Reacher walked away into the darkness on the other side of the road.
He kept on walking, off the blacktop, across the shoulder, across the stony margin of the field, onward, right into the field, all the way into the middle of the soaking crop. He waited until the irrigation boom rolled slowly around and caught up with him. Then he turned ninety degrees and walked south with it, directly underneath it, keeping pace, letting the ceaseless water rain down and soak his hair and his skin and his clothes. The boom pulled away as it followed its circular path and Reacher kept straight on at a tangent and walked into the next field. Waited once again for the boom to find him and then walked on under it, matching its speed, raising his arms high and wide to catch as much drenching as he could. Then that boom swung away and left him and he walked on to find the next one. And the next, and the next. When at last he was opposite the driveway entrance he simply walked in a circle, under the last boom, waiting for his cell phone to vibrate, like a man caught in a monsoon.
Cash's cell phone vibrated against his hip and he pulled it out and clicked it on. Heard Franklin's voice, quiet and cautious in his ear.
"Check in, please," it said.
Cash heard Helen say: "Here."
Yanni said, "Here," from three feet behind him.
Cash said, "Here."
Then he heard Reacher say: "Here."
Franklin said, "OK, you're all loud and clear, and the ball is in your court."
Cash heard Reacher say: "Gunny, check the house."
Cash lifted the rifle and swept left to right. "No change."
Reacher said: "I'm on my way."
Then there was nothing but silence. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. A whole minute. Two minutes.
Cash heard Reacher ask: "Gunny, do you see me?"
Cash lifted the rifle again and swept the length of the driveway from its mouth all the way to the house. "Negative. I don't see you. Where are you?"
"About thirty yards in."
Cash moved the rifle. Estimated thirty yards from the road and stared through the scope. Saw nothing. Nothing at all. "Good work, soldier. Keep going."
Yanni crawled forward. Whispered in Cash's ear. "Why don't you see him?"
"Because he's nuts."
"No, explain it to me. You've got a night scope, right?"
"The best money can buy," Cash said. "And it works off heat, just like their cameras." Then he pointed away to his right. "But my guess is Reacher walked through the fields. Soaked himself in water. It's coming straight up from the aquifer, stone cold. So right now he's close to ambient temperature. I can't see him; they can't see him."
"Smart," Yanni said.
"Brave," Cash said. "But ultimately dumb. Because he's drying out every step of the way. And getting warmer."
Reacher walked through the dark in the dirt ten feet south of the driveway. Not fast, not slow. His shoes were soaked and they were sticking to the mud. Almost coming off. He was so cold he was shivering violently. Which was bad. Shivering is a physiological reaction designed to warm a cold body fast. And he didn't want to be warm. Not yet.
Vladimir had gotten a rhythm going. He stared at the East monitor for four seconds, then the North for three. East, two, three, four, North, two, three. East, two, three, four, North, two, three. He didn't move his chair. Just leaned a little one way, then the other. Beside him Sokolov had a similar thing going south and west. Slightly different intervals. Not perfectly synchronized. But just as good, Vladimir guessed. Maybe even better. Sokolov had spent a lot of time on surveillance.
Reacher walked on. Not fast, not slow. On the map the driveway had looked to be about two hundred yards long. On the ground it felt like an airport runway. Straight as a die. Wide. And long, long, long. He had been walking forever. And he was less than halfway to the house. He walked on. Just kept on going. Looking ahead every step of the way, watching the darkened windows far away in front of him.
He realized his hair wasn't dripping anymore.
He touched one hand with the other. Dry. Not warm, but no longer cold.
He walked on. He was tempted to run. Running would get him there faster. But running would heat him up. He was approaching the point of no return. He was right out there in no-man's-land. And he wasn't shivering. He raised his phone.
"Helen," he whispered. "I need that diversion."
Helen took off her heels and left them neatly side by side at the base of the fence. For an absurd moment she felt like a person who piles all her clothes on the beach before she walks into the sea to drown. Then she put her palms down on the dirt like a sprinter in the blocks and took off forward. Just ran crazily, twenty feet, thirty, forty, and then she stopped dead and stood still, facing the house with her arms out wide like a target. Shoot me, she thought. Please shoot me. Then she got scared that maybe she really meant it and she turned and ran back in a wide zigzag loop. Threw herself down and crawled along the fence again until she found her shoes.
Vladimir saw her on the North monitor. Nothing recognizable. Just a brief flare that because of the phosphor technology was smeared and a little time-lagged. But he bent his head closer anyway and stared at the afterimage. One second, two. Sokolov sensed the interruption to his rhythm and glanced over. Three seconds, four.
"Fox?" Vladimir said.
"I didn't see it," Sokolov said. "But probably."
"It ran away again."
"OK, then." Sokolov turned back to his own pair of monitors. Glanced at the West view, checked the South, and settled into his regular cadence again.
Cash had a cadence of his own. He was inching his night scope along at what he guessed was the speed of a walking man. But every five seconds he would sweep it suddenly forward and back in case his estimate was off. During one of those rapid traverses he picked up on what looked like a pale green shadow.
"Reacher, I can see you," he whispered. "You're visible, soldier."
Reacher's voice came back: "What scope have you got on that thing?"
"Litton," Cash said.
"Expensive, right?"
"Thirty-seven hundred dollars."
"Got to be better than a lousy thermal camera."
Cash didn't reply.
Reacher said: "Well, I'm hoping so, anyway."
He walked on. Probably the most unnatural thing a human can force himself to do, to walk slowly and surely toward a building that likely has a rifle in it pointing directly at his center mass. If Chenko had any sense at all he would wait, and wait, and wait, until his target was pretty close. And Chenko seemed to have plenty of sense. Fifty yards would be good. Or thirty-five, like Chenko's range out of the parking garage. Chenko was pretty good at thirty-five yards. That had been made very clear.
He walked on. Transferred the phone to his left and held it near his ear. Took the knife out of his pocket and unsheathed it and held it right-handed, low and easy. Heard Cash say: "You're totally visible now, soldier. You're shining like the north star. It's like you're on fire."
Forty yards to go.
Thirty-nine.
Thirty-eight.
"Helen?" he said. "Do it again."
He heard her voice: "OK."
He walked on. Held his breath.
Thirty-five yards.
Thirty-four.
Thirty-three.
He breathed out. He walked on doggedly. Twenty-nine yards to go. He heard panting in his ear. Helen, running. He heard Yanni ask, off-mike: "How close is he?" Heard Cash answer: "Not close enough."