Lee Child - Die Trying

“Make your decision,” Borken said. “I’ll call back in two minutes.”

Then the radio went dead. Webster stared at it like he had never seen such a piece of equipment before. McGrath leaned over and clicked the button off.

“OK,” he said. “We stall, right? Tell him we’re fixing the line. Tell him it will take an hour, maybe two. Tell him we’re in contact with the White House, the UN, CNN, whoever. Tell him whatever the hell he wants to hear.”

“Why is he doing this?” Webster asked, vaguely. “Escalating everything? He’s making it so we have to attack him. So we have to, right? Like he wants us to. He’s giving us no choice. He’s provoking us.”

“He’s doing it because he’s crazy,” McGrath said.

“He must be,” Webster said. “He’s a maniac. Otherwise I just can’t understand why he’s trying to attract so much attention. Because like he says, he holds all the cards already.”

“We’ll worry about that later, chief,” McGrath said. “Right now, we just need to stall him.”

Webster nodded. Forced himself back to the problem in hand.

“But we need longer than two hours,” he said. “Hostage Rescue will take at least four to get over here. Maybe five, maybe six.”

“OK, it’s the Fourth of July,” McGrath said. “Tell him the linemen are all off duty. Tell him it could take us all day to get them back.”

They stared at each other. Glanced at Johnson. He was right out of it. Just slumped against the rock face, white and inert, barely breathing. Ninety hours of mortal stress and emotion had finally broken him. Then the radio in Webster’s hand crackled again.

“Well?” Borken asked, when the static cleared.

“OK, we agree,” Webster said. “We’ll fix the line. But it’s going to take some time. Linemen are off duty for the holidays.”

There was a pause. Then a chuckle.

“Independence Day,” Borken said. “Maybe I should have chosen another date.”

Webster made no reply.

“I want your Marines where I can see them,” Borken said.

“What Marines?” Webster said.

There was another short laugh. Short and complacent.

“You got eight Marines,” Borken said. “And an armored car. We got lookouts all over the place. We’ve been watching you. Like you’re watching us with those damn planes. You’re lucky Stingers don’t shoot that high, or you’d have more than a damn helicopter on the ground by now.”

Webster made no reply. Just scanned the horizon. McGrath was doing the same thing, automatically, looking for the glint of the sun on field glasses.

“I figure you’re close to the bridge right now,” Borken said. “Am I right?”

Webster shrugged. McGrath prompted him with a nod.

“We’re close to the bridge,” Webster said.

“I want the Marines on the bridge,” Borken said. “Sitting on the edge in a neat little row. Their vehicle behind them. I want that to happen now, you understand? Or we go to work on Holly. Your choice, Webster. Or maybe it’s the General’s choice. His daughter, and his Marines, right?”

Johnson roused himself and glanced up. Five minutes later the Marines were sitting on the fractured edge of the roadway, feet dangling down into the abyss. Their LAV was parked up behind them. Webster was still in the lee of the rock face with McGrath and Johnson. The radio still pressed to his ear. He could hear muffled sounds. Like Borken had pressed his hand over the microphone and was using a walkie-talkie. He could hear his muffled voice alternating with crackly replies. Then he heard the hand come away and the voice come back again, loud and clear in the earpiece.

“OK, Webster, good work,” Borken said to him. “Our scouts can see all eight of them. So can our riflemen. If they move, they die. Who else have you got there with you?”

Webster paused. McGrath shook his head urgently.

“Can’t you see?” Webster asked. “I thought you were watching us.”

“Not right now,” Borken said. “I pulled my people back a little. Into our defensive positions.”

“There’s nobody else here,” Webster said. “Just me and the General.”

There was another pause.

“OK, you two can join the Marines,” Borken said. “On the bridge. On the end of the line.”

Webster waited for a long moment. A blank expression on his face. Then he got up and nodded to Johnson. Johnson got up unsteadily and the two of them walked forward together around the curve. Left McGrath on his own, crouched in the lee of the rock.

MCGRATH WAITED THERE two minutes and crawled back south to the Chevrolet. Garber and Johnson’s aide were in front and Milosevic and Brogan were in back. They were all staring at him.

“What the hell happened?” Brogan asked.

“We’re in deep, deep shit,” McGrath said.

Two minutes of hurried explanation, and the others agreed with him.

“So what now?” Garber asked.

“We go get Holly,” McGrath said. “Before he realizes we’re bullshitting him.”

“But how?” Brogan asked.

McGrath glanced at him. Glanced at Milosevic.

“The three of us,” he said. “End of the day, this is a Bureau affair. Call it whatever you want, terrorism, sedition, kidnapping, it’s all FBI territory.”

“We’re going to do it?” Milosevic said. “Just the three of us? Right now?”

“You got a better way?” McGrath said. “You want something done properly, you do it yourself, right?”

Garber was twisted around, scanning along the three faces on the rear seat.

“So go do it,” he said.

McGrath nodded and held up his right hand, the thumb and the first two fingers sticking out.

“I’m the thumb,” he said. “I go in east of the road. Brogan, you’re the first finger. You walk a mile west of the road and go in from there. Milo, you’re the second finger. You walk two miles west and go north from there. We infiltrate separately, spaced out a mile between each of us. We meet up back on the road a half-mile shy of the town. Clear?”

Brogan made a face. Then he nodded. Milosevic shrugged. Garber glanced at McGrath and the General’s aide started the Chevy and rolled it gently south. He stopped it again after four hundred yards, where the road came back out of the rock cover and there was clear access left and right into the countryside. The three FBI men checked their weapons. They each had a government-issue.38 in a shiny brown leather shoulder holster. Full load of six, plus another six in a speed-loader in their pockets.

“Try to capture a couple of rifles,” McGrath said. “Don’t worry about taking prisoners. You see somebody, you shoot the bastard down, OK?”

Milosevic had the longest walk, so he was first to go. He ducked across the road and struck out due west across the mountain scrub. He made it to a small stand of trees and disappeared. McGrath lit a cigarette and sent Brogan after him. Garber waited until Brogan was in the trees, then he turned back to McGrath.

“Don’t forget what I told you about Reacher,” he said. “I’m not wrong about that guy. He’s on your side, believe me.”

McGrath shrugged and said nothing. Smoked in silence. Opened the Chevy’s door and slid out. Ground out the cigarette under his shoe and walked away east, across the grassy shoulder and onto the scrub.

MCGRATH WAS NOT far off fifty, and a heavy smoker, but he was a fit man. He had that type of mongrel constitution that age and smoke could not hurt. He was short at five seven, but sturdy. About one-sixty, made up of that hard slabby muscle which needs no maintenance and never fades into fat. He felt the same as he had as a kid. No better, no worse. His Bureau training had been a long time ago, and fairly rudimentary compared to what people were getting now. But he’d aced it. Physically, he’d been indestructible. Not the fastest guy in his class, but easily the best stamina. The training runs in the early days of Quantico had been crude. Around and around in the Virginia woods, using natural obstacles. McGrath would come in maybe third or fourth every time. But if they were sent around again, he could do the same exact time, just about to the second. The faster guys would be struggling at his side as he pounded relentlessly onward. Then they would fall back. Second time around, McGrath would come in first. Third time around, he would be the only guy to finish.