Die Trying by Lee Child

Three weeks?” she said. “You think they were watching me three

weeks?”

“Probably three,” he said. “You went to the cleaners every Monday,

right? Once a week? Must have taken them a while to confirm that

pattern. But they couldn’t grab you in their own vehicle. Too easy to

trace, and it probably had windows and all, not suitable for

long-distance transport of a kidnap victim. So I figure they stole

this truck, in Chicago, probably yesterday morning. Painted over

whatever writing was on the side. You notice the patch of white paint?

Fresh, didn’t match the rest? They disguised it, maybe changed the

plates. But it was still a hot truck, right? And it was their getaway

vehicle. So they didn’t want to risk it on the street. And people

getting into the back of a truck looks weird. A car is better. So

they stole the black sedan and used that instead. Switched vehicles on

that waste ground, burned the black car, and they’re away.”

Holly shrugged. Made a face.

“Doesn’t prove they stole anything,” she said.

“Yes it does,” Reacher said. “Who buys a new car with leather seats,

knowing they’re going to burn it? They’d have bought some old clunker

instead.”

She nodded, reluctantly.

“Who are these people?” she said, more to herself than to Reacher.

“Amateurs,” Reacher said. “They’re making one mistake after

another.”

“Like what?” she said.

“Burning is dumb,” he said. “Attracts attention. They think they’ve

been smart, but they haven’t. Probability is they burned their

original car, as well. I bet they burned it right near where they

stole the black sedan.”

“Sounds smart enough to me,” Holly said.

“Cops notice burning cars,” Reacher said. They’ll find the black

sedan, they’ll find out where it was stolen from, they’ll go up there

and find their original vehicle, probably still smoldering. They’re

leaving a trail, Holly. They should have parked both cars in the

long-term lot at O’Hare. They would have been there a year before

anybody noticed. Or just left them both down on the South Side

somewhere, doors open, keys in. Two minutes later, two residents down

there got themselves a new motor each. Those cars would never have

been seen again. That’s how to cover your tracks. Burning feels good,

feels like it’s real final, but it’s dumb as hell.”

Holly turned her face back and stared up at the hot metal roof. She

was asking herself: just who the hell is this guy?

FOURTEEN

THIS TIME, MCGRATH DID NOT MAKE THE TECH CHIEF COME DOWN to the third

floor. He led the charge himself up to his lab on the sixth, with the

video cassette in his hand. He burst in through the door and cleared a

space on the nearest table. Laid the cassette in the space like it was

made of solid gold. The guy hurried over and looked at it.

“I need photographs made,” McGrath told him.

The guy picked up the cassette and took it across to a bank of video

machines in the corner. Flicked a couple of switches. Three screens

lit up with white snow.

“You tell absolutely nobody what you’re seeing, OK?” McGrath said.

“OK,” the guy said. “What am I looking for?”

The last five frames,” McGrath said. That should just about cover

it.”

The tech chief didn’t use a remote. He stabbed at buttons on the

machine’s own control panel. The tape rolled backwards and the story

of Holly Johnson’s kidnap unfolded in reverse.

“Christ,” he said.

He stopped on the frame showing Holly turning away from the counter.

Then he inched the tape forward. He jumped Holly to the door, then

face to face with the tall guy, then into the muzzles of the guns, then

to the car. He rolled back and did it for a second time. Then a

third.

“Christ,” he said again.

“Don’t wear the damn tape out,” McGrath said. “I want big photographs

of those five frames. Lots of copies.”

The tech chief nodded slowly.

“I can give you laser prints right now,” he said.

He punched a couple of buttons and flicked a couple of switches. Then

he ducked away and booted up a computer on a desk across the room. The