the door and slammed it shut. She heard it locking and the footsteps tramping away. Reacher was left standing there, gazing around.
“Looks like we have to share,” he said.
She looked at him.
“They were only expecting one guest,” he added.
She made no reply to that. She just watched his eyes examining the room. They flicked around the walls, the floor, the ceiling. He twisted and glanced into the bathroom. Nodded to himself. Turned back to face her, waiting for her comment. She was pausing, thinking hard about what to say and how to say it.
“It’s only a single bed,” she said at last.
She tried to make the words count for more. She tried to make them like a long speech. Like a closely reasoned argument. She tried to make them say: OK, in the truck, we were close. OK, we kissed. Twice. The first time, it just happened. The second time, I asked you to, because I was looking for comfort and reassurance. But now we’ve been apart for an hour or two. Long enough for me to get to feeling a little silly about what we did. She tried to make those five words say all that, while she watched his eyes for his reaction.
“There’s somebody else, right?” he said.
She saw that he said it as a joke, as a throwaway line to show her he agreed with her, that he understood, as a way to let them both off the hook without getting all heavy about it. But she didn’t smile at him. Instead, she found herself nodding.
“Yes, there is somebody,” she said. “What can I say? If there wasn’t, maybe I would want to share.”
She thought: He looks disappointed.
“In fact, I probably would want to,” she added. “But there is somebody, and I’m sorry. It wouldn’t be a good idea.”
It showed in his face, and she felt she had to say more.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to.”
She watched him. He just shrugged at her. She saw he was thinking: it’s not the end of the world. And then he was thinking: it just feels like it. She blushed. She was absurdly gratified. But ready to change the subject.
“What’s going on here?” she asked. “They tell you anything?”
“Who’s the lucky guy?” Reacher asked.
“Just somebody,” she said. “What’s going on here?”
His eyes were clouded. He looked straight at her.
“Lucky somebody,” he said.
“He doesn’t even know,” she said.
“That you’re gone?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“That I feel this way,” she said.
He stared at her. Didn’t reply. There was a long silence in the room. Then she heard footsteps again. Hurrying, outside the building. Clattering inside. Coming up the stairs. They stopped outside the door. The key slid in. The door opened. Six guards clattered inside. Six machine guns. She took a painful step backward. They ignored her completely.
“The commander is ready for you, Reacher,” the point man said.
He signaled him to turn around. He clicked handcuffs on, behind his back. Tightened them hard. Pushed him to the door with the barrel of his gun and out into the corridor. The door slammed and locked behind the gaggle of men.
FOWLER PULLED THE headphones off and stopped the tape recorder.
“Anything?” the commander asked him.
“No,” Fowler said. “She said it’s only a single bed, and he sounded pissed, like he wants to get in her pants. So she said she’s got another boyfriend.”
“I didn’t know that,” the commander said. “Did she say who?”
Fowler shook his head.
“But it works OK?” the commander asked him.
“Clear as a bell,” Fowler said.
REACHER WAS PUSHED down the stairs and back out into the night. Back the way he had come, a mile up a stony path. The point man gripped his elbow and hustled him along. They were hurrying. Almost running. They were using their gun muzzles like cattle prods. They covered the distance in fifteen minutes. They crunched across the clearing to the small wooden hut. Reacher was pushed roughly inside.
Loder was still on the floor. But there was somebody new sitting at the plain wooden desk. The commander. Reacher was clear on that. He was an extraordinary figure. Maybe six feet tall, probably four hundred pounds. Maybe thirty-five years old, thick hair, so blond it was nearly white, cut short at the sides and brushed long across the top like a German schoolboy’s. A smooth pink face, bloated tight by his bulk, bright red nickel-sized spots burning high up on the cheeks. Tiny colorless eyes forced into slits between the cheeks and the white eyebrows. Wet red lips pursed above a chin strong enough to hold its shape in the blubber.
He was wearing an enormous black uniform. An immaculate black shirt, military cut, no insignia except a pair of the same shoulder flashes everybody else was wearing. A wide leather belt, gleaming like a mirror. Crisp black riding pants, flared wide at the top, tucked into high black boots which matched the belt for shine.
“Come in and sit down,” he said, quietly.
Reacher was pushed over to the chair he had occupied before. He sat, with his hands crushed behind him. The guards stood to rigid attention all around him, not daring to breathe, just staring blankly into space.
“I’m Beau Borken,” the big man said. “I’m the commander here.”
His voice was high. Reacher stared at the guy and felt some kind of an aura radiating out of him, like a glow. The glow of total authority.
“I have to make a decision,” Borken said. “I need you to help me with it.”
Reacher realized he was looking away from the guy. Like the glow was overpowering him. He forced himself to turn his head slowly and stare directly into the big white face.
“What decision?” he asked.
“Whether you should live,” Borken said. “Or whether you should die.”
HOLLY PULLED THE side panel off the bath. She had known plumbers leave trash under the tub, out of sight behind the panel. Offcuts of pipe, scraps of wood, even tools. Used blades, lost wrenches. Stuff that could prove useful. Some apartments she’d had, she’d found all kinds of things. But there was nothing. She lay down and felt right into the back recesses and came up with nothing at all.
And the floor was solid all the way under the fixtures. The plumbing ran down through tight holes. It was an expert job. It was possible she could force a lever down alongside the big pipe running down out of the john. If she had a pry bar she might get a board loose. But there was no pry bar in the room. Nor any substitute. The towel bar was plastic. It would bend and break. There was nothing else. She sat on the floor and felt the disappointment wash over her. Then she heard more footsteps outside her door.
This time, they were quiet. They were muffled, not clattering. Somebody approaching quietly and cautiously. Somebody with no official business. She stood up slowly. Stepped out of the bathroom and pulled the door to hide the dismantled tub. Limped back toward the bed as the lock clicked and the door opened.
A man came into the room. He was a youngish man, dressed in camouflage fatigues, black smears on his face. A vivid red scar running laterally across his forehead. A machine gun slung at his shoulder. He turned and closed the door, quietly. Turned back with his fingers to his lips.
She stared at him. Felt her anger rising. This time, she wasn’t chained up. This time, the guy was going to die. She smiled a crazy smile at the logic of it. The bathroom was going to save her. She was a high-status prisoner. Supposed to be held with dignity and respect. Somebody came in to abuse her, and she killed him, they couldn’t argue with that, could they?
But the guy with the scar just held his fingers to his lips and nodded toward the bathroom. He crept quietly over and pushed the door. Gestured for her to follow. She limped after him. He glanced down at the side panel on
