“They’ve got microphones,” the guy said. “They’re listening for me.”

“Who the hell are you?” she asked.

He squatted down and put the panel back on the bath.

“No good,” he said. “There’s no way out.”

“Got to be,” she said.

The guy shook his head.

“They had a trial run,” he said. “The commander put one of the guys who built this place in here. Told him if he didn’t get out, he’d cut his arms off. So I assume he tried real hard.”

“And what happened?” she asked.

The guy shrugged.

“The commander cut his arms off,” he said.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked again.

“FBI,” the guy said. “Counterterrorism. Undercover. I guess I’m going to have to get you out.”

“How?” she asked.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “I can get a jeep. We’ll have to make a run for it. I can’t call in for assistance because they’re scanning for my transmitter. We’ll just get the jeep and head south and hope for the best.”

“What about Reacher?” she asked. “Where have they taken him?”

“Forget him,” the guy said. “He’ll be dead by morning.”

Holly shook her head.

“I’m not going without him,” she said.

“LODER DISPLEASED ME,” Beau Borken said.

Reacher glanced downward. Loder had squirmed up into a sideways sitting position, crammed into the angle between the floor and the wall.

“Did he displease you?” Borken asked.

Reacher made no reply.

“Would you like to kick him?” Borken asked.

Reacher kept quiet. He could see where this game was going. If he said yes, he’d be expected to hurt the guy badly. Which he had no objection to in principle, but he’d prefer to do it on his own terms. If he said no, Borken would call him a coward with no sense of natural justice and no self-respect. An obvious game, with no way to win. So he kept quiet, which was a tactic he’d used a thousand times before: when in doubt, just keep your mouth shut.

“In the face?” Borken asked. “In the balls, maybe?”

Loder was staring up at Reacher. Something in his face. Reacher saw what it was. His eyes widened in surprise. Loder was pleading with him to give him a kicking, so that Borken wouldn’t.

“Loder, lie down again,” Borken said.

Loder squirmed his hips away from the wall and dropped his shoulders to the floor. Wriggled and pushed until he was lying flat on his back. Borken nodded to the nearest guard.

“In the face,” he said.

The guard stepped over and used the sole of his boot to force Loder’s head sideways, so his face was presented to the room. Then he stepped back and kicked out. A heavy blow from a heavy boot. Loder’s head snapped backward and thumped into the wall. Blood welled from his nose. Borken watched him bleed for a long moment, mildly interested. Then he turned back to Reacher.

“Loder’s one of my oldest friends,” he said.

Reacher said nothing.

“Begs two questions, doesn’t it?” Borken said. “Question one: why am I enforcing such strict discipline, even against my old friends? And question two: if that’s how I treat my friends, how the hell do I treat my enemies?”

Reacher said nothing. When in doubt, just keep your mouth shut.

“I treat my enemies a hell of a lot worse than that,” Borken said. “So much worse, you really don’t want to think about it. You really don’t, believe me. And why am I being so strict? Because we’re two days away from a unique moment in history. Things are going to happen which will change the world. Plans are made and operations are under way. Therefore I have to bring my natural caution to a new pitch. My old friend Loder has fallen victim to a historical force. So, I’m afraid, have you.”

Reacher said nothing. He dropped his gaze and watched Loder. He was unconscious. Breathing raggedly through clotting blood in his nose.

“You got any value to me as a hostage?” Borken asked.

Reacher thought about it. Made no reply. Borken watched his face and smiled. His red lips parted over small white teeth.

“I thought not,” he said. “So what should I do with a person who’s got no value to me as a hostage? During a moment of great historical tension?”

Reacher stayed silent. Just watching. Easing his weight forward, ready.

“You think you’re going to get a kicking?” Borken asked.

Reacher tensed his legs, ready to spring.

“Relax,” Borken said. “No kicking for you. When the time comes, it’ll be a bullet through the head. From behind. I’m not stupid, you know. I’ve got eyes, and a brain. What are you, six-five? About two-twenty? Clearly fit and strong. And look at you, tension in your thighs, getting ready to jump up. Clearly trained in some way. But you’re not a boxer. Because your nose has never been broken. A heavyweight like you with an unbroken nose would need to be a phenomenal talent, and we’d have seen your picture in the newspapers. So you’re just a brawler, probably been in the service, right? So I’ll be cautious with you. No kicking, just a bullet.”

The guards took their cue. Six rifles came down out of the slope and six fingers hooked around six triggers.

“You got felony convictions?” Borken asked.

Reacher shrugged and spoke for the first time.

“No,” he said.

“Upstanding citizen?” Borken asked.

Reacher shrugged again.

“I guess,” he said.

Borken nodded.

“So I’ll think about it,” he said. “Live or die, I’ll let you know, first thing in the morning, OK?”

He lifted his bulky arm and snapped his fingers. Five of the six guards moved. Two went to the door and opened it. A third went out between them. The other two waited. Borken stood up with surprising grace for a man of his size and walked out from behind the desk. The wooden floor creaked under his bulk. The four waiting guards fell in behind him and he walked straight out into the night without a backward glance.

HE WALKED ACROSS the clearing and into another hut. Fowler was waiting for him, the headphones in his hand.

“I think somebody went in there,” he said.

“You think?” Borken said.

“The shower was running,” Fowler said. “Somebody went in there who knows about the microphones. She wouldn’t need another shower. She just had one, right? Somebody went in there and ran the shower to mask the talking.”

“Who?” Borken asked.

Fowler shook his head.

“I don’t know who,” he said. “But I can try to find out.”

Borken nodded.

“Yes, you can do that,” he said. “You can try to find out.”

IN THE ACCOMMODATION huts, men and women were working in the gloom, cleaning their rifles. The word about Loder had traveled quickly. They all knew about the tribunal. They all knew the likely outcome. Any six of them could be selected for the firing squad. If there was going to be a firing squad. Most people figured there probably was. An officer like Loder, the commander might limit it to a firing squad. Probably nothing worse. So they cleaned their rifles, and left them locked and loaded next to their beds.

Those of them with enough demerits to be on tomorrow’s punishment detail were trying to get some sleep. If he didn’t limit it to a firing squad, they could be in for a lot of work. Messy, unpleasant work. And even if Loder got away with it, there was always the other guy. The big guy who had come in with the federal bitch. There wasn’t much chance of him surviving past breakfast time. They couldn’t remember the last time any stray stranger had lasted longer than that.

HOLLY JOHNSON HAD a rule. It was a rule bred into her, like a family motto. It had been reinforced by her long training at Quantico. It was a rule distilled from thousands of years of military history and hundreds of years of law enforcement experience. The rule said: hope for the best, but plan for the worst.