Worth Dying For

and sat, not cross-legged, but with her knees drawn up to one side.
    Reacher said, ‘Now the doctor’s wife.’
    Duncan said, ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
    ‘I’m just saying. Ladies first, right?’
    ‘OK, the doctor’s wife. Go. Same rules. Just the coat. Don’t touch the phone. Don’t forget I have hostages here. Including your beloved husband.’
    The doctor’s wife peeled out of the cluster. A minute later she was back, wearing her wool coat, and a hat, and gloves, and a muffler.
    ‘Sit down,’ Duncan said.
    She sat down, right next to Dorothy Coe, cross-legged, her back straight, her hands on her knees, her gaze level and aimed at a faraway spot in the fields. Nothing there, but Reacher guessed it was better than looking at her tormentor.
    Reacher said, ‘Now the doctor.’
    ‘OK, go,’ Duncan said.
    The doctor peeled out and was gone a minute. He came backin a blue parka, all kinds of nylon and Gore-tex and zippered compartments. He sat down without waiting to be told.
    Reacher said, ‘Now me.’
    Duncan said, ‘No, not you. Not now, not ever. You stay right there. I don’t trust you.’
    ‘That’s not very nice.’
    ‘Sit down.’
    ‘Make me.’
    Duncan leaned into the gun, the final per cent, like he was ready to fire.
    He said, ‘Sit down.’
    Reacher didn’t move. Then he glanced to his right and saw lights in the mist, and he knew that his chance had gone.
    The Cornhuskers came on fast, five of them in five separate vehicles, a tight little high-speed convoy, three pick-up trucks and two SUVs. They all jammed to a stop on the road in line with the fence, five vehicles all nose to tail, and five doors flung open, and five guys spilled out, all of them in red jackets, all of them moving fast, the smallest of them the size of a house. They swarmed straight in, climbing the fence in unison, moving across the dormant lawn on a broad front, coming in wide of the Remington’s potential trajectory. The Remington stayed rock steady in Seth Duncan’s hands. Reacher was watching its muzzle. It wasn’t moving at all, its blued steel dark in the moonlight, trained dead on his chest from thirty feet, the smooth bore at its centre looking big enough to stick a thumb in.
    Duncan said, ‘Take the three others inside, and keep them there.’
    Rough hands grabbed at the doctor, and his wife, and Dorothy Coe, hauling them back to their feet, by their arms and shoulders, pulling them away, hustling them across the last of the gravel, pushing them in through the door. Eight people went in, and a minute later four came out, all of them football players, all of them crunching back to where Reacher was standing.
    Duncan said, ‘Hold him.’
    Reacher was spending no time on regret or recrimination. Notime at all. The time for rueing mistakes and learning from them came later. As always he was focused in the present and the immediate future. People who wasted time and energy cursing recent errors were certain losers. Not that Reacher saw an easy path to certain victory. Not right then. Not in the short term. Right then he saw nothing ahead but a world of hurt.
    The four big guys stepped up close. No opportunity. The Remington stayed trained on its target and two guys came in from wide positions, never getting between Reacher and the gun. They stepped alongside him and grabbed an arm each, big strong hands on his elbows from behind, on his wrists from in front, pushing one, pulling the other, straightening his arms, bending his elbows back, kicking his feet apart, hooking their ankles in front of his ankles, holding him immobile. A third guy came up behind him and stood between his spread feet and wrapped massive arms around his chest. The fourth backed off and stood ten feet from Duncan.
    Reacher didn’t struggle. No point. Absolutely no point at all. Each of the three men holding him was taller than him by inches and outweighed him by fifty pounds. No doubt they were all slow and stupid and untutored, but right then sheer dumb bulk was doing the job just fine. He could move his feet a little, and he could move his head a little, but that was all, and all he could do with his feet was move them backward, which would pitch him forward on his face, except that the guy who had him in the bear hug from behind would hold him upright. And all he could do with his head was duck his chin to his chest, or jerk it back a couple of inches. Not enough to hurt the guy behind him.
    He was stuck, and he knew