Die Trying by Lee Child

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.”