Slide, scrape, crunch, tap. He was using the side of his foot to sweep the glass aside. Into a pile. Then he was stepping forward to sweep the next arc. He would want a clear two-foot walkway through the room. No danger of slipping or sliding.
How far had he got?
Reacher crept to the next staircase. It was identical to the last one. Wide, shallow, doglegged. He walked up backward, listening hard. Slide, scrape, crunch, tap. He crossed the half-landing. Kept on going forward. The third-floor hallway had the same layout as the one below, but it wasn't carpeted. Just bare boards. There was an upright chair in the center of the corridor. All the doors were open. North was to the right. Reacher could feel night air coming in. He stayed close to the wall. Crept onward. The noises got louder. He flattened against the wall. Took a breath. Pivoted slowly and stepped to his left. Into a doorway.
Chenko was twelve feet from him. Facing away. Facing the window. The lower pane had been pushed up behind the upper pane. Both panes had been blown out. The room was cold. The floor was covered in glass. Chenko was clearing a path from the door toward the window. He had about three feet left to go. His rifle was upright against the wall, six feet from him. He was stooped, looking down, concentrating hard on his task. It was an important task. Skidding on a pebble of glass could cost him precious time in a firefight. Chenko had discipline.
And ten seconds to live.
Reacher put the knife in his pocket. Freed his right hand. Flexed it. Stepped forward. Just walked slow and silent down the path that Chenko had cleared. Four quiet paces. Chenko sensed it. He straightened. Reacher caught him around the neck from behind. One-handed. He gripped hard. Took one more long fast stride and stiff-armed Chenko forward with it and threw him out the open window, headfirst.
"I warned you," he whispered into the darkness below. "You should have put me down when you had the chance." Then he took out his phone.
"Gunny?" he whispered.
"Here."
"Third-floor window, where you returned fire. You see it?"
"I see it."
"A guy just fell out. If he gets up again, shoot him."
Then he put the phone away and went looking for the attic door.
He found Rosemary Barr completely unharmed, sitting upright on the attic floor. Her feet were taped, her wrists were taped, her mouth was taped. Reacher put his finger to his lips. She nodded. He cut her free with the bloodstained knife and helped her stand. She was unsteady for a moment. Then she shook herself and gave a kind of nod. Then a smile. Reacher guessed that whatever fear she had felt and whatever reaction she was feeling right now had both been neutralized by some kind of a steely determination to help her brother. If she survived, he would survive. That belief had kept her going.
"Have they gone?" she whispered.
"All except Raskin and the Zec," Reacher whispered back.
"No, Raskin killed himself. I heard them talking. The Zec made him do it. Because he let you steal his cell phone."
"Where's the Zec likely to be?"
"He's in the living room most of the time. Second floor."
"Which door?"
"Last on the left."
"OK, stay here," Reacher whispered. "I'll round him up and I'll be right back."
"I can't stay here. You have to get me out."
He paused. "OK, but you've got to be real quiet. And don't look left or right."
"Why not?"
"Dead people."
"I'm glad," Rosemary said.
Reacher held her arm down the stairs to the third-floor hallway. Then he went ahead alone to the second. All quiet. The last door on the left was still closed. He waved her down. They made the turn together and headed to the first floor. To the front of the house. To the room he had entered through. He helped her over the sill and out the window, to the dirt below. He pointed.
"Follow the driveway to the road," he said. "Turn right. I'll tell the others you're coming. There's a guy in black with a rifle. He's one of ours."
She stood still for a second. Then she bent down and took off her low-heeled shoes and held them in her hands and started running like hell, due west, through the dirt, toward the road. Reacher took out his phone.
"Gunny?" he whispered.
"Here."
"Rosemary Barr is heading your way."
"Outstanding."
"Round up the others and meet her halfway. There's no more operational night vision. Then stand by. I'll get back to you."
"Roger that."
Reacher put the phone away. Backtracked through the silent house, on his way to find the Zec.
Chapter 17
In the end, it came down to waiting. Wait, and good things come to you. And bad things. Reacher crept back to the second floor. The last door on the left was still closed. He ducked into the kitchen. Linsky was on the floor, on his back in a pool of blood. Reacher relit the flame under the kettle. Then he stepped out to the hallway. Walked quietly to the front of the house and leaned on the wall beyond the last door on the left.
And waited.
The kettle boiled after five minutes. The whistle started low and quiet, and then the note and the volume rose to full blast. Within ten seconds the second floor of the house was full of an insane shrieking. Ten seconds after that, the door on Reacher's right opened. A small man stepped out. Reacher let him take a pace forward and then spun him around and jammed the Smith 60 hard in the base of his throat.
And stared.
The Zec. He was a wide, ancient, twisted, stooped, battered old man. A wraith. Barely human. He was covered in livid scars and patches of discolored skin. His face was lined and drooping and seething with rage and hatred and cruelty. He was unarmed. His ruined hands didn't seem capable of holding a weapon. Reacher forced him down the hallway. Into the kitchen, backward. To the stove. The noise from the kettle was unbearable. Reacher used his left hand and killed the flame. Then he hauled the Zec back toward the living room. The kettle's whistle died away, like an air raid siren winding down. The house went quiet again.
"It's over," Reacher said. "You lost."
"It's never over," the Zec replied. Hoarse voice, low, guttural.
"Guess again," Reacher said. He kept the Smith hard against the Zec's throat. Too low and too close for him to see it. He eased the hammer back. Slowly, carefully. Deliberately. Loudly. Click-click-click-crunch. An unmistakable sound.
"I'm eighty years old," the Zec said.
"I don't care if you're a hundred," Reacher said. "You're still going down."
"Idiot," the Zec said back. "I meant I've survived things worse than you. Since long before you were born."
"Nobody's worse than me."
"Don't flatter yourself. You're nothing."
"You think?" Reacher said. "You were alive this morning and you won't be tomorrow. After eighty years. That makes me something, don't you think?"
No answer.
"It's over," Reacher said. "Believe me. Long and winding road, OK, I understand all of that, but this is the end of it. Had to happen sometime."
No response.
"You know when my birthday is?" Reacher asked.
"Obviously not."
"It's in October. You know what day?"
"Of course not."
"You're going to find out the hard way. I'm counting in my head. When I reach my birthday, I'm going to pull the trigger."
He started counting in his head. First, second. He watched the Zec's eyes. Fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth. No response. Tenth, eleventh, twelfth.