Die Trying by Lee Child

some sort, right? DEA, CIA, FBI, something like that, maybe a Chicago

PD detective? New in the job, still fairly dedicated. And fairly

wealthy. So somebody is either looking for a ransom, or you’ve already

become a potential problem to somebody, even though you’re new, and

either way you should have taken more care of yourself.”

She looked across at him. Nodded, eyes wide in the gloom. Impressed.

“Evidence?” she asked.

He smiled at her again.

“Couple of things,” he said. “Your dry-cleaning. My guess is every

Monday lunch break you take last week’s clothes in to get them cleaned

and you pick up this week’s clothes to wear. That means you must have

about fifteen or twenty outfits. Looking at that thing you got on,

you’re not a cheap dresser. Call it four hundred bucks an outfit,

you’ve got maybe eight grand tied up in things to wear. That’s what I

call moderately wealthy, and that’s what I call too regular in your

habits.”

She nodded slowly.

“OK,” she said. “Why am I a government agent?”

“Easy enough,” he said. “You had a Clock 17 shoved at you, you were

bundled into a car, you were thrown in a truck, handcuffed to a

complete stranger and you’ve got no idea where the hell they’re taking

you, or why. Any normal person would be falling apart over all that,

screaming the place down. But not you. You’re sitting there quite

calmly, which suggests some kind of training, maybe some kind of

familiarity with upsetting or dangerous situations. And maybe some

kind of sure knowledge there’ll be a bunch of people looking to get you

back soon as they can.”

He stopped and she nodded for him to continue.

“Also, you had a gun in your bag,” he said. “Something fairly heavy,

maybe a .38, long barrel. If it was a private weapon, a dresser like

you would choose something dainty, like a snub .22.

But it was a big revolver, so you were issued with it. So you’re some

kind of an agent, maybe a cop.”

The woman nodded again, slowly.

“Why am I new in the job?” she asked.

“Your age,” Reacher said. “What are you? Twenty-six?”

Twenty-seven,” she said.

“That’s young for a detective,” he said. “College, a few years in

uniform? Young for the FBI, DBA, CIA, too. So whatever you are,

you’re new at it.”

She shrugged.

“OK,” she said. “Why am I fairly dedicated?”

Reacher pointed, left-handed, rattling their shared handcuff.

“Your injury,” he said. “You’re back to work after some kind of an

accident, before you’re really recovered. You’re still using that

crutch for your bad leg. Most people in your position would be staying

home and drawing sick pay.”

She smiled.

“I could be handicapped,” she said. “Could have been born this way.”

Reacher shook his head in the gloom.

“That’s a hospital crutch,” he said. They loaned it to you, short

term, until you’re over your injury. If it was a permanent thing,

you’d have bought your own crutch. Probably you’d have bought a dozen.

Sprayed them all different to match all your expensive outfits.”

She laughed. It was a pleasant sound above the drone and boom of the

truck’s engine and the roar of the road.

“Pretty good, Jack Reacher,” she said. “I’m an FBI special agent.

Since last fall. I just ripped up my cruciate ligaments playing

soccer.”

“You play soccer?” Reacher said. “Good for you, Holly Johnson. What

kind of an FBI agent since last fall?”

She was quiet for a beat.

“Just an agent,” she said. “One of many at the Chicago office.”

Reacher shook his head.

“Not just an agent,” he said. “An agent who’s doing something to

somebody who maybe wants to retaliate. So who are you doing something

to?”

She shook her head back at him.

“I can’t discuss that,” she said. “Not with civilians.”

He nodded. He was comfortable with that .

“OK,” he said.

“Any agent makes enemies,” she said.

“Naturally,” he replied.

“Me as much as anybody,” she said.

He glanced across at her. It was a curious remark. Defensive. The

remark of a woman trained and eager and ready to go, but chained to a