One Shot

He was looking at two guys from behind. They were seated side by side with their backs to him at a long table. Staring at TV monitors. At ghostly green images of darkness. On the left, Vladimir. On the right, a guy he hadn’t seen before. Sokolov? Must be. To Sokolov’s right, a yard away from him, a handgun rested on the very end of the table. A Smith amp; Wesson Model 60. The first stainless steel revolver produced anywhere in the world. Two-and-a-half-inch barrel. A five-shooter.

Reacher took a long silent step into the room. Paused. Held his breath. Reversed the knife in his hand. Held the blade an inch from its end between the ball of his thumb and the knuckle of his first finger. Raised his arm. Cocked it behind his head. Snapped it forward.

Threw the knife.

It buried itself two inches deep in the back of Sokolov’s neck.

Vladimir glanced right, toward the sound. Reacher was already moving. Vladimir glanced back. Saw him. Pushed himself away from the table and half-rose. Reacher watched him calculate the distance between himself and the gun. Saw him decide to go for it. Reacher stepped into his charge and ducked under his swinging left hook and buried his shoulder in his chest and wrapped both arms around his back and jacked him bodily off his feet. Just lifted him up and turned him away from the table.

And then squeezed.

Best route to a silent kill against a guy as big as Vladimir was simply to crush him to death. No hitting, no shooting, no banging around. As long as his arms and his legs couldn’t co

Reacher held Vladimir a foot off the ground and squeezed with all his strength. He crushed Vladimir’s chest in a bear hug so vicious and sustained and powerful that no human could have survived it. Vladimir wasn’t expecting it. He thought this was some kind of a preamble. Not the main event. When he figured it out, he went crazy with panic. He rained desperate blows down on Reacher’s back and flailed with his feet at his shins. Stupid, Reacher thought. You’re just burning oxygen. And you ain’t getting more, pal. Better believe it. He tightened his grip. Crushed harder. And harder. And then harder, in a remorseless subliminal rhythm that said: More, and More, and More. His teeth ground together. His heart pounded. His muscles swelled as big and hard as river rocks and started burning. He could feel Vladimir’s rib cage moving, clicking, separating, cracking, crushing. And his last living breath leaking out of his starving lungs.

Sokolov moved.

Reacher staggered under Vladimir’s weight. Turned clumsily on one leg. Kicked out and caught the hilt of the knife with his heel. Sokolov stopped moving. Vladimir stopped moving. Reacher kept the pressure full on for another whole minute. Then he eased off slowly and bent down and laid the body gently on the floor. Squatted down. Breathed hard. Checked for a pulse.

No pulse.

He stood up and pulled Cash’s knife out of Sokolov’s neck and used it to cut Vladimir’s throat, ear to ear. For Sandy, he thought. Then he turned back and cut Sokolov’s throat, too. Just in case. Blood soaked the tabletop and dripped to the floor. It didn’t spurt. It just leaked. Sokolov’s heart had already stopped pumping. He squatted down again and cleaned the blade on Vladimir’s shirt, one side, then the other. He pulled the phone out of his pocket. Heard Cash say: “Helen?”

He whispered: “What’s up?”

Cash answered, “We took an incoming round. I can’t raise Helen.”

“Ya

Franklin said, “Here.”

“Stand by to call the medics,” Reacher said.

Cash asked, “Where are you?”

“In the house,” Reacher said.

“Opposition?”

“Unsuccessful,” Reacher said. “Where did the shot come from?”

“Third-floor window, north. Which makes sense, tactically. They’ve got the sniper up there. They can direct him based on what they see from the cameras.”

“Not anymore,” Reacher said. He dropped the phone back in his pocket. Picked up the gun. Checked the cylinder. It was fully loaded. Five Smith amp; Wesson.38 Specials. He moved out to the hallway with the knife in his right hand and the gun in his left. Went looking for the basement door.

Cash heard Ya

Cash listened until he couldn’t hear her anymore. He shook his head in bemusement. Then he ducked his eye to the scope and watched the house.

Rosemary Barr wasn’t in the basement. It took Reacher less than a minute to be completely certain of that. It was a wide-open space, musty, dimly lit, uninterrupted and totally empty except for the foundations of three brick chimneys.

Reacher paused at the circuit breaker box. He was tempted to throw the switch. But Chenko had a night sight, and he didn’t. So he just crept back up the stairs.

Ya

“Helen?” she whispered. “Helen? Where are you?”

Then she heard a voice: “Here.”

“Where?”

“Here. Keep going.”

Ya

“I dropped my phone,” Helen said. “Can’t find it.”

“Are you OK?”

“He missed me. I was leaping around like a madwoman. But the bullet came real close. It scared me. I just dropped my phone and ran.”

Helen sat up. Ya

“Look,” Helen said. She was holding something in the palm of her hand. Something bright. A coin. A quarter, new and shiny.

“What is it?” Ya

“A quarter,” Helen said.

“So what?”

“Reacher gave it to me.”

Helen was smiling. Ya

Reacher crept down the first-floor hallway. Opened doors and searched rooms to the left and right as he went. They were all empty. All unused. He paused at the bottom of the stairs. Backed away into an empty twelve-by-twenty space that might once have been a parlor. Crouched and laid the knife on the floor and pulled out his phone.

“Gu

Cash answered: “You back with us?”

“Phone was in my pocket.”

“Ya

“Good. The basement and the first floor are clear. I think you were right after all. Rosemary must be in the attic.”

“You going upstairs now?”

“I guess I’ll have to.”

“Body count?”

“Two down so far.”

“Lots more upstairs, then.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Roger that.”

Reacher put the phone back in his pocket and retrieved the knife from the floor. Stood up and crept out to the hallway. The staircase was in the back of the house. It was wide, doglegged, and shallow-pitched. Quite grand. There was a wide landing halfway up where the dogleg reversed direction. He went up the first half-flight backward. It made more sense that way. He wanted to know right away if there was someone in the second-floor hallway looking down over the banister. He kept close to the wall. If stairs creaked at all, they creaked most in the middle of a tread. He went slowly, feeling with his heels, putting them down gently and deliberately. And quietly. Boat shoes. Good for something. After five up-and-back steps, his head was about level with the second-story floor. He raised the gun. Took another step. Now he could see the whole of the hallway. It was empty. It was a quiet carpeted space lit by a single low-wattage bulb. Nothing to see, except six closed doors, three on a side. He breathed out and made it to the half-landing. Shuffled left and crept up the second part of the dogleg going forward. Stepped off the staircase. Into the hallway.