Die Trying

head.
    “Anything to say?” Borken asked him again.
    Loder stared forward. Made no reply. Borken turned toward the jury box and looked at the three men sitting on the old worn benches. Looked a question at them. The three men huddled for a second and whispered. Then the guy on the left stood up.
    “Guilty, sir,” he said. “Definitely guilty.”
    Borken nodded in satisfaction.
    “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said.
    The crowd set up a buzz. He turned to quell it with a look.
    “I am required to pass sentence,” he said. “As many of you know, Loder is an old acquaintance of mine. We go back a long way. We were childhood friends. And friendship means a great deal to me.”
    He paused and looked down at Loder.
    “But other things mean more,” he said. “Performance of my duties means more. My responsibility to this emerging nation means more. Sometimes, statesmanship must be put above every other value a man holds dear.”
    The crowd was silent. Holding its breath. Borken sat for a long moment. Then he glanced over Loder’s head at the guards behind him and made a small, delicate motion with his head. The guards grabbed Loder’s elbows and hauled him to his feet. They formed up and hustled him out of the room. Borken stood and looked at the crowd. Then he turned and walked to the doors and was gone. The people in the public benches shuffled to their feet and hurried out after him.
    Reacher saw the guards walking Loder to a flagpole on the patch of lawn outside the courthouse. Borken was striding after them. The guards reached the flagpole and shoved Loder hard up against it, facing it. They held his wrists and pulled, so he was pressed up against the pole, hugging it, face tight against the dull white paint. Borken came up behind him. Pulled the Sig-Sauer from its holster. Clicked the safety catch. Cocked a round into the chamber. Jammed the muzzle into the back of Loder’s neck and fired. There was an explosion of pink blood and the roar of the shot cannoned back off the mountains.

26
    “HIS NAME IS Jack Reacher,” Webster said.
    “Good call, General,” McGrath said. “I guess they remembered him.”
    Johnson nodded.
    “Military police keeps good records,” he said.
    They were still in the commandeered crew room inside Peterson Air Force Base. Ten o’clock in the morning, Thursday July third. The fax machine was rolling out a long reply to their inquiry. The face in the photograph had been identified immediately. The subject’s service record had been pulled straight off the Pentagon computer and faxed along with the name.
    “You recall this guy now?” Brogan asked.
    “Reacher?” Johnson repeated vaguely. “I don’t know. What did he do?”
    Webster and the General’s aide were crowding the machine, reading the report as the paper spooled out. They twisted it right side up and walked slowly away to keep it up off the floor.
    “What did he do?” McGrath asked them urgently.
    “Nothing,” Webster said.
    “Nothing?” McGrath repeated. “Why would they have a record on him if he didn’t do anything?”
    “He was one of them,” Webster said. “Major Jack Reacher, military police.”
    The aide was racing through the length of paper.
    “Silver Star,” he said. “Two Bronzes, Purple Heart. This is a hell of a record, sir. This guy was a hero, for God’s sake.”
    McGrath opened up his envelope and pulled out the original video pictures of the kidnap, black-and-white, un-enlarged, grainy. He selected the first picture of Reacher’s involvement. The one catching him in the act of seizing Holly’s crutch and pulling the dry cleaning from her grasp. He slid the photograph across the table.
    “Big hero,” he said.
    Johnson bent to study the picture. McGrath slid over the next. The one showing Reacher gripping Holly’s arm, keeping her inside the tight crush of attackers. Johnson picked it up and stared at it. McGrath wasn’t sure whether he was staring at Reacher, or at his daughter.
    “He’s thirty-seven,” the General’s aide read aloud. “Mustered out fourteen months ago. West Point, thirteen years’ service, big heroics in Beirut right at the start. Sir, you pinned a Bronze on him, ten years ago. This is an absolutely outstanding record throughout. He’s the only non-Marine in history to win the Wimbledon.”
    Webster looked up.
    “Tennis?” he said.
    The aide smiled briefly.
    “Not Wimbledon,” he said. “The Wimbledon. Marine Sniper School runs a competition, the