Nobody moved.
Reacher watched carefully and saw that Seth Duncan was holding the Remington pretty steady. His finger was on the trigger. He was aiming it from the hip, straight back at Reacher, which meant he was aiming it at Dorothy Coe and the doctor and his wife, too, because buckshot spreads a little, and all four of them were clustered tight together, on the driveway ten feet from the doctor's front door. All kinds of collateral damage, just waiting to happen.
Nobody spoke.
The Mazda idled. Its door was still open. Seth Duncan started to move up the driveway. He raised the Remington's stock to his shoulder and closed one eye and squinted along the barrel and walked forward, slow and steady. A useless manoeuvre on rough terrain. But feasible on smooth gravel. The Remington stayed dead on target.
He stopped thirty feet away. He said, 'All of you sit down. Right where you are. Cross-legged on the ground.'
Nobody moved.
Reacher asked, 'Is that thing loaded?'
Duncan said, 'You bet your ass it is.'
'Take care it doesn't go off by accident.'
'It won't,' Duncan said, all nasal and inarticulate, because of his injury, and because his cheek was pressed hard against the Remington's walnut stock.
Nobody moved. Reacher watched and thought. Behind him he heard the doctor stir and heard him ask, 'Can we talk?'
Duncan said, 'Sit down.'
The doctor said, 'We should discuss this. Like reasonable people.'
'Sit down.'
'No, tell us what you want.'
A brave try, but in Reacher's estimation the wrong tactic. The doctor thought there was something to be gained by spinning things out, by using up the clock. Reacher thought the exact opposite was true. He thought there was no time to waste. None at all. He said, 'It's cold.'
Duncan said, 'So?'
'Too cold to sit down outside. Too cold to stand up outside. Let's go inside.'
'I want you outside.'
'Why?'
'Because I do.'
'Then let them go get their coats.'
'Why should I?'
'Self-respect,' Reacher said. 'You're wearing a coat. If it's warm enough not to need one, then you're a pussy. If it's cold enough to bundle up, then you're making innocent people suffer unnecessarily. If you think you've got a beef with me, OK, but these folks have never hurt you.'
Seth Duncan thought about it for a second, the gun still up at his shoulder, his head still bent down to it, one eye still closed. He said, 'OK, one at a time. The others stay here, like hostages. Mrs Coe goes first. Get your coat. Nothing else. Don't touch the phone.'
Nobody moved for a beat, and then Dorothy Coe peeled out of the cluster and walked to the door and stepped inside. She was gone a minute, and then she came back wearing her coat, this time buttoned over her dress. She resumed her position.
Duncan said, 'Sit down, Mrs Coe.'
Dorothy tugged her coat down and sat, not cross-legged, but with her knees drawn up to one side.
Reacher said, 'Now the doctor's wife.'
Duncan said, 'Don't tell me what to do.'
'I'm just saying. Ladies first, right?'
'OK, the doctor's wife. Go. Same rules. Just the coat. Don't touch the phone. Don't forget I have hostages here. Including your beloved husband.'
The doctor's wife peeled out of the cluster. A minute later she was back, wearing her wool coat, and a hat, and gloves, and a muffler.
'Sit down,' Duncan said.
She sat down, right next to Dorothy Coe, cross-legged, her back straight, her hands on her knees, her gaze level and aimed at a faraway spot in the fields. Nothing there, but Reacher guessed it was better than looking at her tormentor.
Reacher said, 'Now the doctor.'
'OK, go,' Duncan said.
The doctor peeled out and was gone a minute. He came back in a blue parka, all kinds of nylon and Gore-tex and zippered compartments. He sat down without waiting to be told.
Reacher said, 'Now me.'
Duncan said, 'No, not you. Not now, not ever. You stay right there. I don't trust you.'
'That's not very nice.'
'Sit down.'
'Make me.'
Duncan leaned into the gun, the final per cent, like he was ready to fire.
He said, 'Sit down.'
Reacher didn't move. Then he glanced to his right and saw lights in the mist, and he knew that his chance had gone.
The Cornhuskers came on fast, five of them in five separate vehicles, a tight little high-speed convoy, three pick-up trucks and two SUVs. They all jammed to a stop on the road in line with the fence, five vehicles all nose to tail, and five doors flung open, and five guys spilled out, all of them in red jackets, all of them moving fast, the smallest of them the size of a house. They swarmed straight in, climbing the fence in unison, moving across the dormant lawn on a broad front, coming in wide of the Remington's potential trajectory. The Remington stayed rock steady in Seth Duncan's hands. Reacher was watching its muzzle. It wasn't moving at all, its blued steel dark in the moonlight, trained dead on his chest from thirty feet, the smooth bore at its centre looking big enough to stick a thumb in.
Duncan said, 'Take the three others inside, and keep them there.'
Rough hands grabbed at the doctor, and his wife, and Dorothy Coe, hauling them back to their feet, by their arms and shoulders, pulling them away, hustling them across the last of the gravel, pushing them in through the door. Eight people went in, and a minute later four came out, all of them football players, all of them crunching back to where Reacher was standing.
Duncan said, 'Hold him.'
Reacher was spending no time on regret or recrimination. No time at all. The time for rueing mistakes and learning from them came later. As always he was focused in the present and the immediate future. People who wasted time and energy cursing recent errors were certain losers. Not that Reacher saw an easy path to certain victory. Not right then. Not in the short term. Right then he saw nothing ahead but a world of hurt.
The four big guys stepped up close. No opportunity. The Remington stayed trained on its target and two guys came in from wide positions, never getting between Reacher and the gun. They stepped alongside him and grabbed an arm each, big strong hands on his elbows from behind, on his wrists from in front, pushing one, pulling the other, straightening his arms, bending his elbows back, kicking his feet apart, hooking their ankles in front of his ankles, holding him immobile. A third guy came up behind him and stood between his spread feet and wrapped massive arms around his chest. The fourth backed off and stood ten feet from Duncan.
Reacher didn't struggle. No point. Absolutely no point at all. Each of the three men holding him was taller than him by inches and outweighed him by fifty pounds. No doubt they were all slow and stupid and untutored, but right then sheer dumb bulk was doing the job just fine. He could move his feet a little, and he could move his head a little, but that was all, and all he could do with his feet was move them backward, which would pitch him forward on his face, except that the guy who had him in the bear hug from behind would hold him upright. And all he could do with his head was duck his chin to his chest, or jerk it back a couple of inches. Not enough to hurt the guy behind him.
He was stuck, and he knew it.
Seth Duncan lowered the gun to his hip again. He walked forward with it and then handed it off to the fourth guy. He walked on without it and stopped face to face with Reacher, a yard away. His eyes were bloodshot and his breathing was low and shallow. He was quivering a little. Some kind of fury or excitement. He said, 'I have a message for you, pal.'
Reacher said, 'Who from? The National Association of Assholes?'
'No, from me personally.'
'What, you let your membership lapse?'
'Ten seconds from now we'll know who's a member of that club, and who isn't.'