Make Me

He kicked out the back wall siding, low down near the floor, a gap two feet high, and four feet long, and then five, as he punched more boards clear. Big enough to crawl out. First Westwood, then Chang. Another round punched through. Then Reacher. They backed off, keeping the building in line. Behind them was nothing but wheat. To the right of behind them was the building near the broken fence. With the dead guys. The backhoe was parked directly right of them. About twenty yards away. Ahead on the right were the movie studio and the house. Ahead on the left was the generator shed. Plenty of places.

But all of them the wrong side of open ground. Twenty yards minimum. Twenty steps. A long way. Not impossible. It depended on the other guys. How they aimed. How they were trained. If they were trained. A guy who was taught the front-sight mantra might focus so hard he could lose his peripheral vision. Just in the moment. It was possible a guy could walk away unnoticed. It was possible a guy in a gorilla suit could walk away. It would depend on the degree of focus. A person might get away with it.

But three people wouldn’t.

Reacher whispered, “Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll come back out and get you.”

Chang said, “Back out of where?”

“I’m going back in the building.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Not really. Look at what kind of shooters they are. It’s a math thing. To do with probability. I’m no less safe going right where they’re aiming.”

“That’s nuts.”

“It’s a big wall. What are the chances? I’m more likely to develop a rare heart condition on the way there.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“OK, but Westwood stays here. War correspondents maneuver with the second wave.”

Westwood said, “Is that what I am?”

“No, I’m trying to make you feel good. You’re thinking of the book rights.”

“Not completely.”

“Either way, stay here.”

Reacher and Chang walked back to the building, and crawled back inside. The spots of sun made a large constellation. Mostly high. Reacher’s taller brother might have had a problem. But Reacher himself would have been untroubled, and Chang unscathed. Another round passed through, a punch, a whang, another spot of sun, high and way to the left, another losing ticket.

Reacher said, “If it’s truly random, all locations are equally likely. Even locations that have been hit before.”

He put his eye to a spot of sun and squinted out.

He said, distorted because his cheek was pressed against the board, “We need to see their muzzle flashes. Then we can chase them off. I want them running.”

Another round passed through, punch, whang, sun. Perfect height, but ten feet too far to the right.

“I see one of them,” Reacher said.

Dust in the air. He scraped a blink against the wood.

They waited.

Another round. Punch, whang, sun. High and left.

Reacher peeled away from the wall. He said, “I got them both. They’re both the same. The back left corner of the movie studio. About a hundred and ten feet. They’re taking turns, rolling around the corner and bringing their guns up. It’s like a movie about the Marines. One of them is the hog farmer and the other one has hair like a weather guy on TV.”

“Can we get them from here?”

“We can waste a magazine shutting them up for a minute. Then we can move down to the front corner of the movie studio.”

“And do what? Sneak around from corner to corner? Front to back? It’s an awful long way. It’s a rectangular building. Most buildings are.”

“Marines would go through the building. They’d come out the end wall. That’s what anti-tank weapons are for.”

“What would we do?”

“We would take a chance. We would wait for a magazine change.”

Chang said, “Not good enough.”

“You wouldn’t like the good-enough plan.”

“Are you asking me apologetically?”

“You bet your ass.”

“What is the good-enough plan?”

His head hurt.

He said, “It’s a pact with the devil. It guarantees one, but only one. The other guy runs. And apart from that, it’s going to be unpleasant.”

Reacher fired first, because Chang was the faster runner. He stepped between the open doors and aimed at the back left corner of the studio, about two-thirds up, and he saw some splinters, but not enough for two whole seconds. But it shut them up. Chang took over, a mag of thirty, full auto, two whole seconds, and Reacher ran, for the near front corner of the studio, where he reloaded and fired down the length of the building, corner to corner, another whole mag, while Chang ran and joined him, pressing in behind him, out of breath.

“Ready?” he said.

She didn’t answer.

They slipped in the studio door. The vestibule. The smell. The small kitchen, with the mugs and the bottles of water.

They waited.

They heard a noise. A guy rolling around the corner. Like a movie about the Marines.

They waited.

They heard the shot. Aimed at the now-empty and now-distant building. Maybe a hit, maybe not. Either way, Reacher leaned out the studio door and fired half a mag back. No expectations. No time for finesse. But enough time for a message.