17 A Wanted Man

walked, and his best friend didn’t.’
    ‘And you would never do that, right?’
    ‘No, I wouldn’t.’
    ‘Because you’re a man.’
    ‘You got that right,’ King said.
    ‘So face me like a man,’ Reacher said. ‘Take your gun out of McQueen’s ear and count to three and go for it.’
    ‘What, like a duel?’
    ‘Call it whatever you want. But stop using an innocent man for a shield. That’s a pussy’s trick.’
    ‘He’s not an innocent man. He’s a federal agent.’
    ‘He’s tied to a chair. You can get back to him afterwards.’
    ‘You think you’re going to lose?’
    ‘There are two possible outcomes here. Both should be considered.’
    No answer.
    ‘Pussy,’ Reacher said.
    ‘We count to three, right?’
    ‘If you can.’
    ‘Then we fire?’
    ‘One of us does.’
    ‘Start with your gun down by your side.’
    ‘You first.’
    ‘On three,’ King said. ‘Guns down. You and me both. Then we count to three again. Then we fire.’
    Reacher watched the guy’s eyes. They were OK.
    ‘Works for me,’ he said.
    King said, ‘One.’
    Reacher waited.
    King said, ‘Two.’
    Reacher waited.
    King said, ‘Three.’
    Reacher lowered his gun, loose and easy against his thigh.
    King did the same thing.
    McQueen breathed out and leaned away.
    Reacher watched King’s eyes.
    King took a breath and said, ‘OK.’
    Reacher said, ‘Ready when you are.’
    ‘On three, right?’
    ‘Go for it.’
    King said, ‘One.’
    Strategy. It was the other guy that mattered. Reacher knew as sure as he knew anything that King was going to fire on two. It was a cast-iron certainty. The first count had been a decoy and a reassurance. One, two, three, guns down. It had set a rhythm and a precedent. An expectation. It had established trust. For a reason. King had it all figured out. He was a man with a plan. It was right there in his eyes. He was a smart guy.
    But not smart enough.
    He wasn’t thinking strategically. He wasn’t thinking himself into his opponent’s frame of mind.
    Reacher raised the Glock and shot him in the face, right after the one.

SEVENTY-EIGHT
    AFTER THAT IT got harder, not easier. First Reacher couldn’t get McQueen out of the chair. He was tied to it with thin cord pulled very tight and the knots were hard as stones. And second, the survivors somewhere in the rooms beyond had finally gotten the message. They must have heard the shot close by and as soon as King didn’t come out all triumphant they started up with a half-assed version of Custer’s last stand. Either that or they were all planning to run for it. And either thing would put live bodies in the way. Reacher heard them all crowding together in the corridor. He heard the snick of slides being pulled. Automatic weapons, being checked and readied. He heard an urgent muffled conference, not far from the door, half in English and half in Arabic.
    He asked, ‘What does Wadiah mean, anyway?’
    McQueen said, ‘Safekeeping.’
    ‘I thought so.’
    ‘You speak Arabic?’
    ‘The odd word.’
    ‘Don’t you have a knife?’
    ‘I have a toothbrush.’
    ‘That won’t help.’
    ‘It’s good against plaque.’
    ‘Just get me out of this damn chair.’
    ‘I’m trying.’
    The cord was too tough to break. It was some kind of a blend, maybe cotton and nylon, woven tight, about a quarter of an inch across. Probably tested against all kinds of strains and weights.
    Reacher said, ‘I have a key.’
    McQueen said, ‘I’m not in handcuffs, for God’s sake.’
    Reacher pulled out the fat man’s key. He nicked at the rope with the rough-edged tang, down by McQueen’s right hand. The tang cut some fibres. Maybe two or three. Out of maybe ten thousand. Reacher said, ‘Put some tension on it. As much as you can. You’re FBI, right? Make like you’re trying to lift your pension.’
    McQueen’s shoulder and biceps bunched and the cord went hard as iron. Reacher sawed at it. Not back and forth. He had to pluck at it. The key worked only one way. But it made progress. Outside the door the voices were loud. Two factions. Doubt and questions, resolve and encouragement. Reacher was rooting for the doubt. Just for a little while longer. McQueen kept the pressure on. Fibres snapped and severed, first a few, then several, then many, then an eighth of an inch, then most of them, then only a few remained, and finally McQueen tore his right hand loose.
    Reacher picked up Peter King’s Beretta from the floor. He put it in McQueen’s