Die Trying by Lee Child

trade. There were to be no doubts about her day-to-day comfort or

safety. Those factors were to be removed from the negotiation. Those

factors were to be taken for granted. She was to be a high-status

prisoner. Because of her value. Because of who she was.

But not because of who she was. Because of who her father was. Because

of the connections she had. She was supposed to sit in this crushing,

fear-filled room and be somebody’s daughter. Sit and wait while people

weighed her value, one way and the other. While people reacted to her

plight, feeling a little reassured by the fact that she had a shower

all to herself.

She eased herself off the bed. To hell with that, she thought. She

was not going to sit there and be negotiated over. The anger rose up

inside her. It rose up and she turned it into a steely determination.

She limped to the door and tried the handle for the twentieth time.

Then she heard footsteps on the stairs. They clattered down the

corridor. Stopped at her door. A key turned the lock. The handle

moved against her grip. She stepped back and the door opened.

Reacher was pushed up into the room. A blur of camouflaged figures

behind him. They shoved him up through the door and slammed it shut.

She heard it locking and the footsteps tramping away. Reacher was left

standing there, gazing around.

“Looks like we have to share,” he said.

She looked at him.

They were only expecting one guest,” he added.

She made no reply to that. She just watched his eyes examining the

room. They flicked around the walls, the floor, the ceiling. He

twisted and glanced into the bathroom. Nodded to himself. Turned back

to face her, waiting for her comment. She was pausing, thinking hard

about what to say and how to say it.

“It’s only a single bed,” she said at last.

She tried to make the words count for more. She tried to make them

like a long speech. Like a closely reasoned argument. She tried to

make them say: OK, in the truck, we were close. OK, we kissed. Twice.

The first time, it just happened. The second time, I asked you to,

because I was looking for comfort and reassurance. But now we’ve been

apart for an hour or two. Long enough for me to get to feeling a

little silly about what we did. She tried to make those five words say

all that, while she watched his eyes for his reaction.

“There’s somebody else, right?” he said.

She saw that he said it as a joke, as a throwaway line to show her he

agreed with her, that he understood, as a way to let them both off the

hook without getting all heavy about it. But she didn’t smile at him.

Instead, she found herself nodding.

“Yes, there is somebody,” she said. “What can I say? If there wasn’t,

maybe I would want to share.”

She thought: he looks disappointed.

“In fact, I probably would want to,” she added. “But there is somebody

and I’m sorry. It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

It showed in his face and she felt she had to say more.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to.”

She watched him. He just shrugged at her. She saw he was thinking:

it’s not the end of the world. And then he was thinking: it just feels

like it. She blushed. She was absurdly gratified. But ready to

change the subject.

“What’s going on here?” she asked. “They tell you anything?”

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Reacher asked.

“Just somebody,” she said. “What’s going on here?”

His eyes were clouded. He looked straight at her.

“Lucky somebody,” he said.

“He doesn’t even know,” she said.

That you’re gone?” he asked.

She shook her head.

That I feel this way,” she said.

He stared at her. Didn’t reply. There was a long silence in the room.

Then she heard footsteps again. Hurrying, outside the building.

Clattering inside. Coming up the stairs. They stopped outside the

door. The key slid in. The door opened. Six guards clattered inside: