Echo burning. A Jack Reacher Novel. Lee Child

“Now shoot my shirt,” he said. “You always aim for the body, because it’s the biggest target, and the most vulnerable.”

She raised the gun, and then lowered it again.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “You don’t want holes in your shirt.”

“I figure there isn’t much of a risk,” he said. “Try it.”

She forgot to release the safety catch. Just pulled on the unyielding trigger. Twice, puzzled why it wouldn’t work. Then she remembered and clicked it off. Pointed the gun and closed her eyes and fired. Reacher guessed she missed by twenty feet, high and wide.

Keep your eyes open,” he said. “Pretend you’re mad at the shirt, you’re standing there pointing your finger right at it, like you’re yelling.”

She kept her eyes open. Squared her shoulders and pointed with her right arm held level. She fired and missed again, maybe six feet to the left, maybe a little low.

“Let me try,” he said.

She passed him the gun. It was tiny in his hand. The trigger guard was almost too small to fit his finger. He closed one eye and sighted in.

“I’m aiming for where the pocket was,” he said.

He fired a double-tap, two shots in quick succession, with his hand rocksteady. The first hit the shirt in the armpit opposite the torn pocket. The second hit centrally but low down. He relaxed his stance and handed the gun back. “Your turn again,” he said.

She fired three more, all of them hopeless misses. High to the right, wide to the left. The last hit the dirt, maybe seven feet short of the target. She stared at the shirt and lowered the gun, disappointed. “So what have you learned?” he asked. “I need to get close,” she said.

“Damn right,” he said. “And it’s not entirely your fault. A short-barrel handgun is a close-up weapon. See what I did? I missed by twelve inches, from fifteen feet. One bullet went left, and the other went down. They didn’t even miss consistently. And I can shoot. I won competitions for pistol shooting in the army. Couple of years, I was the best there was.” “O.K.,” she said.

He took the gun from her and squatted in the dust and reloaded it. One up the spout and nine in the magazine. He cocked it and locked it and laid it on the ground.

“Leave it there,” he said. “Unless you’re very, very sure. Could you do it?”

“I think so,” she said.

“Thinking so isn’t enough. You’ve got to know so. You’ve got to be prepared to get real close, jam it into his gut, and fire ten times. If you don’t, or if you hesitate, he’ll take it away from you, maybe turn it on you, maybe fire wildly and hit Ellie running in from her room.”

She nodded, quietly. “Last resort.”

“Believe it. You pull the gun, from that point on, it’s all or nothing.”

She nodded again.

“Your decision,” he said. “But I suggest you leave it there.”

She stood still for a long, long time. Then she bent down and picked up the gun. Slipped it back into her bag. He walked over and retrieved his shirt and slipped it over his head. Neither bullet hole showed. One was under his arm, and the other tucked in below the waistband of his pants. Then he tracked around the gulch and picked up all eight spent shell cases. It was an old habit, and good housekeeping. He jingled them together in his hand like small change and put them in his trouser pocket.

They talked about fear on the ride home. Carmen was quiet on the way back up the rise, and she stopped again at the peak. The Red House compound stretched below them in the distant haze, and she just sat and looked down at it, both hands clasped on the horn of her saddle, saying nothing, a faraway look in her eyes. Reacher’s horse stopped as usual slightly behind hers, so he got the same view, but framed by the curve of her neck and her shoulder.

“Do you ever get afraid?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

She was quiet again for a spell.

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