Die Trying by Lee Child

Then he turned back to Reacher.

“Loder’s one of my oldest friends,” he said.

Reacher said nothing.

“Begs two questions, doesn’t it?” Borken said. “Question one: why am

I enforcing such strict discipline, even against my old friends? And

question two: if that’s how I treat my friends, how the hell do I treat

my enemies?”

Reacher said nothing. When in doubt, just keep your mouth shut.

“I treat my enemies a hell of a lot worse than that,” Borken said. “So

much worse, you really don’t want to think about it. You really don’t,

believe me. And why am I being so strict? Because we’re two days away

from a unique moment in history. Things are going to happen which will

change the world. Plans are made and operations are underway.

Therefore I have to bring my natural caution to a new pitch. My old

friend Loder has fallen victim to a historical force. So, I’m afraid,

have you.”

Reacher said nothing. He dropped his gaze and watched Loder. He was

unconscious. Breathing raggedly through clotting blood in his nose.

“You got any value to me as a hostage?” Borken asked.

Reacher thought about it. Made no reply. Borken watched his face and

smiled. His red lips parted over small white teeth.

“I thought not,” he said. “So what should I do with a person who’s got

no value to me as a hostage? During a moment of great historical

tension?”

Reacher stayed silent. Just watching. Easing his weight forward,

ready.

“You think you’re going to get a kicking?” Borken asked.

Reacher tensed his legs, ready to spring.

“Relax,” Borken said. “No kicking for you. When the time comes, it’ll

be a bullet through the head. From behind. I’m not stupid, you know.

I’ve got eyes, and a brain. What are you, six five? About two twenty?

Clearly fit and strong. And look at you, tension in your thighs,

getting ready to jump up. Clearly trained in some way. But you’re not

a boxer. Because your nose has never been broken. A heavyweight like

you with an unbroken nose would need to be a phenomenal talent, and

we’d have seen your picture in the newspapers. So you’re just a

brawler, probably been in the service, right? So I’ll be cautious with

you. No kicking, just a bullet.”

The guards took their cue. Six rifles came down out of the slope and

six fingers hooked around six triggers.

“You got felony convictions?” Borken asked.

Reacher shrugged and spoke for the first time.

“No,” he said.

“Upstanding citizen?” Borken asked.

Reacher shrugged again.

“I guess,” he said.

Borken nodded.

“So I’ll think about it,” he said. “Live or die, I’ll let you know,

first thing in the morning, OK?”

He lifted his bulky arm and snapped his fingers. Five of the six

guards moved. Two went to the door and opened it. A third went out

between them. The other two waited. Borken stood up with surprising

grace for a man of his size and walked out from behind the desk. The

wooden floor creaked under his bulk. The four waiting guards fell in

behind him and he walked straight out into the night without a backward

glance.

He walked across the clearing and into another hut. Fowler was waiting

for him, the headphones in his hand.

“I think somebody went in there,” he said.

“You think?” Borken said.

The shower was running,” Fowler said. “Somebody went in there who

knows about the microphones. She wouldn’t need another shower. She

just had one, right? Somebody went in there and ran the shower to mask

the talking.”

“Who?” Borken asked.

Fowler shook his head.

“I don’t know who,” he said. “But I can try to find out.”

Borken nodded.

“Yes, you can do that,” he said. “You can try to find out.”

In the accommodation huts, men and women were working in the gloom,

cleaning their rifles. The word about Loder had traveled quickly. They

all knew about the tribunal. They all knew the likely outcome. Any six

of them could be selected for the firing squad. If there was going to

be a firing squad. Most people figured there probably was. An officer