Die Trying

back and pressing up on his chest. He could feel it clamping inward on his ribs. He got up again and limped to the doors. Pushed them open and stood in the moonlight, arms out, eyes crazy, mouth open, breathing in lungfuls of the sweet night air.

    HE WAS HALFWAY across the bowl before he started thinking straight. So he ran back and ducked into the motor pool once more. Found what he wanted. He found it on one of the jeep’s tow-hook assemblies. Some heavy stiff wire, ready to feed a trailer’s electric circuits. He wrenched it out and stripped the insulation with his teeth. Ran back to the moonlight.
    He kept close to the road, all the way back to Yorke. Two miles, twenty minutes at a slow agonizing jog through the trees. He looped around behind the ruined northeastern block and approached the courthouse from the rear. Circled it silently in the shadows. Waited and listened.
    He tried to think like Borken. Complacent. Happy with his perimeter. Constant information from inside the FBI. Reacher locked into the punishment hut, Holly locked into her prison room. Would he post a sentry? Not tonight. Not when he was expecting heavy action tomorrow and beyond. He would want his people fresh. Reacher nodded to himself and gambled he was right.
    He arrived at the courthouse steps. Deserted. He tried the door. Locked. He smiled. Nobody posts a sentry behind a locked door. He bent the wire into a shallow hook and felt for the mechanism. An old two-lever. Eight seconds. He stepped inside. Waited and listened. Nothing. He went up the stairs.
    The lock on Holly’s door was new. But cheap. He worked quietly, which delayed him. Took him more than thirty seconds before the last tumbler clicked back. He pulled the door open slowly and stepped onto the built-up floor. Glanced apprehensively at the walls. She was on a mattress on the floor. Fully dressed and ready. Awake and watching him. Huge eyes bright in the gloom. He gestured her outside. Turned and climbed down and waited in the corridor for her. She picked up her crutch and limped to the door. Climbed carefully down the step and stood next to him.
    “Hello, Reacher,” she whispered. “How are you doing?”
    “I’ve felt better,” he whispered back. “Time to time.”
    She turned and glanced back into her room. He followed her gaze and saw the dark stain on the floor.
    “Woman who brought me lunch,” she whispered.
    He nodded.
    “What with?” he whispered back.
    “Part of the bed frame,” she said.
    He saw the satisfaction on her face and smiled.
    “That should do it,” he said, quietly. “Bed frames are good for that.”
    She took a last look at the room and gently closed the door. Followed him through the dark and slowly down the stairs. Across the lobby and through the double doors and out into the bright silent moonlight.
    “Christ,” she said, urgently. “What happened to you?”
    He glanced down and checked himself over in the light of the moon. He was gray from head to foot with dust and grit. His clothing was shredded. He was streaked with sweat and blood. Still shaky.
    “Long story,” he said. “You got somebody in Chicago you can trust?”
    “McGrath,” she said immediately. “He’s my Agent-in-Charge. Why?”
    They crossed the wide street arm in arm, looking left and right. Skirted the mound in front of the ruined office building. Found the path running northwest.
    “You need to send him a fax,” he said. “They’ve got missiles. You need to warn him. Tonight, because their line is going to be cut first thing in the morning.”
    “The mole tell them that?” she asked.
    He nodded.
    “How?” she asked. “How is he communicating?”
    “Shortwave radio,” Reacher said. “Has to be. Anything else is traceable.”
    He swayed and leaned on a tree. Gave her the spread, everything, beginning to end.
    “Shit,” she said. “Ground-to-air missiles? Mass suicide? A nightmare.”
    “Not our nightmare,” he said. “We’re out of here.”
    “We should stay and help them,” she said. “The families.”
    He shook his head.
    “Best help is for us to get out,” he said. “Maybe losing you will change their plan. And we can tell them about the layout around here.”
    “I don’t know,” she said.
    “I do,” he said. “First rule is stick to priorities. That’s you. We’re out of here.”
    She shrugged and nodded.
    “Now?” she asked.
    “Right now,” he said.
    “How?” she asked.
    “Jeep through the forest,” he said.