Die Trying by Lee Child

where it was dampest and the siding was made from the longest boards.

He tapped and kicked at them. Chose one particular place and pressed

hard with his foot. The board gave slightly and opened a gap against

its rusty nail. He worked the gap and sprung the next board, and the

next, until he had a flap which would open tall enough to crawl

through. Then he ducked back into the center aisle and piled the loose

end of his chain onto the dead driver’s stomach. Fished in the trouser

pocket and pulled out the padlock key. Held it in his teeth. Bent

down and picked up the body and the chain together. Carried them out

through the open door.

He carried them about twenty-five yards. Away from the house. Then he

rested the body on its feet, supporting it by the shoulders, like he

was dancing with a drunken partner. Ducked forward and jacked it up

onto his shoulder. Caught the chain with one hand and walked away down

the track.

He walked fast for twenty minutes. More than a mile. Along the track

to a road. Turned left down the road and out into the empty

countryside. It was horse country. Railed paddocks ran left and right

beside the road. Endless flat grassland, cool and damp in the last of

the night. Occasional trees looming through the dark. A narrow,

straight, lumpy road surface.

He walked down the center of the road. Then he ducked onto the grassy

shoulder and found a ditch. It ran along the base of the paddock rail.

He turned a complete circle, with the dead driver windmilling on his

shoulder. He could see nothing. He was more than a mile from the farm

and he could have been more than a hundred miles from the next one. He

bent over and dropped the body into the ditch. It flopped down through

the long grass and landed face-down in mud. Readier turned and ran the

mile back to the farm. The streak of dawn was lightening the sky.

He turned into the rough track. There were lights in the windows of

the farmhouse. He sprinted for the barn. Pushed the heavy wooden

doors closed from the outside. Lifted the crossbeam into its supports

and locked it in place with the padlock key. Ran back to the track and

hurled the key far into the field. Wednesday was flaming up over the

horizon. He sprinted for the far side of the barn and found the gap

he’d sprung in the siding. Pushed his chain in ahead of him. Squeezed

his shoulders through and forced his way back inside. Pulled the

boards back flush with the old timbers, best as he could. Then he came

back into the aisle and stood bent over, breathing hard.

“All done,” he said. They’ll never find him.”

He scooped up the metal mess tin with the cold remains of the soup in

it. Scratched around in his stall for the fallen bolts. He gathered

as many wood splinters as he could find. Slopped them around in the

cold soup and forced them back into the ragged bolt holes. He walked

over to Holly’s stall and put the tin back on the ground. Kept the

spoon. He assembled the bolts through the holes in the base of the

iron ring, hanging there off his length of chain. Forced them home

among the sticky splinters. Used the back of the spoon to press them

firmly in. He ran the chain through the loop until it was hanging

straight down and resting on the stone floor. Minimum stress on the

fragile assembly.

He tossed the spoon back to Holly. She caught it one-handed and put it

back in the tin. Then he ducked down and listened through the boards.

The dog was outside. He could hear it snuffling. Then he heard

people. Footsteps on the track. They ran to the doors of the barn.

They shook and rattled the crossbeam. Retreated. There was shouting.

They were calling a name, over and over again. The crack around the

barn door was lighting up with morning. The timbers of the barn were

creaking as the sun flooded over the horizon and warmed them through.