Free Die Trying by Lee Child Page B

yesterday’s tape,” he said. “Immediately.”
    The woman faltered again. Milosevic pulled his shield for the second time.
    â€œThis is an FBI investigation,” he said. “Official federal business. I need that tape, right now, OK?”
    The woman nodded and held up her hand to make him wait. Stepped through a door to the rear of the establishment. Came back out after a long moment with a blast of chemical smell and a videocassette in her hand.
    â€œYou let me have it back, OK?” she said. “Insurance company says we got to keep them for a month.”
    Â 
    MILOSEVIC TOOK IT straight in, and by eight-thirty the Bureau technicians were swarming all over the third-floor conference room again, hooking up a standard VHS player to the bank of monitors piled down the middle of the long table. There was a problem with a fuse, and then the right wire proved too short, so a computer had to be moved to allow the video player to get nearer to the center of the table. Then the head tech handed McGrath the remote and nodded.
    â€œAll yours, chief,” he said.
    McGrath sent him out of the room and the three agents crowded around the screens, waiting for the picture to roll. The screens faced the wall of windows, so they all three had their backs to the glass. But at that time of day, there was no danger of anybody getting uncomfortable, because right then the bright morning sun was blasting the other side of the building.
    Â 
    THAT SAME SUN rolled on seventeen hundred and two miles from Chicago and made it bright morning outside the white building. He knew it had come. He could hear the quiet ticking as the old wood frame warmed through. He could hear muffled voices outside, below him, down at street level. The sound of people starting a new day.
    His fingernails were gone. He had found a gap where two boards were not hard together. He had forced his fingertips down and levered with all his strength. His nails had torn off, one after the other. The board had not moved. He had scuttled backward into a corner and curled up on the floor. He had sucked his bloodied fingers and now his mouth was smeared all around with blood, like a child’s with cake.
    He heard footsteps on the staircase. A big man, moving lightly. The sound halted outside the door. The lock clicked back. The door opened. The employer looked in at him. Bloated face, two nickel-sized red spots burning high on his cheeks.
    â€œYou’re still here,” he said.
    The carpenter was paralyzed. Couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
    â€œYou failed,” the employer said.
    There was silence in the room. The only sound was the slow ticking of the wood frame as the morning sun slid over the roof.
    â€œSo what shall we do now?” the employer asked.
    The carpenter just stared blankly at him. Didn’t move. Then the employer smiled a relaxed, friendly smile. Like he was suddenly surprised about something.
    â€œYou think I meant it?” he said, gently.
    The carpenter blinked. Shook his head, slightly, hopefully.
    â€œYou hear anything?” the employer asked him.
    The carpenter listened hard. He could hear the quiet ticking of the wood, the song of the forest birds, the silent sound of sunny morning air.
    â€œYou were just kidding around?” he asked.
    His voice was a dry croak. Relief and hope and dread were jamming his tongue into the roof of his mouth.
    â€œListen,” the employer said.
    The carpenter listened. The frame ticked, the birds sang, the warm air sighed. He heard nothing else. Silence. Then he heard a click. Then he heard a whine. It started slow and quiet and stabilized up at a familiar loud pitch. It was a sound he knew. It was the sound of a big power saw being run up to speed.
    â€œNow do you think I meant it?” the employer screamed.

11
    HOLLY JOHNSON HAD been mildly disappointed by Reacher’s assessment of the cash value of her wardrobe. Reacher had said he figured she