Without Fail

bullet came in and hit her.
    “Shit,” Reacher said.
    Neagley nodded, slowly. “She was too quick. A quarter second slower she’d still have been high enough in the air to take it in the vest.”
    “She was too good.”
    They ran it again, normal speed. It was all over in a second. Then they let the tape run on. The cameraman seemed rooted to the spot. Reacher saw himself barging through the tables. Saw the other agents firing. Froelich was out of sight, on the floor. The camera ducked because of the firing, but then came up level again and started moving in. The picture wobbled as the guy stumbled over something. There were long moments of total confusion. Then the cameraman started forward again, hungry for a shot of the downed agent. Neagley’s face appeared, and the picture went black. Coverage switched back to the anchorman. The anchorman looked straight at the camera and announced that Armstrong’s reaction had been immediate and emphatic.
    The picture cut to tape of an outdoors location Reacher recognized as the West Wing’s parking lot. Armstrong was standing there with his wife. They were both still in their casual clothes, but they had taken their Kevlar vests off. Somebody had cleaned Froelich’s blood from Armstrong’s face. His hair was combed. He looked resolute. He spoke in low, controlled tones, like a plain man wrestling with strong emotions. He talked about his extreme sadness that two agents had died. He extolled their qualities as individuals. He offered sincere sympathy to their families. He went on to say he hoped it would be seen that they had died protecting democracy itself, not just himself in person. He hoped their families might take some small measure of comfort from that, as well as a great deal of justified pride. He promised swift and certain retribution against the perpetrators of the outrage. He assured America that no amount of violence or intimidation could deter the workings of government, and that the transition would continue unaffected. But he finished by saying that as a mark of his absolute respect, he was remaining in Washington and canceling all engagements until he had attended a memorial service for his personal friend and protection team leader. He said the service would be held on Sunday morning, in a small country church in a small Wyoming town called Grace, where no finer metaphor for America’s enduring greatness could be found.
    “Guy’s full of shit,” the duty officer said.
    “No, he’s OK,” Reacher said.
    The bulletin cut to first-quarter football highlights. The duty officer muted the sound and turned away. Reacher closed his eyes. Thought of Joe, and then of Froelich. Thought of them together. Then he rehearsed his upward glance once again. The curved spray of Froelich’s blood, the curve of the shooter’s shoulder, retreating, swinging away, swooping away. The coat flowing with him. The coat . He ran it all again, like the TV station had rerun its tape. He froze on the coat. He knew . He opened his eyes wide.
    “Figured how yet?” he asked.
    “Can’t get past Bannon’s take,” Neagley answered.
    “Say it.”
    “Crosetti saw somebody he knew and trusted.”
    “Man or woman?”
    “Man, according to you.”
    “OK, say it again.”
    Neagley shrugged. “Crosetti saw some man he knew and trusted.”
    Reacher shook his head. “Two words short. Crosetti saw some type of man he knew and trusted.”
    “Who?” she asked.
    “Who can get in and out of anywhere without suspicion?”
    Neagley looked at him. “Law enforcement?”
    Reacher nodded. “The coat was long, kind of reddish-brown, faint pattern to it. Too thin for an overcoat, too thick for a raincoat, flapping open. It swung as he ran.”
    “As who ran?”
    “That Bismarck cop. The lieutenant or whatever he was. He ran over to me after I came out of the church. It was him on the warehouse roof.”
    “It was a cop ?”

    “That’s a very serious allegation,” Bannon said. “Based on a quarter-second of observation from ninety yards during extreme mayhem.”
    They were back in the FBI’s conference room. Stuyvesant had never left it. He was still in his pink sweater. The room was still impressive.
    “It was him,” Reacher said. “No doubt about it.”
    “Cops are all fingerprinted,” Bannon said. “Condition of employment.”
    “So his partner isn’t a cop,” Reacher said. “The guy on the garage video.”
    Nobody spoke.
    “It was him,” Reacher said