher’s chest. It was a

Clock 17. Reacher knew all about that weapon. He had evaluated the

prototype for his unit. That had been his assignment during his

light-duty convalescence after the Beirut wound. The Glock was a tough

little weapon. Seven and a half inches long from firing pin to muzzle

tip. Long enough to make it accurate. Reacher had hit thumbtack heads

at seventy-five feet with it. And it fired a decent projectile. It

delivered quarter-ounce bullets at nearly eight hundred miles an hour.

Seventeen rounds to a magazine, hence the name. And it was light. For

all its power, it weighed under two pounds. The important parts were

steel. The rest of it was plastic. Black polycarbonate, like an

expensive camera. A fine piece of craftsmanship. But he hadn’t liked

it much. Not for the specialized requirements of his unit. He’d

recommended rejection. He’d supported the Beretta 92F instead. The

Beretta was also a nine-millimeter, a half-pound heavier, an inch

longer, two fewer rounds in the magazine. But it had about 10 per cent

more stopping power than the Clock. That was important to him. And it

wasn’t plastic. The Beretta had been Reacher’s choice. His unit

commander had agreed. He had circulated Reacher’s paper and the army

as a whole had backed his recommendation. The same week they promoted

him and pinned on his Silver Star and his Purple Heart, they ordered

Berettas even though the Beretta was more expensive and NATO was crazy

for the Clock and Reacher had been just about a lone voice and was not