by Jude Hardin
But the man didn’t collapse.
If anything, his grip around Sozinho’s neck got even tighter.
And tighter.
And tighter.
And tighter.
And then a searing explosion of light flashed behind Sozinho’s eyeballs—a result of his brain being deprived of oxygen, he thought—and the man simultaneously and inexplicably let go and shouted out in pain.
Sozinho turned away and started gasping for air. The man fell back against the wall. Shaking. Moaning. Arms folded over his torso like he was hugging himself.
Maybe he was just now feeling the full effect of the gaping wound to his gut, Sozinho thought. Maybe his intestines had oozed out onto the floor.
Blinking his eyes back into focus, confident that the man was incapacitated now, Sozinho got up and staggered toward the table on the other side of the room, planning to finish the man off with a shot to the head. He grabbed the pistol, but before he could turn and pull the trigger, a veil of utter blackness fell over his visual field, as if he’d suddenly been thrown into a cave. He felt a burning sensation on the side of his neck, building gradually over a second or two, rising up into his brain like mercury through a glass tube, a dozen and then a hundred and then a thousand sulfur match heads flaring all at once, the pain more intense than anything he’d ever experienced in his life.
Sozinho went to his knees, and then he fell facedown on the floor, and then he felt a tingling sensation wash over his body like a wave, and then he felt nothing.
18
The door was still partially open, allowing a hazy wedge of light to shine into the room. Vaughan had watched Sozinho go down, but her mind didn’t fully process what had actually happened to him until she saw the smoke rising from his neck.
The electronic circuit must have fired. The surgical implant. Sozinho had said that any attempt to remove the device would result in it being activated automatically. The sensors must have mistakenly interpreted something during the fight.
She was thinking about that when a raspy male voice from the other side of the room said, “Are you okay?”
It was a voice she recognized.
“Retro?” she said.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“What happened?”
“Something zapped me, like a lamp cord or something. There’s a blister on the palm of my hand.”
He crawled over to where she was lying on the floor, unlocked the handcuffs and started removing the duct tape from her ankles. She told him about the device in Sozinho’s neck, the source of the electrical shock.
“How did you find me here?” she said.
“A witness at the meat processing plant saw what happened. Part of it, anyway. He said your cruiser was pointed east, toward the station, and that it kept going that way when it drove off. Which didn’t mean anything, really. It was the direction you were headed with the suspect when you pulled to the side of the road. But then, later on, the waitress at the diner told me she saw your car heading west at about eight this morning. That was substantial. It was indicative of purpose. It meant that whoever was driving the car had chosen that direction for a reason. It was a deliberate act. There would have been no point in turning around and heading west unless the eventual destination was that way.”
“But we could have been in Utah by now,” Vaughan said.
“True. He could have transferred you to another vehicle. But I knew that the police car couldn’t have gone far. It would have been spotted if it had stayed on the highway for very long. So I figured it was still somewhere in the area, and I figured there might be some fingerprints and some other forensic evidence we could use. To tell you the truth, I really didn’t expect to find you alive here in Despair. It’s a pretty crazy place for a hideout.”
A crazy place indeed, Vaughan thought.
“How did you know we were at the motel?” she said.
“I didn’t. It was the second place I stopped. I got out and looked around and saw the hole cut in the swimming pool cover.”
“How did you know which room we were in?”
“I just followed the blood.”
Vaughan took a deep breath.
“Unfortunately, most of it is mine,” she said.
“I was afraid that might be the case. I’m going to get you to the hospital right away.”
“You came here alone?”
“Yeah. But the state police should be here any minute. They were still waiting for some special gear to be delivered when I left.”
“At least you wore your body armor,” Vaughan said, noticing the deep gash on the side of Retro’s bulletproof vest.
“If I’d been a little smarter, I would have brought a backup pistol, too. Mine got a little dirty earlier. I guess that’s why it jammed up on me.”
“I was wondering about that.”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it on the way back to Hope.”
“I’m starving,” Vaughan said. “Can we get something to eat?”
“Sure. As long as you’re buying. I paid for the breakfast you didn’t finish this morning. You owe me ten bucks.”
Vaughan laughed. Retro was a good cop, and a good friend, and she was going to miss him when he moved to Florida.
19
It was a cool crisp October day, the sun shining brightly and just enough breeze to need a light jacket.
A perfect day for Retro’s retirement party.
Vaughan was sitting on a lounge chair in the picnic area behind the stationhouse, sipping on a glass of lemonade and enjoying the smells coming off the barbecue grill. Burgers, hot dogs, roasted peppers, corn on the cob.
And the tuna steaks Retro had requested.
