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“You were a soldier,” she said. “And a policeman. It’s perfect. You’re supposed to help people. That’s what cops do.” “We spent most of our time busting heads. Not a whole lot of helping went on.”
He ducked down and tried to grab the far straps, underneath the horse’s belly. He could barely reach them. This was one wide animal, that was for damn sure.
“I’ve never been scared since. It’s a habit. Those space explorers shouldn’t have turned and run, Carmen. They should have stood there and faced the creature down. They should have stood and fought. You see something scary, you should stand up and step toward it, not away from it. Instinctively, reflexively, in a raging fury.” “Is that what you do?” “Always.”
For a military cop, walking into a bar is like a batter stepping to the plate.
“Good morning,” she said in the silence. “To you, too,” he said. She unwrapped the turban and shook out her hair. It hung wet and straight. “It isn’t, though, is it?” she said. “A good morning? It’s a bad morning.” “I guess,” he said.
Reacher shook his hand. It was big-boned, but soft. It was a bully’s hand, not a fighter’s.
He stopped the car on the gravel at the bottom of the steps and shut off the motor. Tucked his shirt tight into the waistband of his pants. Some girl who worked as a personal trainer had told him it made his upper body look more triangular.
Reacher walked over and sat down without waiting for an invitation. “You got children?” he asked. “I have three sons,” Brewer replied. “Any of them at home?” “They’re all away, working.” “Your wife?” “She’s in Houston, visiting.” “So it’s just you and the maid today?” “Why do you ask?” He was impatient and puzzled, but polite, like people are when you’re about to give them a million dollars. “I’m a banker,” Reacher said. “I have to ask.”
Then there was Clay Allison’s grave. It was well tended, and the headstone was handsome. Clay was his middle name. His first name was Robert. Robert Clay Allison, born 1840, died 1887. Never killed a man that did not need killing. Reacher had no middle name. It was Jack Reacher, plain and simple. Born 1960, not dead yet. He wondered what his headstone would look like. Probably wouldn’t have one.
He took the magazine out of the Heckler & Koch and laid the empty gun in the bowl. It made a light metallic sound. The pointer spun up to two pounds and six ounces. Not an especially light weapon. About right, he figured. His memory told him the catalog weight was in the region of forty-three ounces, with an empty magazine.
the man who was so smart he memorized the weight of every gun!
He saw tiny oblique muzzle flashes and heard bullets whining away from him. The left-hand gun stopped. The woman. Reloading already. Only thirteen shots, his subconscious mind told him. Has to be a SIG Sauer P228 or a Browning Hi-Power.
“Lots of mistakes, Hack,” Reacher said. “Including sending people after me. Like old Copernicus says, what were the chances they’d be good enough?”
There was colossal noise and flame, and the crown of Walker’s head blasted backward into the candlelit gloom. It just came off like a lid and splintered into mist. Colt Super Autos with hollow points, Reacher’s subconscious mind told him.
really remarkable.
“You O.K.?” he asked. “Are you?” she asked back. “Why wouldn’t I be?” “You just killed two people. Then saw a third die and a house burn down.” He glanced away. Civilians.
