Without Fail

the center limo. The backup crew took the one behind it. Froelich and Reacher and Neagley took the one in front. The air was freezing, but the sky was bright. The sun was blinding.
    “You’ll be freelancing,” Froelich said. “Wherever you feel you need to be.”
    There was no traffic. It felt like empty country. There was a short fast trip over smooth concrete roads and suddenly Reacher saw the familiar church tower in the distance, and the low surrounding huddle of houses. There were cars parked solid along the side of the approach road all the way up to a State Police roadblock a hundred yards from the community center entrance. The motorcade eased past it and headed for the parking lot. The fences were decorated with bunting and there was a large crowd already assembled, maybe three hundred people. The church tower loomed over all of them, tall and square and solid and blinding white in the winter sun.
    “I hope this time they checked every inch of it,” Froelich said.
    The five cars swept onto the gravel and crunched to a stop. The backup agents were out first. They fanned out in front of Armstrong’s car, checking the faces in the crowd, waiting until Froelich heard the all-clear from the local police commander on her radio. She got it and instantly relayed it to the backup leader. He acknowledged immediately and stepped to Armstrong’s door and opened it ceremoniously. Reacher was impressed. It was like a ballet. Five seconds, serene, dignified, unhurried, no apparent hesitation at all, but there had already been three-way radio communication and visual confirmation of security. This was a slick operation.
    Armstrong stepped out of his car into the cold. He was already smiling a perfect local-boy-embarrassed-by-all-the-fuss smile and stretching out his hand to greet his successor at the head of the reception line. He was bareheaded. His personal detail moved in so close they were almost jostling him. The backup agents got close, too, maneuvering themselves so they kept the tallest two of the three between Armstrong and the church. Their faces were completely expressionless. Their coats were open and their eyes were always moving.
    “That damn church,” Froelich said. “It’s like a shooting gallery.”
    “We should go check it again,” Reacher said. “Ourselves, just to be sure. Have him circulate counterclockwise until we do.”
    “That takes him nearer the church.”
    “He’s safer nearer the church. Makes the downward angle too steep. There are wooden louvers up there around the bells. The field of fire starts about forty feet out from the base of the tower. Closer than that, he’s in a blind spot.”
    Froelich raised her wrist and spoke to her lead agent. Seconds later they saw him ease Armstrong to his right, into a wide counterclockwise loop around the field. The new senator tagged along. The crowd changed direction and moved with them.
    “Now find the guy with the church keys,” Reacher said.
    Froelich spoke to the local police captain. Listened to his response in her ear.
    “The church warden will meet us there,” she said. “Five minutes.”
    They got out of the car and walked across the gravel to the church gate. The air was very cold. Armstrong’s head was visible among a sea of people. The sun was catching his hair. He was well out in the field, thirty feet from the tower. The new senator was at his side. Six agents close by. The crowd was moving with them, slowly changing its shape like an evolving creature. There were dark overcoats everywhere. Women’s hats, mufflers, sunglasses. The grass was brown and dead from night frosts.
    Froelich stiffened. Cupped her hand over her ear. Raised the other hand and spoke into her wrist microphone.
    “Keep him close to the church,” she said.
    Then she dropped her hands and opened her coat. Loosened her gun in its holster.
    “State cops on the far perimeter just called in,” she said. “They’re worried about some guy on foot.”
    “Where?” Reacher asked.
    “In the subdivision.”
    “Description?”
    “Didn’t get one.”
    “How many cops on the field?”
    “Forty plus, all around the edge.”
    “Get them facing outward. Backs to the crowd. All eyes on the near perimeter.”
    Froelich spoke to the police captain on the radio and issued the order. Her own eyes were everywhere.
    “I got to go,” she said.
    Reacher turned to Neagley.
    “Check the streets,” he said. “All the access points we found