Die Trying by Lee Child

the forbidden door, not knowing what would come bursting back out at

them. He lay there and felt like a ticking bomb they were carrying

deep into the heart of their territory. He felt the flood of anger,

and thrilled with it, and savored it, and stored it up.

Now there was only one mattress inside the truck. It was only three

feet wide. And Stevie was a very erratic driver. Readier and Holly

were lying down, pressed tight together. Reacher’s left wrist still

had the cuff and the chain locked onto it. His right arm was around

Holly’s shoulders. He was holding her tight. Tighter than he really

needed to.

“How much farther?” she asked.

“We’ll be there before nightfall,” he said, quietly. “They didn’t

bring your chain. No more overnight stops.”

She was silent for a moment.

“I don’t know if I’m glad or not,” she said. “I hate this truck, but I

don’t know if I want to actually arrive anywhere.”

Reacher nodded

“It reduces our chances,” he said. “Rule of thumb is escape while

you’re on the move. It gets much harder after that.”

The motion of the truck indicated they were on a highway. But either

the terrain was different, or Stevie couldn’t handle the truck, or

both, because they were swaying violently. The guy was swinging late

into turns and jamming the vehicle from side to side, like he was

having a struggle staying between the lane markers. Holly was getting

thrown against Reacher’s side. He pulled her closer and held her

tighter. She snuggled in close, instinctively. He felt her hesitate,

like she realized she’d acted without thinking, then he felt her decide

not to pull away again.

“You feel OK?” she asked him. “You killed a man.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

“He wasn’t the first,” he said. “And I just decided he won’t be the

last.”

She turned her head to speak at the same time he did. The truck swayed

violently to the left. Their lips were an inch apart. The truck

swayed again. They kissed. At first it was light and

19Q

tentative. Reacher felt the new soft lips on his, and the unfamiliar

new taste and smell and feel. Then they kissed harder. Then the truck

started hammering through a series of sharp curves, and they forgot all

about kissing and just held on tight, trying not to be thrown right off

the mattress onto the ridged metal floor.

ion

TWENTY

BROGAN WAS THE GUY WHO MADE THE BREAKTHROUGH IN CHICAGO. He was the

third guy that morning to walk past the can of white paint out there on

the abandoned industrial lot, but he was the first to realize its

significance.

The truck they stole was white,” Brogan said. “Some kind of ID on the

side. They painted over it. Got to be that way. The can was right

there, with a brush, about ten feet from the Lexus. Stands to reason

they would park the Lexus right next to the truck, right? Therefore

the paint can was next to where the truck had been.”

“What sort of paint?” McGrath asked.

“Ordinary household paint,” Brogan said. “A quart can. Two-inch

brush. Price tag still on it, from a hardware store. And there are

fingerprints in the splashes on the handle.”

McGrath nodded and smiled.

“OK,” he said. “Go to work.”

Brogan took the computer-aided mug shots with him to the hardware store

named on the paintbrush handle. It was a cramped, family-owned place,

two hundred yards from the abandoned lot. The counter was attended by

a stout old woman with a mind like a steel trap. Straightaway she

identified the picture of the in guy who the video had caught at the

wheel of the Lexus. She said the paint and the brush had been

purchased by him about ten o’clock Monday morning. To prove it, she

rattled open an ancient drawer and pulled out Monday’s register roll.

Seven ninety-eight for the paint, five ninety-eight for the brush, plus

tax, right there on the roll.

“He paid cash,” she said.

“You got a video system in here?” Brogan asked her.

“No,” she said.

“Doesn’t your insurance company say you got to?” he asked.