“Go put them in the car,” he said.
There was the sound of footsteps overhead, then creaking from the stairs, and Bobby Greer came out of the parlor door, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He was barefoot and wearing boxers and a T-shirt and staring at the empty gun rack.
“Hell you think you’re doing?” he said.
“I want the others,” Reacher said. “I’m commandeering your weapons. On behalf of the Echo County sheriff. I’m a deputy, remember?”
“There aren’t any others.”
“Yes, there are, Bobby. No self-respecting redneck like you is going to be satisfied with a bunch of .22 popguns. Where’s the heavy metal?”
Bobby said nothing.
“Don’t mess with me, Bobby,” Reacher said. “It’s way too late for that.”
Bobby paused. Then he shrugged.
“O.K.,” he said.
He padded barefoot across the foyer and pushed open a door that led into a small dark space that could have been a study. He flicked on a light and Reacher saw black-and-white pictures of oil wells on the walls. There was a desk and a chair and another gun rack filled with four 30-30 Winchesters. Seven-shot lever-action repeaters, big handsome weapons, oiled wood, twenty-inch barrels, beautifully kept. Wyatt Earp, eat your heart out.
“Ammunition?” Reacher asked.
Bobby opened a drawer in the gun rack’s pedestal. Took out a cardboard box of Winchester cartridges.
“I’ve got some special loads, too,” he said. Took out another box.
“What are they?”
“I made them myself. Extra power.”
Reacher nodded. “Take them all out to the car, O.K.?”
He took the four rifles out of the rack and followed Bobby out of the house. Alice was sitting in the car. The six .22s were piled on the seat behind her. Bobby leaned in and placed the ammunition next to them. Reacher stacked the Winchesters upright behind the passenger seat. Then he turned back to Bobby.
“I’m going to borrow your Jeep,” he said.
Bobby shrugged, barefoot on the hot dirt.
“Keys are in it,” he said.
“You and your mother stay in the house now,” Reacher said. “Anybody seen out and about will be considered hostile, O.K.?”
Bobby nodded. Turned and walked to the foot of the steps. Glanced back once and went inside the house. Reacher leaned into the VW to talk to Alice.
“What are we doing?” she said.
“Getting ready.”
“For what?”
“For whatever comes our way.”
“Why do we need ten rifles?”
“We don’t. We need one. I don’t want to give the bad guys the other nine,
is all.”
“They’re coming here?”
“They’re about ten minutes behind us.”
“So what do we do?”
“We’re all going out in the desert.”
“Is there going to be shooting?”
“Probably.”
“Is that smart? You said yourself, they’re good shots.”
“With handguns. Best way to defend against handguns is hide a long way off and shoot back with the biggest rifle you can find.”
She shook her head. “I can’t be a part of this, Reacher. It’s not right. And I’ve never even held a rifle.”
“You don’t have to shoot,” he said. “But you have to be a witness. You have to identify exactly who comes for us. I’m relying on you. It’s vital.”
“How will I see? It’s dark out there.”
“We’ll fix that.”
“It’s going to rain.”
“That’ll help us.”
“This is not right,” she said again. “The police should handle this. Or the FBI. You can’t just shoot at people.”
The air was heavy with storm. The breeze was blowing again and he could smell pressure and voltage building in the sky.
“Rules of engagement, Alice,” he said. “I’ll wait for an overtly hostile act before I do anything. Just like the U.S. Army. O.K.?”
“We’ll be killed.”
“You’ll be hiding far away.”
“Then you’ll be killed. You said it yourself, they’re good at this.”
“They’re good at walking up to somebody and shooting them in the head. What they’re like out in the open in the dark against incoming rifle fire is anybody’s guess.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Seven minutes,” he said.
She glanced backward at the road from the north. Then she shook her head and shoved the gearstick into first and held her foot on the clutch. He leaned in and squeezed her shoulder.