Die Trying by Lee Child

Six machine guns. She took a painful step backward. They ignored her

completely.

The commander is ready for you, Reacher,” the point man said.

He signaled him to turn around. He clicked handcuffs on, behind his

back. Tightened them hard. Pushed him to the door with the barrel of

his gun and out into the corridor. The door slammed and locked behind

the gaggle of men.

Fowler pulled the headphones off and stopped the tape recorder.

“Anything?” the commander asked him.

“No,” Fowler said. “She said it’s only a single bed, and he sounded

pissed, like he wants to get in her pants. So she said she’s got

another boyfriend.”

“I didn’t know that,” the commander said. “Did she say who?”

Fowler shook his head.

“But it works OK?” the commander asked him.

“Clear as a bell,” Fowler said.

Reacher was pushed down the stairs and back out into the night. Back

the way he had come, a mile up a stony path. The point man gripped his

elbow and hustled him along. They were hurrying. Almost running. They

were using their gun muzzles like cattle prods. They covered the

distance in fifteen minutes. They crunched across the clearing to the

small wooden hut. Reacher was pushed roughly inside.

Loder was still on the floor. But there was somebody new sitting at

the plain wooden desk. The commander. Reacher was clear on that. He

was an extraordinary figure. Maybe six feet tall, probably four

hundred pounds. Maybe thirty-five years old, thick hair, so blond it

was nearly white, cut short at the sides and brushed long across the

top like a German schoolboy’s. A smooth pink face, bloated tight by

his bulk, bright red nickel-sized spots burning high up on the cheeks.

Tiny colorless eyes forced into slits between the cheeks and the white

eyebrows. Wet red lips pursed above a chin strong enough to hold its

shape in the blubber.

He was wearing an enormous black uniform. An immaculate black shirt,

military cut, no insignia except a pair of the same shoulder flashes

everybody else was wearing. A wide leather belt, gleaming like a

mirror. Crisp black riding pants, flared wide at the top, tucked into

high black boots which matched the belt for shine.

“Come in and sit down,” he said, quietly.

Reacher was pushed over to the chair he had occupied before.

He sat, with his hands crushed behind him. The guards stood to rigid

attention all around him, not daring to breathe, just staring blankly

into space.

“I’m Beau Borken,” the big man said. “I’m the commander here.”

His voice was high. Reacher stared at the guy and felt some kind of an

aura radiating out of him like a glow. The glow of total authority.

“I have to take a decision,” Borken said. “I need you to help me with

it.”

Reacher realized he was looking away from the guy. Like the glow was

overpowering him. He forced himself to turn his head slowly and stare

directly into the big white face.

“What decision?” he asked.

“Whether you should live,” Borken said. “Or whether you should die.”

Holly pulled the side panel off the bath. She had known plumbers leave

trash under the tub, out of sight behind the panel. Offcuts of pipe,

scraps of wood, even tools. Used blades, lost wrenches. Stuff that

could prove useful. Some apartments she’d had, she’d found all kinds

of things. But there was nothing. She lay down and felt right into

the back recesses and came up with nothing at all.

And the floor was solid all the way under the fixtures. The plumbing

ran down through tight holes. It was an expert job. It was possible

she could force a lever down alongside the big pipe running down out of

the John. If she had a pry-bar she might get a board loose. But there

was no pry-bar in the room. Nor any substitute. The towel bar was

plastic. It would bend and break. There was nothing else. She sat on

the floor and felt the disappointment wash over her. Then she heard

more footsteps outside her door.

This time they were quiet. They were muffled, not clattering. Somebody