One Shot

place, everything. You’ll say that to your sincere and everlasting regret you didn’t take him seriously. Then some poor excuse for a public defender will take one look at your evidence and plead your brother guilty and the whole thing will be over.”
    “I won’t do it,” Rosemary said.
    The Zec looked straight at her.
    “You will do it,” he said. “I promise you that. Twenty-four hours from now you’ll be
begging
to do it. You’ll be insane with fear that we might change our minds and not
let
you do it.”
    The room went quiet. Rosemary glanced at the Zec as if she had something to say. Then she glanced away. But the Zec answered her anyway. He had heard her message loud and clear.
    “No, we won’t be there with you at the deposition,” he said. “But we
will
know what you tell them. Within minutes. And don’t think about a little detour to the bus depot. For one thing, we’ll have your brother killed. For another, there’s no country in the world we can’t find you in.”
    Rosemary said nothing.
    “Anyway,” the Zec said. “Let’s not argue. It’s unproductive. And pointless. You’ll tell them what we tell you to tell them. You will, you know. You’ll see. You’ll be desperate to. You’ll be wishing we had arranged an earlier appointment for you. At the courthouse. You’ll spend the waiting time on your knees pleading for a chance to show us how word-perfect you are. That’s how it usually happens. We’re very good at what we do. We learned at the feet of masters.”
    “My brother has Parkinson’s disease,” Rosemary said.
    “Diagnosed when?” the Zec asked, because he knew the answer.
    “It’s been developing.”
    The Zec shook his head. “Too subjective to be helpful. Who’s to say it’s not a similar condition brought on suddenly by his recent injury? If not, then who’s to say such a condition is a true handicap anyway? When shooting from such a close range? If the public defender brings in an expert, then Rodin will bring in three. He’ll find doctors who will swear that Little Annie Oakley was racked with Parkinson’s disease from the very day she was born.”
    “Reacher knows,” Rosemary said.
    “The soldier? The soldier will be dead by morning. Dead, or a runaway.”
    “He won’t run away.”
    “Therefore he’ll be dead. He’ll come for you tonight. We’ll be ready for him.”
    Rosemary said nothing.
    “Men have come for us before in the night,” the Zec said. “Many times, in many places. And yet we’re still here.
Da,
Linsky?”
    Linsky nodded again.
    “We’re still here,” he said.
    “When will he come?” the Zec asked.
    “I don’t know,” Rosemary said.
    “Four o’clock in the morning,” Linsky said. “He’s an American. They’re trained that four o’clock in the morning is the best time for a surprise attack.”
    “Direction?”
    “From the north would make the most sense. The stone-crushing plant would conceal his staging area and leave him only two hundred yards of open ground to cover. But I think he’ll double-bluff us there. He’ll avoid the north, because he knows it’s best.”
    “Not from the west,” the Zec said.
    Linsky shook his head. “I agree. Not down the driveway. Too straight and open. He’ll come from the south or the east.”
    “Put Vladimir in with Sokolov,” the Zec said to him. “Tell them to watch the south and the east very carefully. But tell them to keep an eye out north and west, too. All four directions must be monitored continuously, just in case. Then put Chenko in the upstairs hallway with his rifle. He can be ready to deploy to whichever window is appropriate. With Chenko, one shot will be enough.”
    Then he turned to Rosemary Barr.
    “Meanwhile we’ll put you somewhere safe,” he told her. “Your tutorials will start as soon as the soldier is buried.”

    The outer western suburbs were bedroom communities for people who worked in the city, so the traffic stayed bad all the way out. The houses were much grander than in the east. They were all two-story, all varied, all well maintained. They all had big lots and pools and ambitious evergreen landscaping. With the last of the sunset behind them they looked like pictures in a brochure.
    “Tight-ass middle class,” Reacher said.
    “What we all aspire to,” Yanni said.
    “They won’t want to talk,” Reacher said. “Not their style.”
    “They’ll talk,” Yanni said. “Everyone talks to me.”
    They drove past the Archer place