Free Die Trying by Lee Child Page B

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.

    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.
    “You’re still here,” he said.
    The carpenter was paralyzed. Couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
    “You 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.
    “So 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.
    “You think I meant it?” he said, gently.
    The carpenter blinked. Shook his head, slightly, hopefully.
    “You 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.
    “You 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.
    “Listen,” 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.
    “Now 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 had maybe fifteen or twenty outfits, four hundred bucks an outfit, maybe eight grand in total. Truth was she had thirty-four business suits in her closet. She’d worked three years on Wall Street. She had eight grand tied up in the shoes alone. Four hundred bucks was what she had spent on a blouse, and that was when she felt driven by native common sense to be a little economical.
    She liked Armani. She had thirteen of his spring suits. Spring clothes from Milan were just about right for most of the Chicago summer. Maybe in the really fierce heat of August she’d break out her Moschino shifts, but June and July, September too if she was lucky, her Armanis were the thing. Her favorites were the dark peach shades she’d bought in her last year in the brokerage house. Some mysterious Italian blend of silks. Cut and tailored by people whose ancestors had been fingering fine materials for hundreds of years. They look at it and consider it and cut it and it just falls into marvelous soft shapes. Then they market it and a Wall Street broker buys it and loves it and is still wearing it two years into the future when she’s a new FBI agent and she gets snatched off a Chicago street. She’s still wearing it eighteen hours later after a sleepless night on the filthy straw in a cow