Better off Dead (Jack Reacher #26)(7)

“Get up.”

“You don’t understand. I had—”

    The woman raised her gun. “Get up or I’ll blow your leg off. See how you like being called gimp.”

“No, please!” The guy scrambled to his feet.

“Move back.”

The guy took a step. A small one.

“Farther.”

He took another step. That left him out of range if he was dumb enough to try his luck with a punch or a kick. He stopped with his ankles pressed together and his arms clamped tight by his sides. It was a weird position. He reminded me of a dancer I saw busking on the street in Boston, years ago.

“Good. Now. You want me to let you live?”

“Oh yes.” His head bobbed up and down like a novelty doll’s. “I do.”

“All right. I’m prepared to do that. But you have to do one thing for me first.”

“Anything.” The guy kept on nodding. “Whatever you want. Name it.”

“Tell me where Michael is.”





Chapter 4


The guy’s head stopped moving. He didn’t speak. His legs were still together. His arms were still by his sides. His posture still looked awkward.

“Tell me where I can find Michael. If you don’t, I will kill you. But not quickly like your friend. No. Not like that at all.”

The guy didn’t respond.

“Have you ever seen anyone get shot in the stomach?” The woman made a show of taking aim at the guy’s abdomen. “How long they take to die? The agony they’re in, the entire time?”

“No.” The guy shook his head. “Don’t do that. I’ll tell you.”

Then I realized why the guy looked strange. It was his hands, still pressed against his sides. One was open. His left. But his right was clenched. His wrist was bent back. He was holding something and trying to conceal the fact. I wanted to shout a warning, but I couldn’t. Breaking the woman’s concentration right at that moment wasn’t going to help her.

    “Well?” A sharp edge had crept into her voice.

“So, Michael’s whereabouts. OK. It’s kind of complicated but he’s—”

The guy’s right arm snapped up. His fingers opened and a swirl of sandy grit flew right at the woman’s face. She reacted fast. Her left hand came up in front of her eyes and she pivoted away on her good leg. She dodged the worst of the cloud. But not the guy himself. He launched forward, swatted her arm aside, and slammed his shoulder into her chest. He was only a couple of inches taller than her but must have been at least eighty pounds heavier. The impact sent her reeling. Her feet couldn’t keep up and she tumbled over backward. She was still holding the gun. She tried to raise it but he followed in and stamped on her wrist. She clung on. He pressed his foot down harder. And harder still until she shrieked with frustration and let go of the weapon. He kicked it away then stepped across her body, one foot either side, and stood there looming over her.

“Well now, gimp. I’d say the boot’s on the other foot but that would be cruel, as you only have one.”

The woman lay still. I stood up. The guy had his back to me. He was less than fifteen yards away.

“My friend had a plan for you.” The guy started to fumble with the front of his pants. “A kind of dying wish. I figure I should see it through. Once for him. Once for me. Maybe more, if I like it.”

I climbed out of the trench.

“Then I’ll kill you.” The guy pulled his belt clear and tossed it away to the side. “Maybe I’ll shoot you in the stomach. See how long it takes you to die.”

I started down the slope.

“It could take hours.” The guy started to unbutton his fly. “All night, even. Dendoncker won’t care. And he won’t care what condition you wind up in. Just as long as you’re dead when I hand you over.”

    I forced myself to slow down. I didn’t want to make a sound on the loose gravel.

The woman shifted her position a little then stretched her arms out on both sides. “So you know about my foot. Gold star to you for observation. But do you know much about titanium?”

The guy’s hands stopped moving.

I reached the blacktop on the far side of the road.

“It’s a very interesting metal.” The woman braced her palms against the ground. “It’s very strong. Very light. And very hard.”

The woman whipped her right leg up, bent it at the knee, and drove her prosthetic foot toward the guy’s groin. It connected. Front and center. Full power. No mistake. Nothing held back. The guy screamed and gasped and pitched forward. He landed facedown in the dirt. She rolled to the side and only just avoided getting crushed. She rolled a couple more times and retrieved the gun. Then she used both arms to lever herself up off the ground.

I stopped where I was, halfway across the pavement, one foot either side of the faded yellow line.

The guy rolled onto his side and curled into a ball. He was whimpering like a whipped dog.

“One last chance.” The woman raised the gun. “Michael. Where is he?”

“Michael’s history, you idiot.” The guy was breathing hard. “Forget about him.”

“He’s history? What do you mean?”