carefully. The guy was still alive. So Reacher fired again. Hit him through the top of the head. Kinder not to leave him with a sucking chest wound for the last ten minutes of his life.
The echoes of the brief firefight died into the mountain silence and then the air was still. The other seven guys were nowhere. The trucks were all resting nose down on their front rims. Disabled. Maybe they could be driven out of the bowl, but the first of the mountain hairpins was going to strip the blown tires right off. The trucks were neutralized. No doubt about that.
Reacher crawled backward ten yards and stood up in the trees. Jogged down the slope and headed back toward the Bastion. Seventeen shells in the Glock, nine in the rifle. Progress, at a price.
THE DOGS FOUND him halfway back. Two big rangy animals. German shepherds. He saw them at the same time as they saw him. They were loping along with that kind of infinite energy big dogs display. Long bounding strides, eager expressions, wet mouths gaping. They stopped short on stiff front legs and switched direction in a single fluid stride. Thirty yards away. Then twenty. Then ten. Acceleration. New energy in their movement. Snarls rising in their throats.
People, Reacher was certain about. Dogs were different. People had freedom of choice. If a man or a woman ran snarling toward him, they did so because they chose to. They were asking for whatever they got. His response was their problem. But dogs were different. No free will. Easily misled. It raised an ethical problem. Shooting a dog because it had been induced to do something unwise was not the sort of thing Reacher wanted to do.
He left the Glock in his pocket. The rifle was better. It was about two and a half feet longer than the handgun. An extra two and a half feet of separation seemed like a good idea. The dogs stopped short of him. The fur on their shoulders was raised. The fur down their backs was raised, following their spines. They crouched, front feet splayed, heads down, snarling loudly. They had yellow teeth. Lots of them. Their eyes were brown. Reacher could see fine dark eyelashes, like a girl’s.
One of them was forward of the other. The leader of the pack. He knew dogs had to have a pecking order. Two dogs, one of them had to be superior to the other. Like people. He didn’t know how dogs worked it out for themselves. Posturing, maybe. Maybe smell. Maybe fighting. He stared at the forward dog. Stared into its eyes. Time to time, he had heard people talking about dogs. They said: never show fear. Stare the dog down. Don’t let it know you’re afraid. Reacher wasn’t afraid. He was standing there with an M- 16 in his hands. The only thing he was worried about was having to use it.
He stared silently at the dog like he used to stare at some service guy gone bad. A hard, silent stare like a physical force, like a cold, crushing pressure. Bleak, cold eyes, unblinking. It had worked a hundred times with people. Now it was working with the lead dog.
The dog was only partially trained. Reacher could see that. It could go through the motions. But it couldn’t deliver. It hadn’t been trained to ignore its victim’s input. It was eye to eye with him, backing off fractionally like his glare was a painful weight on its narrow forehead. Reacher turned up the temperature. Narrowed his eyes and bared his own teeth. Sneered like a tough guy in a bad movie. The dog’s head dropped. Its eyes swiveled upward to maintain contact. Its tail dropped down between its legs.
“Sit,” Reacher said. He said it calmly but firmly. Plenty of emphasis on the plosive consonant at the end of the word. The dog moved automatically. Shuffled its hind legs inward and sat. The other dog followed suit, like a shadow. They sat side by side and stared up at him.
“Lie down,” Reacher said.
The dogs didn’t move. Just stayed sitting, looking at him, puzzled. Maybe the wrong word. Not the command they were accustomed to.
“Down,” Reacher said.
They slid their front paws forward and dropped their bellies to the forest floor. Looking up at him.
“Stay,” Reacher said.
He gave them a look like he meant it and moved off south. Forced himself to walk slow. Five yards into the trees, he turned. The dogs were still on the ground. Their necks were twisted around, watching him walk away.
“Stay,” he called again.
They stayed. He walked.
HE COULD HEAR people in the Bastion. The sound of a fair-sized crowd trying to keep quiet. He heard it when he was still north of the parade ground. He skirted the area in the trees and walked around the far end of the rifle range. Came through the trees behind the mess hall. Opposite the kitchen door. He walked a circle deep in the woods behind the buildings until he got an angle. Crept forward to take a look.
There were maybe thirty people in the Bastion. They were standing in a tight group. Edging forward into a cluster. All men, all in camouflage fatigues, all heavily armed. Rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers, pockets bulging with spare magazines. The crowd ebbed and flowed. Shoulders touched and parted. Reacher glimpsed Beau Borken in the center of the mass of people. He was holding a small black radio transmitter. Reacher recognized it. It was Jackson’s. Borken had retrieved it from Fowler’s pocket. He was holding it up to his ear. Staring into space like he’d just switched it on and was waiting for a reply.
40
MCGRATH SNATCHED THE radio from his pocket. Flipped it open and stared at it. It was crackling loudly in his hand. Webster stepped forward and took it from him. Ducked back to the cover of the rock face and clicked the button.
“Jackson?” he said. “This is Harland Webster.”
McGrath and Johnson crowded in on him. The three men crouched against the rock wall. Webster moved the unit an inch from his ear so the other two could listen in. In the cover of the rock, in the silence of the mountains, they could hear it crackling and hissing and the fast breathing of a person on the other end. Then they heard a voice.
“Harland Webster?” the voice said. “Well, well, the head man himself.”
“Jackson?” Webster said again.
“No,” the voice said. “This is not Jackson.”
Webster glanced at McGrath.
“So who is it?” he asked.
“Beau Borken,” the voice said. “And as of today, I guess that’s President Borken. President of the Free States of America. But feel free to speak informally.”
“Where’s Jackson?” Webster asked.
There was a pause. Nothing to hear except the faint electronic sound of FBI telecommunications technology. Satellites and microwaves.
“Where’s Jackson?” Webster asked again.
“He died,” the voice said.
Webster glanced at McGrath again.
“How?” he asked.
“Just died,” Borken said. “Relatively quickly, really.”
“Was he sick?” Webster asked.
There was another pause. Then there was the sound of laughter. A high, tinny sound. A loud, shrieking laugh which overloaded Webster’s earpiece and spilled into distortion and bounced off the rock wall.
“No, he wasn’t sick, Webster,” Borken said. “He was pretty healthy, up until the last ten minutes.”
“What did you do to him?” Webster asked.
“Same as I’m going to do to the General’s little girl,” Borken said. “Listen up, and I’ll tell you the exact details. You need to pay attention, because you need to know what you’re dealing with here. We’re serious here. We mean business, you understand? You listening?”
Johnson pushed in close. White and sweating.
