Die Trying by Lee Child

blades and the waterfall of static. Then the voice came back.

“Shit,” it said. “Shit, Washington, you there? You listening to this?

You know what we just did? You know what you sent us to do? We just

busted a load of wetbacks. About thirty illegals from Mexico. Just

got picked up from the border. They’re on their way up to Chicago.

They say they all got jobs promised up there.”

TWENTY-ONE

THE WHITE ECONO LINE DRONED ON. IT WAS MOVING FASTER THAN it had been

before. But it was out of the curves. It had lurched around the last

of the tight bends, and it had settled to a fast, straight cruise.

Noisier than before, because of the extra speed and the whine of the

slipstream through the hundred random holes in the roof.

Reacher and Holly were tight together on the three-foot mattress. They

were lying on their backs, staring up at the holes. Each hole was a

bright point of light. Not blue, just a point of light so bright it

had no color at all. Just a bright point in the dark. Like a

mathematical proposition. Total light against the total dark of the

surrounding sheet metal. Light, the opposite of dark. Dark, the

absence of light. Positive and negative. Both propositions were

contrasted vividly up there on the metal roof.

“I want to see the sky,” Holly said.

It was warm in the truck. Not hot, like it had been the first day and

a half. The whistling slipstream had solved that problem. The rush of

air was keeping it comfortable. But it was warm enough that Reacher

had taken his shirt off. He had balled it up and crammed it under his

head.

“I want to see the whole sky,” Holly said. “Not just little bits of

it.”

Readier said nothing in reply. He was counting the holes.

“What time is it?” Holly asked him.

“Hundred and thirteen,” Reacher said.

Holly turned her head to him.

“What?” she said.

“Hundred and thirteen holes in the roof,” he said

“Great,” she said. “What time is it?”

Three-thirty, Central,” he said.

She snuggled closer. She moved her weight onto her side. Her head was

resting on his right shoulder. Her leg was resting on his. His thigh

was jammed between hers.

“Wednesday, right?” she said.

“Wednesday,” he said.

She was physically closer to him than many women had allowed themselves

to get. She felt lithe and athletic. Firm, but soft. Young. Scented.

He was drifting away and enjoying the sensation. He was slightly

breathless. But he wasn’t kidding himself about her motivation. She

was relaxed about it, but she was doing it to rest her painful knee,

and to keep herself from rolling off the mattress onto the floor.

“Fifty-one hours,” she said. “Fifty-one hours, and I haven’t seen the

sky.”

One hundred and thirteen was a prime number. You couldn’t make it by

multiplying any other numbers together. Hundred and twelve, you could

make by multiplying fifty-six by two, or twenty-eight by four, or

fourteen by eight. Hundred and fourteen, you could make by multiplying

fifty-seven by two, or nineteen by six, or thirty-eight by three. But

one hundred and thirteen was prime. No factors. The only way to make

a hundred and thirteen was by multiplying a hundred and thirteen by

one. Or by firing a shotgun into a truck in a rage.

“Reacher, I’m getting worried,” Holly said.

Fifty-one hours. Fifty-one was not a prime number. You could make

fifty-one by multiplying seventeen by three. Three tens are thirty,

three sevens are twenty-one, thirty and twenty-one make fifty-one. Not

a prime number. Fifty-one had factors. He dragged the weight of the

chain up with his left wrist and held her tight, both arms around

her.

“You’ll be OK,” he said to her. They’re not going to hurt you. They

want to trade you for something. They’ll keep you fit and well.”

He felt her shake her head against his shoulder. Just one small shake,

but it was very definite.

“I’m not worried about me,” she said. “I’m worried about you. Who the

hell’s going to trade something for you?”

He said nothing. Nothing he could say to that. She snuggled closer.