Then he heard the helicopter. He heard the faint thumping of the rotors in the distance. He heard feet scuffling forty yards in front of him. The inarticulate sound of surprise and panic. He heard Milosevic's voice. High-pitched West Coast accent.
“Keep that chopper away from here,” Milosevic screamed through the door.
The noise was getting nearer. Growing louder.
“Keep it away, you hear?” Milosevic screamed. “I'll kill her, McGrath. That's a promise, you hear?”
It was totally dark. There were vehicles between Reacher and the cracks of light around the door. But not the white truck. That was gone. He rolled up into the space where it had been and pulled the Glock from his pocket. The thumping of the rotor blades was very close. It was battering the doors and filling the cavern.
“I'll trade her with you,” Milosevic screamed through the door. “I get out of here unharmed, you get her back, OK? McGrath? You hear me?”
If there was a reply, Reacher didn't hear it.
“I'm not with these guys,” Milosevic screamed. “This whole thing is nothing to do with me. Brogan got me into it. He made me do it.”
The noise was shattering. The heavy doors were shaking.
“I did it for the money, that's all,” Milosevic screamed. “Brogan was giving me money. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, McGrath. You'd have done the exact same thing. Brogan was making me rich. He bought me a Ford Explorer. The Limited Edition. Thirty-five grand. How the hell else was I ever going to get one?”
Reacher listened to the screaming voice in the darkness. He didn't want to shoot him. For one crazy moment, he felt absurdly grateful to him, because he had banished his childhood nightmare. He had forced him to confront it and defeat it. He had made him a better man. He wanted to run up to him and shake him by the hand. He could picture himself doing it. But then the picture changed. He needed to run up to him and shake him by the throat and ask him if he knew where Stevie had taken the white truck. That was what he needed to do. That was why he didn't want to shoot him. He crept forward in the deafening noise and skirted around the vehicles.
He was operating in a one-dimensional world. He could see nothing, because of the darkness. He could hear nothing, because of the helicopter. He sensed movement near the doors. Came out from behind a pickup and saw a shape framed against the cracks of light. A shape that should have been two shapes. Wide at the top, four legs, Milosevic with his arm around Holly's throat, his gun at her head. He waited for his vision to build. Their faces faded in from black to gray. Holly in front of Milosevic. Reacher raised the Glock. Circled left to get an angle. His shin caught a fender. He staggered and backed into a pile of paint cans. They crashed silently to the rock floor, inaudible in the crushing noise from outside. He sprinted closer to the light.
Milosevic sensed it and turned. Reacher saw his mouth open in a silent shout. Saw him twist and push Holly out in front of him like a shield. Saw him stall with indecision, his revolver up in the air. Reacher dodged right, then danced back left. He saw Milosevic track him both ways. Saw Holly use the sway to tear herself out of his grip. The rotor noise was shattering. He saw Milosevic glancing left and right. Saw him making his decision. Reacher was armed, Holly was not. Milosevic lunged forward. The .38 flashed silently in the noise. The brief white flame was blinding in the dark. Reacher lost his sense of where Holly was. He cursed and held his fire. He saw Milosevic aim again. Beyond him, he saw Holly's arm come up and stretch around his head from behind. He saw her hand touch his face with gentle precision. He saw him stumble. Then the door heaved open and Holly staggered away from the shattering flood of noise and sunlight and crashed straight into his arms.
The sunlight fell in a bright bar across Milosevic. He was lying on his back. His .38 was in his hand. The hammer was back. There was a shard of bathroom tile sticking out of his head where his left eye should have been. It was maybe three inches in and three inches out. A small worm of blood was running away from the point of entry.
Then the open door was crowded with people. Reacher saw McGrath and Garber standing in a blast of dust. A Night Hawk was landing behind them. Three men were spilling out and running over. A civilian and a Colonel. And General Johnson. Holly twisted and saw them and buried her face back in Reacher's chest.
Garber was the first to them. He pulled them out into the light and the noise. They stumbled awkwardly, four-legged. The downdraft tore at them. Dust blasted off the shale. McGrath stepped near and Holly pulled herself from Reacher's grip and threw herself at him and hugged him hard. Then General Johnson was moving in on her through the crowd.
