Hostage

Vaughan closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep, but the floor was uncomfortable and she was hungry and she was sweating and her foot still hurt and she kept thinking about all the poison that might be floating around in the air.

She couldn’t sleep, so she just stared up into the blackness and tried to think of another way to escape.

But there was no other way.

Sozinho wasn’t going to let her out of his sight again, not even to use the bathroom.

She’d given it her best shot.

But her life was over now.

She was going to die in this wretched abandoned motor court.

There was nothing else she could do. She’d already tried to convince Sozinho that she was on his side, that the man in the black leather jacket was the enemy in this situation.

She’d already tried, but maybe she should try again.

Maybe Sozinho would listen this time.

“He’s never going to let you live,” she said.

The bedsprings squeaked.

“You must want the tape back on your mouth,” Sozinho said.

“Think about it. The man in the black leather jacket wants you to kill Jack Reacher. Once you do that, he’ll have no further use for you. He has treated you badly, first by putting that thing in your neck and then by sending you into this potentially lethal environment, and he knows you’re going to be out for revenge. Why would he allow-”

Before Vaughan could finish her thought, someone came crashing through the motel room door.

17

There was a fat yellow moon rising over the Colorado prairie, and immediately after the frame splintered and the lock parts scattered and a wall of cooler air came whooshing into the room, the silhouette of a man appeared in the doorway.

Maybe it was a combination of the lighting and the abrupt and violent nature of the entrance, but the man appeared to be about ten feet tall. Arms fashioned from tree trunks, chest as broad as a ‘58 Cadillac.

And he had gun.

Sozinho rolled off the bed, expecting a barrage of hot lead projectiles to come tearing into the mattress and maybe into his flesh, but all he got was a rapid series of metallic clicks. Apparently the man’s weapon was jammed.

Officer Vaughan’s pistol was still on the table by the window, several feet away and well out of Sozinho’s reach, but he’d slid his folding straight razor into his pocket before lying down on the bed. He pulled it out and snapped it open as he waited for the intruder to advance.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The man came charging forward, jumping over Vaughan and lunging toward the space on the other side of the bed where Sozinho had landed. The man reared back and came down hard with his fist, a blow that would have crushed Sozinho’s skull if it had connected. But it didn’t. Sozinho managed to dodge the punch, and before the man could deliver another one, Sozinho swiped the sharp steel edge of his expensive professional shaving tool across the man’s abdomen, ripping through the fabric of his shirt and opening a gash at least eight inches wide.

Frantic, moving quickly and fiercely to avoid a second assault with the blade, the man grabbed Sozinho’s arm, banging his wrist and hand against the top edge of the nightstand until the razor skittered away.

Then the man wrapped his fingers around Sozinho’s throat.

Sozinho struggled, clawing at the man’s face, trying to push him away, but he couldn’t. He grunted and gurgled and bucked and twisted, but it was no use. The man was too powerful.

It quickly became apparent to Sozinho that any effort to resist was a waste of energy, so he made a conscious and rational decision to stop fighting and let his body go limp.

Silence.

“What’s going on?” Vaughan shouted.

The man didn’t say anything.

Sozinho’s airway was occluded, but he’d decided not to panic. He’d decided to relax. He was an excellent swimmer. He could hold his breath for three minutes, no problem. And the man would bleed to death long before then.

It was still dark in the room, and Sozinho couldn’t see much of anything, but he knew that the cut to the man’s abdomen had gone deep. He’d felt it. He was surprised that the man had lasted this long. Soon he would collapse and Sozinho could breathe again.

But the man didn’t collapse.

If anything, his grip around Sozinho’s neck got even tighter.

And tighter.

And tighter.

And tighter.

And then a searing explosion of light flashed behind Sozinho’s eyeballs-a result of his brain being deprived of oxygen, he thought-and the man simultaneously and inexplicably let go and shouted out in pain.

Sozinho turned away and started gasping for air. The man fell back against the wall. Shaking. Moaning. Arms folded over his torso like he was hugging himself.

Maybe he was just now feeling the full effect of the gaping wound to his gut, Sozinho thought. Maybe his intestines had oozed out onto the floor.