THE CROWD WAS silent. Their breathing was swallowed up by the awesome mountain silence. Everybody was staring at Holly. She was holding the Ingram reversed, the muzzle jammed into a spot above her heart. Thumb backward on the trigger, tensed. Borken’s bloated face was greased with panic. His huge frame was shaking and trembling. He was hopping around next to his upturned box, staring wide-eyed at her. She was looking back at him, calmly.
“I’m a hostage, right?” she said to him. “Important to them, important to you, because of who I am. All kinds of importance to all kinds of people. You expect them to do stuff to keep me alive. So now it’s your turn. Let’s talk about what stuff you’re prepared to do to keep me alive.”
Borken saw her glance at Reacher.
“You don’t understand,” he screamed at her. Wild urgency in his voice. “I’m not going to kill this guy. This guy stays alive. The situation has changed.”
“Changed how?” she asked, calmly.
“I’m commuting his sentence,” Borken said. Still panic in his voice. “That’s why we’re here. I was just going to announce it. We know who he is. We just found out. We were just informed. He was in the Army. Major Jack Reacher. He’s a hero. He won the Silver Star.”
“So?” Holly asked.
“He saved a bunch of Marines,” Borken said urgently. “In Beirut. Ordinary fighting men. He pulled them out of a burning bunker. Marines will never attack us while he’s here. Never. So I’m going to use him as another hostage. He’s good insurance, against the damn Marines. I need him.”
She stared at him. Reacher stared at him.
“His sentence is commuted,” Borken said again. “Five years on punishment detail. That’s all. Nothing else. No question about it. I need him alive.”
He stared at her with a salesman’s beam like the problem was solved. She stared back and forth between him and Reacher. Reacher was watching the crowd. The crowd was angry. The circus had left town before the performance. Reacher felt like they had all taken a step toward him. They were testing Borken’s power over them. Holly glanced at him, fear in her eyes. Nodded to him. An imperceptible movement of her head. She would be safe, she was saying, whatever happened. Her identity protected her like an invisible magic cloak. Reacher nodded back. Without turning around, he judged the distance to the trees behind him. Maybe twenty feet. Shove Fowler at the front rank, drag the chain, sprint like hell, he might be in the trees before anybody could aim a weapon. Twenty feet, standing start, using the momentum of shouldering Fowler away to help him, maybe four or five strides, maybe three seconds, maybe four. In the trees, he would stand a chance against the bullets. He imagined them smacking into the trunks either side of him as he ran and dodged. A forest is a fugitive’s best friend. It takes a lot of luck to hit a guy running through trees. He shifted his weight and felt his ham-strings tighten. Felt the flood of adrenaline. Fight or flight. But then Borken flung his arms wide again. Held them out like an angel’s wings and used the awesome power of his eyes on his people.
“I have made my decision,” he called. “Do you understand?”
There was a long pause. It went on for seconds. Then a hundred heads snapped back.
“Yes sir!” a hundred voices yelled.
“Do you understand?” he called again.
A hundred heads snapped back again.
“Yes sir!” a hundred voices yelled.
“Five years on punishment detail,” Borken called. “But only if he can prove who he is. We are informed this man is the only non-Marine in history to win the Marine Sniper competition. We are told this man can put six bullets through a silver dollar a thousand yards away. So I’m going to shoot against him. Eight hundred yards. If he wins, he lives. If he loses, he dies. Do you understand?”
A hundred heads snapped back.
“Yes sir!” a hundred voices yelled.
The rumble from the crowd started up again. This time, they sounded interested. Reacher smiled inwardly. Smart move, he thought. They wanted a spectacle, Borken was giving them one. Fowler breathed out and pulled a key from his pocket. Ducked around and unlocked the handcuffs. The chain fell to the floor. Reacher breathed out and rubbed his wrists.
Then Fowler stepped over to Holly in the press of people. Stepped right in front of her. She paused for a long moment and glanced at Borken. He nodded.
“You have my word,” he said, with as much dignity as he could recover.
She glanced at Reacher. He shrugged and nodded. She nodded back and looked down at the Ingram. Clicked the safety on and looped the strap off her shoulder. Grinned and dropped the gun to the floor. Fowler bent at her feet and scooped it up. Borken raised his arms for quiet.
“To the rifle range,” he called out. “Orderly fashion. Dismiss.”
Holly limped over and walked next to Reacher.
“You won the Wimbledon?” she asked, quietly.
He nodded.
“So can you win this?” she asked.
He nodded again.
“With my head in a bag,” he said.
“Is that such a good idea?” she asked quietly. “Guy like this, he’s not going to be happy to get beat.”
Reacher shrugged.
“He wants a big performance, he’s going to get one,” he said. “He’s all shaken up. You started it. I want to keep it going. Long run, it’ll do us good.”
“Well, take care,” she said.
“Watch me,” Reacher said.
TWO BRAND-NEW TARGETS were placed side by side at the extreme end of the range. Borken’s was on the left, with ATF daubed across its chest. Reacher’s was on the right, with FBI over its heart. The rough matting was pulled back to give maximum distance. Reacher figured he was looking at about eight hundred and thirty yards. Fifty yards shy of a full half-mile. A hell of a long way.
The swarm of people had settled into a rough semicircle, behind and beside the matting. The nearer targets were flung into the undergrowth to clear their view. Several people had field glasses. They peered up the range and then their noise faded as one after the other they settled into quiet anticipation.
Fowler made the trip to the armory in the clearing below. He walked back with a rifle in each hand. One for Borken, one for Reacher. Identical guns. The price of a small family car in each hand. They were.50-inch Barrett Model 90s. Nearly four feet long, over twenty-two pounds in weight. Bolt-action repeaters, fired a bullet a full half- inch across. More like an artillery shell than a rifle bullet.
“One magazine each,” Borken said. “Six shots.”
Reacher took his weapon and laid it on the ground at his feet. Little Stevie marshaled the crowd backward to clear the matting. Borken checked his rifle and flicked the bipod legs out. Smacked the magazine into place. He set the weapon down gently on the matting.
“I shoot first,” he said.
He dropped to his knees and forced his bulk down behind the rifle. Pulled the stock to him and snuggled it in close. Dragged the bipod legs an inch to the left and swung the butt a fraction to the right. He smacked the bolt in and out and pressed himself close to the ground. Eased his cheek against the stock and put his eye to the scope. Joseph Ray stepped from the edge of the crowd and offered Reacher his field glasses. Reacher nodded silently and took them. Held them ready. Borken’s finger tightened against the trigger. He fired the first shot.
The Barrett’s huge muzzle brake blasted gas sideways and downward. Dust blasted back up off the matting. The rifle kicked and boomed. The sound crashed through the trees and came back off the mountains, seconds later. A hundred pairs of eyes flicked from Borken to the target. Reacher raised the field glasses and focused eight hundred and thirty yards up the range.
It was a miss. The target was undamaged. Borken peered through the scope and grimaced. He hunkered down again and waited for the dust to clear. Reacher watched him. Borken was just waiting. Steady breathing. Relaxed.
