Die Trying by Lee Child

long out of West Point. Then he had been assigned elsewhere and served

all around the world and hadn’t really seen a Clock 17 since. Until

now. Twelve years later he was getting a pretty damn good second look

at one.

He switched his attention away from the gun and took another look at

the guy holding it. He had a decent tan which whitened near his

hairline. A recent haircut. The driver had a big shiny brow, thinning

hair swept back, pink and vivid features, the smirk that pig-ugly guys

use when they think they’re handsome. Same cheap chain store shirt,

same windbreaker. Same corn-fed bulk. Same in-charge confidence,

edged around with a slight breathlessness. Three guys, all of them

maybe thirty or thirty-five, one leader, one solid follower, one jumpy

follower. All of them tense but rehearsed, racing through some kind of

a mission. A puzzle. Reacher glanced past the steady Clock into the

leader’s eyes. But the guy shook his head.

“No talking, asshole,” he said. “Start talking, I’ll shoot you. That’s

a damn promise. Keep quiet, you could be OK.”

Reacher believed him. The guy’s eyes were hard and his mouth was a

tight line. So he said nothing. Then the car slowed and pulled onto a

lumpy concrete forecourt. It headed around behind an abandoned

industrial building. They had driven south. Reacher figured they were

now maybe five miles south of the Loop. The driver eased the big sedan

to a stop with the rear door lined up with the back of a small panel

truck. The truck was standing alone on the empty lot. It was a Ford

Econoline, dirty white, not old, but well used. There had been some

kind of writing on the side. It had been painted over with fresh white

paint which didn’t exactly match the body work Readier scanned around.

The lot was full of trash. He saw a paint can discarded near the

truck. A brush. There was nobody in sight. The place was deserted.

If he was going to make some kind of a move, this was the right time to

make it, and the right location. But the guy in front smiled a thin

smile and leaned right over into the back of the car. Caught Reacher’s

collar with his left hand and ground the tip of the Clock’s muzzle into

Reacher’s ear with his right.

“Sit still, asshole,” the guy said.

The driver got out of the car and skipped around the hood. Pulled a

new set of keys from his pocket and opened up the rear doors of the

truck. Reacher sat still. Jamming a gun into a person’s ear is not

necessarily a smart move. If the person suddenly jerks his head around

toward it, the gun comes out. It rolls around the person’s forehead.

Then even a quick trigger-finger won’t do much damage. It might blow a

hole in the person’s ear, just the outside flap, and it’s sure to

shatter the person’s eardrum. But those are not fatal wounds. Reacher

spent a second weighing those odds. Then the jumpy guy dragged the

woman out of the car and hustled her straight into the back of the

truck. She hopped and limped across the short distance. Straight out

of one door and in through the other. Reacher watched her, corner of

his eye. Her guy took her pocketbook from her and tossed it back into

the car. It fell at Reacher’s feet. It thumped heavily on the thick

carpet. A big pocketbook, expensive leather, something heavy in it.

Something metal. Only one metal thing women carry could make a heavy

thump like that. He glanced across at her, suddenly interested.

She was sprawled in the back of the truck. Impeded by her leg. Then

the leader in the front pulled Reacher along the leather seat and

passed him on to the jumpy guy. As soon as one Clock was out of his

ear, the other was jammed into his side. He was dragged over the rough

ground. Across to the rear of the truck. He was pushed inside with

the woman. The jumpy guy covered them both with the trembling Clock

while the leader reached into the car and pulled out the woman’s metal