“Holly,” he mouthed through the din.
She straightened in the light. Grinned at him. Hooked her hair back behind her ears. Pulled away from McGrath and hugged her father close.
“Still stuff for me to do, Dad,” she screamed over the engines. “I'll tell you everything later, OK?”
46
REACHER MADE A twirling signal with his hand to tell the helicopter pilot to keep the engines spinning and ran through the noise and the eddying dust to take the Barrett back from Garber. He waved the others toward the machine. Hustled them up the ladder and followed them in through the sliding door. Laid the Barrett on the metal floor and dumped himself into a canvas chair. Pulled his headset on. Thumbed the button and called through to the pilot.
“Stand by, OK?” he said. “I'll give you a course as soon as I've got one.”
The pilot nodded and ran the engines up out of idle. The rotor thumped faster and the noise built louder. The weight of the aircraft came up off the tires.
“Where the hell are we going?” Webster shouted.
“We're chasing Stevie, chief,” McGrath shouted back. “He's driving the truck. The truck is full of dynamite. He's going to explode it somewhere. Remember what the Kendall sheriff said? Stevie always got sent out to do the dirty work? You want me to draw you a damn picture?”
“But he can't have gotten out of here,” Webster yelled. “The bridge is blown. And there are no tracks through the forest. They closed them all.”
“Forest Service guy didn't say that,” McGrath yelled back. “They closed some of them. He wasn't sure which ones, was all. What he said was maybe there's a way through, maybe there isn't.”
“They had two years to spy it out,” Reacher shouted. “You said the pickup had spent time on Forest Service tracks, right? Crushed sandstone all over the underside? They had two whole years to find a way through the maze.”
Webster glanced to his left, east, over to where the forest lay beyond the giant mountain. He nodded urgently, eyes wide.
“OK, so we got to stop him,” he yelled. “But where has he gone?”
“He's six hours ahead of us,” Reacher shouted. “We can assume the forest was pretty slow. Call it two hours? Then four hours on the open road. Maybe two hundred miles? Diesel Econoline, hauling a ton, can't be averaging more than about fifty.”
“But which damn direction?” Webster yelled through the noise.
Holly glanced at Reacher. That was a question they had asked each other a number of times, in relation to that exact same truck. Reacher opened up the map in his head and trawled around it all over again, clockwise.
“Could have gone east,” he shouted. “He'd still be in Montana, past Great Falls. Could be down in Idaho. Could be in Oregon. Could be halfway to Seattle.”
“No,” Garber yelled. “Think about it the other way around. That's the key to this thing. Where has he been ordered to go? What would the target be?”
Reacher nodded slowly. Garber was making sense. The target.
“What does Borken want to attack?” Johnson yelled.
Borken had said: you study the system and you learn to hate it. Reacher thought hard and nodded again and thumbed his mike and called through to the pilot.
“OK, let's go,” he said. “Straight on south of here should do it.”
The noise increased louder and the Night Hawk lifted heavily off the ground. It swung in the air and rose clear of the cliffs. Slipped south and banked around. Dropped its nose and accelerated hard. The noise moved up out of the cabin and settled to a deep roar inside the engines. The ground tilted and flashed past below. Reacher saw the mountain hairpins unwinding and the parade ground sliding past. The knot of tiny people was breaking up. They were drifting away into the trees and being swallowed up under the green canopy. Then the narrow slash of the rifle range was under them, then the broad stony circle of the Bastion. Then the aircraft rose sharply as the ground fell away so that the big white courthouse slipped by underneath as small as a dollhouse. Then they were over the ravine, over the broken bridge, and away into the vast forested spaces to the south.
Reacher tapped the pilot on the shoulder and spoke through the intercom.
“What speed are we doing?” he asked.
“Hundred and sixty,” the pilot said.
“Course?” Reacher asked.
“Dead on south,” the pilot said.
