“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.

So he was jogging comfortably as he approached the southern edge of the ravine. He had worked about three hundred yards east to a point where the slopes were reasonable and not directly overlooked. He went straight down without pausing. Short, stiff strides against the incline. The footing was loose. He skidded on small avalanches of gravel and used the stunted trees to check his speed. He dodged around the litter of rocks in the bottom of the trench and started up the northern slope.

Going up was harder. He kicked his toes into the gravel for grip and hauled himself upward with handfuls of grass. He zigzagged between the small trees and bushes, looking for leverage. The extra fifty feet on the northern rim was a punishment. He tracked right to where a small landslide had created a straight path at a kinder angle. Slipped and slid upward through the crushed rock to the top.

He waited in the overhang, where the earth had fallen away beneath the crust of roots. Listened hard. Heard nothing except silence. He lifted himself onto the rim. Stood there with his chest against the earth, head and shoulders exposed, looking north into enemy territory. He saw nothing. Just the gentle initial slopes, then the hills, then the giant mountains glowering in the far distance. Blue sky, a million trees, clean air, total silence. He thought: you’re a long way from Chicago, Mack.

Ahead of him was a belt of scrub where the ancient rock was too close to the surface for much to grow. Then a ragged belt of trees, interrupted at first by rocky outcrops, then growing denser into the distance. He could see the curved gap in the treetops where the road must run. Three hundred yards to his left. He rolled up onto the grass and ran for the trees. Worked left toward the road and shadowed it north in the forest.

He jogged along, dodging trees like a slow-motion parody of a wide receiver heading for the end zone. The map was printed in his mind. He figured he had maybe three miles to go. Three miles at a slow jog, not much better than a fast walk, maybe forty-five, fifty minutes. The ground was rising gently under his feet. Every fourth or fifth stride, his feet hit the floor a fraction sooner than they should have as the gradient lifted him into the hills. He tripped a couple of times on roots. Once, he slammed into a pine trunk. But he pounded on, relentlessly.

After forty minutes, he stopped. He figured Brogan and Milosevic were having a similar journey, but they were dealing with extra distance because they had tracked west at the outset. So he expected a delay. With luck, they would be about twenty minutes behind him. He walked deeper into the woods and sat down against a trunk. Lit a cigarette. He figured he was maybe a half-mile shy of the rendezvous. The map in his head said the road was about due to arrow up into the town.

He waited fifteen minutes. Two cigarettes. Then he stood up and walked on. He went cautiously. He was getting close. He made two diversions to his left and found the road. Just crept through the trees until he caught the gleam of sun on the gray cement. Then he dodged back and continued north. He walked until he saw the forest thinning ahead. He saw sunlight on open spaces beyond the last trees. He stopped and stepped left and right to find a view. He saw the road running up to the town. He saw buildings. A gray ruin on a knoll on the left. The courthouse on the right. Better preserved. Gleaming white in the sunshine. He stared through the trees at it for a long moment. Then he turned back. Paced five hundred yards back into the woods. Drifted over toward the road until he could just make out the gray gleam through the trees. Leaned on a trunk and waited for Brogan and Milosevic.