By Lee Child
Jack Reacher.
The final loner.
An elite ex-military cop who left the carrier years in the past, he’s moved from position to place…without family…without possessions…without commitments.
And with no worry. that's sturdy, simply because trouble—big, violent, complex trouble—finds Reacher anywhere he is going. And whilst difficulty reveals him, Reacher doesn't surrender, now not once…not ever.
But a few unfinished enterprise has now discovered Reacher. And Reacher is a guy who hates unfinished business.
Ten years in the past, a key research went bitter and somebody bought away with homicide. Now an opportunity come upon brings all of it again. Now Reacher sees his one final shot. a few may name it vengeance. a few might name it redemption. Reacher may name it…justice.
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I followed it around counterclockwise and stopped right in front of the door. The door opened and another guy in a dark suit stepped out. He was about my size, which made him a lot smaller than the guy in the lodge. But I didn’t like him any better. He had a stone face and blank eyes. He opened the Maxima’s passenger door like he had been expecting to see it, which I guessed he was, because the big guy in the lodge would have called ahead. ” Richard asked me. He slipped out of the car and walked away into the gloom inside the house and the guy in the suit closed the oak door from the outside and took up station right in front of it.
I was going home for my mother’s birthday. ” “I’m not sure. Anybody who knows my family. Anybody in the rug community, I guess. ” I said. ” “We all compete,” he said. “Same sources, same market. ” I said nothing. Just drove on, sixty miles an hour. ” he asked me. “No,” I said. He nodded, like he understood. Smart boy. ” he asked. “I’m going to let you out near the highway,” I said. ” He went very quiet. “I can’t take you to the cops,” I said. “That’s just not possible. You understand that, right?
A watery sun was fighting rainclouds in the sky. It was Paul Revere on the horse. Duffy and Eliot showed up right on time. They were wearing black raincoats all covered in little loops and buckles and belts. C. They sat down, Duffy on my left and Eliot on my right. I leaned back and they leaned forward with their elbows on their knees. “Paramedics fished a guy out of the Pacific surf,” Duffy said. “Ten years ago, just south of Eureka, California. White male, about forty. He had been shot twice in the head and once in the chest.