Die Trying

Garber was still here,” he said. “I owe him an apology.”
    “Planes are low on fuel,” the aide said into the silence.
    Johnson nodded again.
    “Send one back,” he said. “We don’t need both of them up there anymore. Let them spell each other.”
    The aide called Peterson and within half a minute three of the six screens in the vehicle went blank as the outer plane peeled off and headed south. The inner plane relaxed its radius and zoomed its camera out to cover the whole area. The close-up of the clearing fell away to the size of a quarter and the big white courthouse swam into view, bottom right-hand corner of the screens. Three identical views on three glowing screens, one for each of them. They hunched forward in their chairs and stared. The radio in Webster’s pocket started crackling.
    “Webster?” Borken’s voice said. “You there?”
    “I’m here,” Webster replied.
    “What’s with the plane?” Borken said. “You losing interest or something?”
    For a second, Webster wondered how he knew. Then he remembered the vapor trails. They were like a diagram, up there in the sky.
    “Who was it?” he asked. “Brogan or Milosevic?”
    “What’s with the plane?” Borken asked again.
    “Low fuel,” Webster said. “It’ll be back.”
    There was a pause. Then Borken’s voice came back.
    “OK,” he said.
    “So who was it?” Webster asked again. “Brogan or Milosevic?”
    But the radio just went dead on him. He clicked the button off and caught Johnson looking at him. Johnson’s face was saying: the military man turned out good and the Bureau guy turned out bad. Webster shrugged. Tried to make it rueful. Tried to make it mean: we both made mistakes. But Johnson’s face said: you should have known.
    “Could be a problem, right?” the aide said. “Brogan and Milosevic? Whichever one is the good guy, he still thinks Reacher’s his enemy. And whichever one is the bad guy, he knows Reacher’s his enemy.”
    Webster looked away. Turned back to the bank of screens.

    BORKEN PUT THE radio back in the pocket of his black uniform. Drummed his fingers on the judge’s desk. Looked at the people looking back at him.
    “One camera is enough,” he said.
    “Sure,” Milosevic said. “One is as good as two.”
    “We don’t need interference right now,” Borken said. “So we should nail Reacher before we do anything else.”
    Milosevic glanced around, nervously.
    “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m staying in here. I just want my money.”
    Borken looked at him. Still thinking.
    “You know how to catch a tiger?” he asked. “Or a leopard or something? Out in the jungle?”
    “What?” Milosevic asked.
    “You tether a goat to a stake,” Borken said. “And lie in wait.”
    “What?” Milosevic asked again.
    “Reacher was willing to rescue McGrath, right?” Borken said. “So maybe he’s willing to rescue your pal Brogan, too.”

    GENERAL GARBER HEARD the commotion and risked moving up a few yards. He made it to where the trees thinned out and he crouched. Shuffled sideways to his left to get a better view. The courthouse was dead ahead up the rise. The south wall was face-on to him, but he had a narrow angle down the front. He could see the main entrance. He could see the steps up to the door. He saw a gaggle of men come out. Six men. There were two flanking point men, alert, scanning around, rifles poised. The other four were carrying somebody, spread-eagled, facedown. The person had been seized by the wrists and the ankles. It was a man. Garber could tell by the voice. He was bucking and thrashing and screaming. It was Brogan.
    Garber went cold. He knew what had happened to Jackson. McGrath had told him. He raised his rifle. Sighted in on the nearer point man. Tracked him smoothly as he moved right to left. Then his peripheral vision swept the other five. Then he thought about the sentry screen behind him. He grimaced and lowered the rifle. Impossible odds. He had a rule: stick to the job in hand. He’d preached it like a gospel for forty years. And the job in hand was to get Holly Johnson out alive. He crept backward into the forest and shrugged at the two men beside him.
    The Chinook crew had clambered out of their wrecked craft and stumbled away into the forest. They had thought they were heading south, but in their disorientation they had moved due north. They had passed straight through the sentry screen without knowing anything about it and come upon a