Die Trying

from the guy. Like the glow was overpowering him. He forced himself to turn his head slowly and stare directly into the big white face.
    “What decision?” he asked.
    “Whether you should live,” Borken said. “Or whether you should die.”

    HOLLY PULLED THE side panel off the bath. She had known plumbers leave trash under the tub, out of sight behind the panel. Offcuts of pipe, scraps of wood, even tools. Used blades, lost wrenches. Stuff that could prove useful. Some apartments she’d had, she’d found all kinds of things. But there was nothing. She lay down and felt right into the back recesses and came up with nothing at all.
    And the floor was solid all the way under the fixtures. The plumbing ran down through tight holes. It was an expert job. It was possible she could force a lever down alongside the big pipe running down out of the john. If she had a pry bar she might get a board loose. But there was no pry bar in the room. Nor any substitute. The towel bar was plastic. It would bend and break. There was nothing else. She sat on the floor and felt the disappointment wash over her. Then she heard more footsteps outside her door.
    This time, they were quiet. They were muffled, not clattering. Somebody approaching quietly and cautiously. Somebody with no official business. She stood up slowly. Stepped out of the bathroom and pulled the door to hide the dismantled tub. Limped back toward the bed as the lock clicked and the door opened.
    A man came into the room. He was a youngish man, dressed in camouflage fatigues, black smears on his face. A vivid red scar running laterally across his forehead. A machine gun slung at his shoulder. He turned and closed the door, quietly. Turned back with his fingers to his lips.
    She stared at him. Felt her anger rising. This time, she wasn’t chained up. This time, the guy was going to die. She smiled a crazy smile at the logic of it. The bathroom was going to save her. She was a high-status prisoner. Supposed to be held with dignity and respect. Somebody came in to abuse her, and she killed him, they couldn’t argue with that, could they?
    But the guy with the scar just held his fingers to his lips and nodded toward the bathroom. He crept quietly over and pushed the door. Gestured for her to follow. She limped after him. He glanced down at the side panel on the floor and shook his head. Reached in and started the shower. Set it running hard against the empty tub.
    “They’ve got microphones,” the guy said. “They’re listening for me.”
    “Who the hell are you?” she asked.
    He squatted down and put the panel back on the bath.
    “No good,” he said. “There’s no way out.”
    “Got to be,” she said.
    The guy shook his head.
    “They had a trial run,” he said. “The commander put one of the guys who built this place in here. Told him if he didn’t get out, he’d cut his arms off. So I assume he tried real hard.”
    “And what happened?” she asked.
    The guy shrugged.
    “The commander cut his arms off,” he said.
    “Who the hell are you?” she asked again.
    “FBI,” the guy said. “Counterterrorism. Undercover. I guess I’m going to have to get you out.”
    “How?” she asked.
    “Tomorrow,” he said. “I can get a jeep. We’ll have to make a run for it. I can’t call in for assistance because they’re scanning for my transmitter. We’ll just get the jeep and head south and hope for the best.”
    “What about Reacher?” she asked. “Where have they taken him?”
    “Forget him,” the guy said. “He’ll be dead by morning.”
    Holly shook her head.
    “I’m not going without him,” she said.

    “LODER DISPLEASED ME,” Beau Borken said.
    Reacher glanced downward. Loder had squirmed up into a sideways sitting position, crammed into the angle between the floor and the wall.
    “Did he displease you?” Borken asked.
    Reacher made no reply.
    “Would you like to kick him?” Borken asked.
    Reacher kept quiet. He could see where this game was going. If he said yes, he’d be expected to hurt the guy badly. Which he had no objection to in principle, but he’d prefer to do it on his own terms. If he said no, Borken would call him a coward with no sense of natural justice and no self-respect. An obvious game, with no way to win. So he kept quiet, which was a tactic he’d used a thousand times before: when in doubt, just keep your mouth shut.
    “In the face?” Borken asked. “In the balls, maybe?”
    Loder was staring up at