Die Trying by Lee Child

“Why?” Borken whispered. “Why am I crazy? Exactly?”

“You’re not thinking straight,” Reacher said. “Don’t you realize that

Holly counts for nothing? The president will replace Johnson faster

than you can blink an eye. They’ll crush you like a bug and Holly will

be just another casualty. You should send her back out with me.”

Borken was shaking his bloated head, happily, confidently.

“No,” he said. “That won’t happen. There’s more to Holly than who her

father is. Hasn’t she told you that?”

Reacher stared at him and Borken checked his watch.

“Time to go,” he said. “Time for you to see our legal system at

work.”

Holly heard the quiet footsteps outside her door and eased off the bed.

The lock clicked back and the young soldier with the scarred forehead

stepped up into the room. He had his finger to his lips and Holly

nodded. She limped to the bathroom and set the shower running noisily

into the empty tub. The young soldier followed her in and closed the

door.

“We can only do this once a day,” Holly whispered. “They’ll get

suspicious if they hear the shower too often.”

The young guy nodded.

“We’ll get out tonight,” he said. “Can’t do it this morning. We’re

all on duty at Loder’s trial. I’ll come by just after dusk, with a

jeep. We’ll make a run for it in the dark. Head south. Risky, but

we’ll make it.”

“Not without Readier,” Holly said.

The young guy shook his head.

“Can’t promise that,” he said. “He’s in with Borken now. God knows

what’s going to happen to him.”

“I go, he goes,” Holly said.

The young guy looked at her, nervously.

“OK,” he said. “I’ll try.”

He opened the bathroom door and crept out. Holly watched him go and

turned the shower off. Stared after him.

He looped north and west and took a long route back through the woods,

same way as he had come. The sentry Fowler had hidden in the trees

fifteen feet off the main path never saw him. But the one he had

hidden in the backwoods did. He caught a glimpse of a camouflage

uniform hustling through the undergrowth. Spun around fast, but was

too late to make the face. He shrugged and thought hard. Figured he’d

keep it to himself. Better to ignore it than report he’d failed to

make the actual ID.

So the young man with the scar hurried all the way and was back in his

hut two minutes before he was due to escort his commander down to the

tribunal hearing.

In the daylight, the courthouse on the southeast corner of the

abandoned town of Yorke looked pretty much the same as a hundred others

Reacher had seen all over rural America. Built early in the century.

Big, white, pillared, ornate. Enough square solidity to communicate

its serious purpose, but enough lightness in its details to make it a

handsome structure. He saw a fine cupola floating off the top of the

building, with a fine clock in it, probably paid for by a public

subscription held long ago among a long-forgotten generation. More or

less the same as a hundred others, but the roof was steeper-pitched

than some, and heavier built. He guessed it had to be that way in the

north of Montana. That roof could be carrying a hundred tons of snow

all winter long. But this was the third morning of July, and there was

no snow on the roof. Reacher was warm after walking a mile in the pale

northern sun. Borken had gone ahead separately and Reacher had been

marched down through the forest by the same six elite guards. Still in

handcuffs. They marched him straight up the front steps and inside.

The first-floor interior was one large space, interrupted by pillars

holding up the second floor, paneled in broad smooth planks sawed from

huge pines. The wood was dark from age and polish, and the panels were

stern and simple in their design.

Every seat was taken. Every bench was full. The room was a sea of

camouflage green. Men and women. Sitting rigidly upright, rifles

exactly vertical between their knees. Waiting expectantly. Some