He arrived at the courthouse steps. Deserted. He tried the door. Locked. He smiled. Nobody posts a sentry behind a locked door. He bent the wire into a shallow hook and felt for the mechanism. An old two-lever. Eight seconds. He stepped inside. Waited and listened. Nothing. He went up the stairs.

The lock on Holly’s door was new. But cheap. He worked quietly, which delayed him. Took him more than thirty seconds before the last tumbler clicked back. He pulled the door open slowly and stepped onto the built-up floor. Glanced apprehensively at the walls. She was on a mattress on the floor. Fully dressed and ready. Awake and watching him. Huge eyes bright in the gloom. He gestured her outside. Turned and climbed down and waited in the corridor for her. She picked up her crutch and limped to the door. Climbed carefully down the step and stood next to him.

“Hello, Reacher,” she whispered. “How are you doing?”

“I’ve felt better,” he whispered back. “Time to time.”

She turned and glanced back into her room. He followed her gaze and saw the dark stain on the floor.

“Woman who brought me lunch,” she whispered.

He nodded.

“What with?” he whispered back.

“Part of the bed frame,” she said.

He saw the satisfaction on her face and smiled.

“That should do it,” he said, quietly. “Bed frames are good for that.”

She took a last look at the room and gently closed the door. Followed him through the dark and slowly down the stairs. Across the lobby and through the double doors and out into the bright silent moonlight.

“Christ,” she said, urgently. “What happened to you?”

He glanced down and checked himself over in the light of the moon. He was gray from head to foot with dust and grit. His clothing was shredded. He was streaked with sweat and blood. Still shaky.

“Long story,” he said. “You got somebody in Chicago you can trust?”

“McGrath,” she said immediately. “He’s my Agent-in-Charge. Why?”

They crossed the wide street arm in arm, looking left and right. Skirted the mound in front of the ruined office building. Found the path running northwest.

“You need to send him a fax,” he said. “They’ve got missiles. You need to warn him. Tonight, because their line is going to be cut first thing in the morning.”

“The mole tell them that?” she asked.

He nodded.

“How?” she asked. “How is he communicating?”

“Shortwave radio,” Reacher said. “Has to be. Anything else is traceable.”

He swayed and leaned on a tree. Gave her the spread, everything, beginning to end.

“Shit,” she said. “Ground-to-air missiles? Mass suicide? A nightmare.”

“Not our nightmare,” he said. “We’re out of here.”

“We should stay and help them,” she said. “The families.”

He shook his head.

“Best help is for us to get out,” he said. “Maybe losing you will change their plan. And we can tell them about the layout around here.”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I do,” he said. “First rule is stick to priorities. That’s you. We’re out of here.”

She shrugged and nodded.

“Now?” she asked.

“Right now,” he said.

“How?” she asked.

“Jeep through the forest,” he said. “I found their motor pool. We get up there, steal a jeep, by then it should be light enough to find our way through. I saw a map in Borken’s office. There are plenty of tracks running east through the forest.”

She nodded and he pushed off the tree. They hustled up the winding path to the Bastion. A mile, in the dark. They stumbled on the stones and saved their breath for walking. The clearing was dark and silent. They worked their way around beyond the mess hall to the back of the communications hut. They came out of the trees and Reacher stepped close and pressed his ear to the plywood siding. There was no sound inside.

He used the wire again and they were inside within ten seconds. Holly found paper and pen. Wrote her message. Dialed the Chicago fax number and fed the sheet into the machine. It whirred obediently and pulled the paper through. Fed it back out into her waiting hand. She hit the button for the confirmation. Didn’t want to leave any trace behind. Another sheet fed out. It showed the destination number correct. Timed the message at ten minutes to five, Friday morning, the fourth of July. She shredded both papers small and buried the pieces in the bottom of a trash-can.

Reacher rooted around on the long counter and found a paper clip. Followed Holly back out into the moonlight and relocked the door. Dodged around and found the cable leading down from the shortwave whip into the side of the hut. Took the paper clip and worried at it until it broke. Forced the broken end through the cable like a pin. Pushed it through until it was even, a fraction showing at each side. The metal would short-circuit the antenna by connecting the wire inside to the foil screen. The signal would come down out of the ether, down the wire, leak into the foil and run away to ground without ever reaching the shortwave unit itself. The best way to disable a radio. Smash one up, it gets repaired. This way, the fault is un-traceable, until an exhausted technician finally thinks to check.

“We need weapons.” Holly whispered to him.

He nodded. They crept together to the armory door. He looked at the lock. Gave it up. It was a huge thing. Unpickable.

“I’ll take the Glock from the guy guarding me,” he whispered.

She nodded. They ducked back into the trees and walked through to the next clearing. Reacher tried to think of a story to explain his appearance to Joseph Ray. Figured he might say something about being beamed over to the UN. Talk about how high-speed beaming can rip you up a little. They crept around behind the punishment hut and listened. All quiet. They skirted the corner and Reacher pulled the door. Walked straight into a nine-millimeter. This time, it wasn’t a Glock. It was a Sig-Sauer. Not Joseph Ray’s. It was Beau Borken’s. He was standing just inside the door with Little Stevie at his side, grinning.

37

FOUR-THIRTY IN THE morning, Webster was more than ready for the watch change. Johnson and Garber and the General’s aide were dozing in their chairs. McGrath was outside with the telephone linemen. They were just finishing up. The job had taken much longer than they had anticipated. Some kind of interface problem. They had physically cut the phone line coming out of Yorke, and bent the stiff copper down to a temporary terminal box they had placed at the base of a pole. Then they had spooled cable from the terminal box down the road to the mobile command vehicle. Connected it into one of the communications ports.

But it didn’t work. Not right away. The linemen had fussed with multimeters and muttered about impedances and capacitances. They had worked for three solid hours. They were ready to blame the Army truck for the incompatibility when they thought to go back and check their own temporary terminal box. The fault lay there. A failed component. They wired in a spare and the whole circuit worked perfectly. Four thirty-five in the morning, McGrath was shaking their hands and swearing them to silence when Webster came out of the trailer. The two men stood and watched them drive away. The noise of their truck died around the curve. Webster and McGrath stayed standing in the bright moonlight. They stood there for five minutes while McGrath smoked. They didn’t speak. Just gazed north into the distance and wondered.

“Go wake your boys up,” Webster said. “We’ll stand down for a spell.”

McGrath nodded and walked down to the accommodation trailers. Roused Milosevic and Brogan. They were fully dressed on their bunks. They got up and yawned. Came down the ladder and found Webster standing there with Johnson and his aide. Garber standing behind them.