Without Fail

and couldn’t think of a thing to say.
    “The woman goes in the truck,” the guy said. “We’ll have a little fun with her, after we deal with Armstrong. But I’m going to shoot you right now.”
    “Not with that rifle,” Reacher said. Keep him talking. Keep him moving . “The muzzle is full of slush. It’ll blow up in your hands.”
    There was a long silence. The guy calculated the distance between himself and Reacher, just a glance. Then he lowered the rifle. Reversed it in his hands, in and out fast, long enough to check. The muzzle was packed with icy snow. The M16 is on the Yukon’s backseat , Reacher thought. But the door is blocked shut by the drift .
    “You want to bet your life on a little slush?” the Bismarck guy asked.
    “Do you?” Reacher said. “The breech will blow, take your ugly face off. Then I’ll take the barrel and shove it up your ass. I’ll pretend it was a baseball bat.”
    The guy’s face darkened. But he didn’t pull the trigger.
    “Step away from the car,” he said, like the cop he was. Reacher took a long pace away from the Yukon, up and down in the snow, like wading.
    “And another.”
    Reacher moved again. He was six feet from the car. Six feet from his M16. Thirty feet from his nine-millimeter, far away in the snow. He glanced around. The Bismarck brother held the rifle in his left hand and put his right under his coat and came out with a handgun. It was a Glock. Black and square and ugly. Probably police department issue . He released the safety and leveled it one-handed at Reacher’s face.
    “Not that one either,” Reacher said.
    Keep him talking. Keep him moving .
    “Why not?”
    “That’s your work gun. Chances are you’ve used it before. So there are records. They find my body, the ballistics will come right back at you.”
    The guy stood still for a long moment. Didn’t speak. Nothing in his face. But he put the Glock away again. Raised the rifle. Shuffled backward through the snow toward the Tahoe. The rifle traversed and stayed level with Reacher’s chest. Reacher thought: Just pull the damn trigger. Let’s all have a laugh . The guy fumbled behind him and opened the Tahoe’s rear door, driver’s side. Dropped the rifle in the snow and came out with a handgun, all in one move. It was an old M9 Beretta, scratched and stained with dried oil. The guy tracked forward again through the drift. Stopped six feet away from Reacher. Raised his arm. Unlatched the safety with his thumb and leveled the weapon straight at the center of Reacher’s face.
    “Throw-down gun,” he said. “No records on this one.”
    Reacher said nothing.
    “Say goodnight now,” the guy whispered.
    Nobody moved.
    “On the click,” Reacher said.
    He stared straight ahead at the gun. Saw Neagley’s face in the corner of his eye. Saw that she didn’t understand what he meant, but saw her nod anyway. It was just a fractional movement of her eyelids. Like half a blink. The Bismarck guy smiled. Tightened his finger. His knuckle shone white. He squeezed the trigger.
    There was a dull click.
    Reacher came out with his ceramic knife already open and brushed it sideways across the guy’s forehead. Then he caught the Beretta’s barrel in his left hand and jerked it up and jerked it down full force across his knee and shattered the guy’s forearm. Pushed him away and spun around. Neagley had hardly moved. But the guy from the garage video was inert in the snow by her feet. He was bleeding from both ears. She was holding her Heckler & Koch in one hand and the guy’s handgun in the other.
    “Yes?” she said.
    He nodded. She stepped a pace away so her clothes wouldn’t get splashed and pointed the handgun at the ground and shot the garage guy three times. Bang bang . . . bang . A double-tap to the head, and then an insurance round in the chest. The sound of the shots clapped and rolled like thunder. They both turned away. The Bismarck guy was stumbling around in the snow, completely blind. His forehead was sliced to the bone and blood was pouring out of the wound in sheets and running down into his eyes. It was in his nose and in his mouth. His panting breath was bubbling out through it. He was cradling his broken arm. Staggering about, left and right, turning circles, raising his left forearm to his face, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes so he could see.
    Reacher watched him for a moment, nothing in his face. Then he took the Heckler & Koch from Neagley and set it to