Die Trying

the clay at the leading point. Left the vitrified white surface layer intact, like the blade of a knife.
    She put her weapons in two separate pockets. Pulled the shower curtain to conceal the damage. Put the rubber foot back on the crutch. Limped back to her mattress, and sat down to wait.

    THE PROBLEM WITH using just one camera was that it had to be set to a fairly wide shot. That was the only way to cover the whole area. So any particular thing was small on the screen. The group of men carrying something had shown up like a large insect crawling across the glass.
    “Was that Brogan?” Webster asked out loud.
    The aide ran the video back and watched again.
    “He’s facedown,” he said. “Hard to tell.”
    He froze the action and used the digital manipulator to enlarge the picture. Adjusted the joystick to put the spread-eagled man in the center of the screen. Zoomed right in until the image blurred.
    “Hard to tell,” he said again. “It’s one of them, that’s for sure.”
    “I think it was Brogan,” Webster said.
    Johnson looked hard. Used his finger and thumb against the screen to estimate the guy’s height, head to toes.
    “How tall is he?” he asked.

    “HOW TALL IS he?” Reacher asked suddenly.
    “What?” McGrath said.
    Reacher was behind McGrath in the trees, staring out at the punishment hut. He was staring at the front wall. The wall was maybe twelve feet long, eight feet high. Right to left, there was a two-foot panel, then the door, thirty inches wide, hinged on the right, handle on the left. Then a panel probably seven and a half feet wide running down to the end of the building.
    “How tall is he?” Reacher asked again.
    “Christ, does it matter?” McGrath said.
    “I think it does,” Reacher said.
    McGrath turned and stared at him.
    “Five nine, maybe five ten,” he said. “Not an especially big guy.”
    The cladding was made up of horizontal eight-by-fours nailed over the frame. There was a seam halfway up. The floor was probably three-quarters board laid over two-by-fours. Therefore the floor started nearly five inches above the bottom of the outside cladding. About an inch and a half below the bottom of the doorway.
    “Skinny, right?” Reacher said.
    McGrath was still staring at him.
    “Thirty-eight regular, best guess,” he said.
    Reacher nodded. The walls would be two-by-fours clad inside and out with the plywood. Total thickness five and a half inches, maybe less if the inside cladding was thinner. Call it the inside face of the end wall was five inches in from the corner, and the floor was five inches up from the bottom.
    “Right-handed or left-handed?” Reacher asked.
    “Speak to me,” McGrath hissed.
    “Which?” Reacher said.
    “Right-handed,” McGrath said. “I’m pretty sure.” The two-by-fours would be on sixteen-inch centers. That was the standard dimension. But from the corner of the hut to the right-hand edge of the door, the distance was only two feet. Two feet less five inches for the thickness of the end wall was nineteen inches. There was probably a two-by-four set right in the middle of that span. Unless they skimped it, which was no problem. The wall would be stuffed with Fiberglas wadding, for insulation.
    “Stand back,” Reacher whispered.
    “Why?” McGrath said.
    “Just do it,” Reacher replied.
    McGrath moved out of the way. Reacher put his eyes on a spot ten inches in from the end of the hut and just shy of five feet up from the bottom. Swayed left and rested his shoulder on a tree. Raised his M-16 and sighted it in.
    “Hell are you doing?” McGrath hissed.
    Reacher made no reply. Just waited for his heart to beat and fired. The rifle cracked and the bullet punched through the siding a hundred yards away. Ten inches from the corner, five feet from the ground.
    “Hell are you doing?” McGrath hissed again.
    Reacher just grabbed his arm and pulled him into the woods. Dragged him north and waited. Two things happened. The six men burst back into the clearing. And the door of the punishment hut opened. Brogan was framed in the doorway. His right arm was hanging limp. His right shoulder was shattered and pumping blood. In his right hand, he was holding his Bureau .38. The hammer was back. His finger was tight on the trigger.
    Reacher snicked the M-16 to burst fire. Stitched five bursts of three shells into the ground, halfway across the clearing. The six men skidded away, like they were suddenly facing an invisible barrier or a