like Loder, the commander might limit it to a firing squad. Probably
nothing worse. So they cleaned their rifles, and left them locked and
loaded next to their beds.
Those of them with enough demerits to be on tomorrow’s punishment
detail were trying to get some sleep. If he didn’t limit it to a
firing squad, they could be in for a lot of work. Messy, unpleasant
work. And even if Loder got away with it, there was always the other
guy. The big guy who had come in with the federal bitch. There wasn’t
much chance of him surviving ivn past breakfast time. They couldn’t
remember the last time any stray stranger had lasted longer than
that.
Holly Johnson had a rule. It was a rule bred into her, like a family
motto. It had been reinforced by her long training at Quantico. It
was a rule distilled from thousands of years of military history and
hundreds of years of law-enforcement experience. The rule said: hope
for the best, but plan for the worst.
She had no reason to believe she would not be speeding south in a jeep
just as soon as her new ally could arrange it. He was Bureau-trained,
the same as she was. She knew that if the tables were turned, she
would get him out, no problem at all. So she knew she could just sit
tight and wait. But she wasn’t doing that. She was hoping for the
best, but she was planning for the worst.
She had given up on the bathroom. No way out there. Now she was going
over the room itself, inch by inch. The new pine boarding was nailed
tight to the frame, all six surfaces. It was driving her crazy.
Inch-thick pine board, the oldest possible technology, used for ten
thousand years, and there was no way through it. For a lone woman
without any tools, it might as well have been the side of a
battleship.
So she concentrated on finding tools. It was like she was personally
speeding through Darwin’s evolutionary process. Apes came down from
the trees and they made tools. She was concentrating on the bed. The
mattress was useless. It was a thin, crushed thing, no wire springs
inside. But the bed frame was more promising. It was bolted together
from iron tubes and flanges. If she could take it apart, she could put
one of the little right-angle flanges in the end of the longest tube
and make a pry-bar seven feet long. But the bolts were all painted
over. She had strong hands, but she couldn’t begin to move them. Her
fingers just bruised and slipped on her sweat.
Loder had been dragged away and Reacher was locked up alone with the
last remaining guard from the evening detail. The guard sat behind the
plain desk and propped his weapon on the wooden surface with the muzzle
pointing directly at him sitting on his chair. His hands were still
cuffed behind him. He had decisions to make. First was no way could
he sit all night like that. He glanced calmly at the guard and eased
himself up and slid his hands underneath.
Pressed his chest down onto his thighs and looped his hands out under
his feet. Then he sat up and leaned back and forced a smile, hands
together in his lap.
“Long arms,” he said. “Useful.”
The guard nodded slowly. He had small piercing eyes, set back in a
narrow face. They gleamed out above the big beard, through the
camouflage smudges, but the gleam looked innocent enough.
“What’s your name?” Reacher asked him.
The guy hesitated. Shuffled in his seat. Reacher could see some kind
of natural courtesy was prompting a reply. But there were obvious
tactical considerations for the guy. Reacher kept on forcing the
smile.
“I’m Reacher,” he said. “You know my name. You got a name? We’re
here all night, we may as well be a little civilized about it,
right?”
The guy nodded again, slowly. Then he shrugged.
“Ray,” he said.
“Ray?” Reacher said. “That your first name or your last?”
“Last,” the guy said. “Joseph Ray.”
Reacher nodded.
“OK, Mr. Ray,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”