Die Trying

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. Then his finger tightened again. He fired the second shot. The rifle kicked and crashed and the dust blasted upward. Reacher raised the field glasses again. A hit. There was a splintered hole on the target’s right shoulder.
    There was a murmur from the crowd. Field glasses were passed from hand to hand. The whispers rose and fell. The dust settled. Borken fired again. Too quickly. He was still wriggling. Reacher watched him making the mistake. He didn’t bother with the field glasses. He knew that half-inch shell would end up in Idaho.
    The crowd whispered. Borken glared through the scope. Reacher watched him do it all wrong. His