Die Trying

stolidly in front of them.
    “Where are they going?” McGrath whispered.
    “The parade ground,” Reacher said. “Borken ordered it, right?”
    “Why don’t they just run for it?” McGrath said.
    Reacher shrugged and said nothing. He had no explanation. He stood concealed and watched the blank faces pass through the dappled woods. Then he touched McGrath’s arm and they sprinted on through the trees and came out behind the mess hall. Reacher glanced cautiously around. Stretched up and grabbed at the roof overhang. Put a foot on the window ledge and hauled himself up onto the shingles. Crawled up the slope of the roof and steadied himself against the bright metal chimney. Raised the stolen field glasses and trained them southeast, down toward the town, thinking: OK, but what the hell else is happening? And where?

    GENERAL JOHNSON’SAIDE had the most aptitude with the computer controls, either from familiarity with such things, or from being younger. He used the rubber knobs and the joystick to focus on the area in front of the courthouse steps. Then he zoomed out a touch to frame the view. He had the western face of the courthouse on the right of the screen and the eastern face of the ruined county office on the left. In between were the two lawns, one abandoned and scrubby, the other still reasonably flat. The road ran vertically up the center of the picture, like a map. The jeep which had brought McGrath in was still there where they had dumped it. The aide used it to check his focus. It came in crisp and clear. It was a military-surplus vehicle. Smudged white stencils. They could see the windshield folded down, and a canvas map case, and a jerrican for fuel and a short-handled shovel clipped on the rear.
    They all saw the two men bring Holly out. From above, they were in a perfect straight diagonal line, with Holly alone in the middle, like the shape you see when a die rolls a three. They brought her out and waited. Then they saw a huge figure lumbering down the courthouse steps behind them. Borken. He stepped into the road and looked up. Right into the camera, invisible seven miles above him. He stared and waved. Raised his right hand high. There was a black gun in it. Then he looked down and fiddled with something in his left hand. Raised it to his ear. The radio on the desk in front of Webster crackled. Webster picked it up and flipped it open.
    “Yes?” he said.
    They saw Borken waving up at the camera again.
    “See me?” he said.
    “We see you,” Webster said quietly.
    “See this?” Borken said.
    He raised the gun again. The General’s aide zoomed in tight. Borken’s huge bulk filled the screen. Upturned pink face, black pistol held high.
    “We see it,” Webster said.
    The aide zoomed back out. Borken resumed his proper perspective.
    “Sig-Sauer P226,” Borken said. “You familiar with that weapon?”
    Webster paused. Glanced around.
    “Yes,” he said.
    “Nine-millimeter,” Borken said. “Fifteen shots to a clip.”
    “So?” Webster asked.
    Borken laughed. A loud sound in Webster’s ear.
    “Time for some target practice,” Borken said. “And guess what the target is?”
    They saw the two men move toward Holly. Then they saw Holly’s crutch come up. She held it level with both hands. She smashed it hard into the first man’s gut. She whipped it back and swung it. Spun and hit the second man in the head. But it was light aluminum. No weight behind it. She dropped it and her hands went to her pockets. Came out with something in each palm. Things that glinted and caught the sun. She skipped forward and slashed desperately at the face in front of her. Danced and whirled and swung the glinting weapons.
    The aide jerked the zoom control. The first man was down, clutching at his throat and face. Blood on his hands. Holly was spinning fast circles, slashing at the air like a panther in a cage, turning on a stiff leg, the other foot dancing in and out as she darted left and right. Webster could hear distorted breathing and gasping through the earpiece. He could hear shouting and screaming. He stared at the screen and pleaded silently: go left, Holly, go for the jeep.
    She went right. Swung her left hand high and held her right hand low, like a boxer. Darted for the second man. He raised his rifle, but crossways, in a sheer panic move to ward off the slashing blow. He punched the rifle up to meet her arm, and her wrist cracked against the barrel. Her weapon flew off into the air. She