Reacher nodded. Closed his eyes and started to calculate. It was like being back in grade school. He's two hundred miles ahead, doing fifty miles an hour. You're chasing him at a hundred and sixty. How long before you catch him? Grade school math had been OK for Reacher. So had fighting in the yard. The fighting part had stayed with him better than the math. He was sure there must be some kind of a formula for it. Something with
x
and
y
all over the damn page. Something equaling something else. But if there was a formula, he had long ago forgotten it. So he had to do it by trial and error. Another hour, Stevie would be two hundred and fifty miles from home. The Night Hawk would have done one hundred and sixty. Way behind. An hour after that, Stevie would be three hundred miles out, and the Night Hawk would be three hundred and twenty. Overshot. Therefore they were going to catch him somewhere near the top of the second hour. If they were headed in the right direction.
Flathead Lake came into view, far ahead and far below. Reacher could see the roads snaking across the rugged terrain. He thumbed the button on his mike.
“Still south?” he asked.
“Dead on,” the pilot said.
“Still one-sixty?” Reacher asked.
“Dead on,” the pilot said again.
“OK, stick with it,” Reacher said. “Hour and fifty minutes, maybe.”
“So where is he going?” Webster asked.
“San Francisco,” Reacher said.
“Why?” McGrath asked.
“Or Minneapolis,” Reacher said. “But I'm gambling on San Francisco.”
“Why?” McGrath asked again.
“San Francisco or Minneapolis,” Reacher said. “Think about it. Other possibilities would be Boston, New York, Philly, Cleveland, Richmond in Virginia, Atlanta, Chicago, St. Louis, and Kansas City in Missouri, or Dallas in Texas.”
McGrath just shrugged blankly. Webster looked puzzled. Johnson glanced at his aide. Garber was motionless. But Holly was smiling. She smiled and winked at Reacher. He winked back and the Night Hawk thumped on south over Missoula at a hundred and sixty miles an hour.
Â
“CHRIST, IT'S THE Fourth of July,” Webster said suddenly.
“Tell me about it,” Reacher said. “Lots of people gathered in public places. Families, kids and all.”
Webster nodded grimly.
“OK, where exactly in San Francisco?” he asked.
“I'm not sure,” Reacher said.
“North end of Market,” Holly said. “Right near Embarcadero Plaza. That's where, chief. I've been there on the Fourth. Big parade in the afternoon, fireworks over the water at night. Huge crowds all day long.”
“Huge crowds everywhere on the Fourth,” Webster said. “You better be guessing right, people.”
McGrath looked up. A slow smile was spreading over his bruised face.
“We are guessing right,” he said. “It's San Francisco for sure. Not Minneapolis or anyplace else.”
Reacher smiled back and winked. McGrath had gotten it.
“You want to tell me why?” Webster asked him.
McGrath was still smiling.
“Go figure,” he said. “You're the damn Director.”
“Because it's the nearest?” Webster asked.
McGrath nodded.
“In both senses,” he said, and smiled again.
“What both senses?” Webster asked. “What are we talking about?”
Nobody answered him. The military men were quiet. Holly and McGrath were staring out through the windows at the ground, two thousand feet below. Reacher was craning up, looking ahead through the pilot's Plexiglas canopy.
“Where are we?” he asked him.
The pilot pointed down at a concrete ribbon below.
“That's U.S. 93,” he said. “Just about to leave Montana and enter Idaho. Still heading due south.”
Reacher nodded.
“Great,” he said. “Follow 93. It's the only road goes south, right? We'll catch him somewhere between here and Nevada.”
Â
HE STARTED WORRYING near the top of the second hour. Started worrying badly. Started desperate revisions to his grade school calculations. Maybe Stevie was driving faster than fifty. He was a fast driver. Faster than Bell had been. Maybe he was doing nearer sixty. Where did that put him? Three hundred and sixty miles out. In which case they wouldn't catch him until two hours fifteen minutes had elapsed. What if he was doing seventy? Could that Econoline sustain seventy, hour after hour, with a ton in back? Maybe. Probably. In which case he was four hundred and twenty miles out. A total of two hours forty minutes before they overhauled him. That was the envelope. Somewhere between one hour fifty minutes and two hours forty minutes, somewhere between Montana and Nevada. A whole fifty minutes of rising panic. More than a hundred miles of concrete ribbon to watch before he could know for sure he was wrong and they had to peel off hopelessly northeast toward Minnesota.