Vaughan watched him pile some raw veggies and onion dip on a paper plate, and then he walked over and sat down beside her.
“Looks good,” she said.
“Want some?”
“Sure.”
She reached over and picked up a carrot stick and dragged it through the dip.
“Be careful,” Retro said. “Your body might not be used to anything this healthy.”
Vaughan smiled. “Actually, I’ve been making a conscious effort to eat better,” she said.
“Good for you. How’s the foot?”
“It still hurts. And the doctor said I shouldn’t put any weight on it right now, which is kind of driving me nuts.”
“Give it time,” Retro said. “It’s only been a few days.”
After stopping for something to eat on the way back from Despair, Vaughan had spent several hours in the emergency room, and had gone home with stitches and a bandage and a special boot and a pair of crutches. She could still drive a car, but Commander Bailey had put her on desk duty until her foot healed completely.
Which was also driving her nuts.
She lowered her sunglasses, turned around and looked toward a section of wooden fencing at the back of the lot.
“Ever get the feeling someone’s watching you?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. So what are you planning to do down there in Florida?”
“As little as possible,” Retro said.
“You’re only forty-two. I’m having a hard time imagining you on a porch in a rocking chair.”
“I’ll send pictures. Better yet, you can come and visit sometime.”
“I would like that,” Vaughan said.
“I’m sure I’ll get bored with tennis and fishing and long walks on the beach after a while. I might get a private investigator’s license and go into business for myself. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”
Vaughan nodded, took a sip of her lemonade.
They sat there in silence for a couple of minutes, and Vaughan started thinking about the message she’d received from the FBI yesterday—about their efforts to trace the origin of the incoming calls to Sozinho’s cell phone. Apparently some of the calls had been intercepted and red
irected from Vaughan’s home phone, the landline at her house.
Which was probably how Jack Reacher had managed to connect—if it was really him who’d called. When he heard the news that she was missing, he’d called her home phone, just like Sozinho and the man in the black leather jacket figured he would.
That was the theory, anyway.
So far, the FBI had failed to trace any of the calls any further than Vaughan’s house, so they still didn’t know where the man in the black leather jacket was operating from or exactly how everything had transpired.
And maybe they never would.
Vaughan was thinking about all that when Commander Bailey walked over with a distressed expression on his face, incongruent with the apron and chef’s hat he was wearing.
Something was wrong.
“We forgot to buy buns for the hot dogs,” he said.
Retro laughed. “I’ll make a quick trip to the store,” he said.
“You stay here,” Vaughan said. “I’ll go.”
They tried to talk her out of it, because of her foot, but she insisted. It was Retro’s party, so he shouldn’t have to leave to run an errand, and everyone else was busy cooking or chopping vegetables or playing horseshoes. Anyway, it was about time for Vaughan to apply some more sunscreen—another lifestyle change to go along with the healthy new diet—and she had left her bottle of lotion in her car.
Retro helped her up. She grabbed her crutches and navigated past the food tables and through the back door of the stationhouse.
There was a long hallway with offices on both sides. It doglegged to the right, past the front desk, and then there was a double set of doors that led to the sidewalk. Vaughan nodded to the officer on duty as she pushed her way outside.
Her car was parked at the curb, just a few feet away. As she made her way toward it, she saw a very large man walking at a steady pace on the other side of the street. He was heading east, away from the station, maybe a hundred feet from where Vaughan was standing. He wore a sturdy set of clothes that might have been purchased from a sporting goods outlet, or even a hardware store.
Reacher?
Vaughan wanted to run to him, but she couldn’t.
She was on crutches.
Anyway, it probably wasn’t him.
But maybe it was.
Thinking she would start the car and drive by and get a look at his face, she reached into her pocket for her keys, realizing immediately that she had left them in her purse under the lounge chair.
“Hey,” she shouted.
But the man didn’t respond.
He kept walking, and then he turned and disappeared around the corner.
Thanks so much for reading THE JACK REACHER FILES: HOSTAGE!
All four episodes of THE JACK REACHER FILES: CHOKE are now available in a single volume.
My Nicholas Colt thriller series includes nine full-length novels: COLT, LADY 52, POCKET-47, CROSSCUT, SNUFF TAG 9, KEY DEATH, BLOOD TATTOO, SYCAMORE BLUFF, and THE JACK REACHER FILES: FUGITIVE (previously published as ANNEX 1).
All of my books are lendable, so feel free to share them with a friend at no additional cost.
All reviews are much appreciated!
Thanks again, and happy reading!
Jude
Copyright © 2015 by Jude Hardin
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
June 2015
Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com
Table of Contents
Synopsis
Title Page
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Author's Note
Copyright
