The Right Man For Revenge

by Dan Ames

  Inside, he took a long, hot shower before heading to the kitchen for an enormous glass of cold iced tea.

  Tallon took the drink into his home office, and settled into a leather club chair that featured a laptop perched on a swivel desktop. As he sipped his tea, he perused the Internet, and checked his email.

  Not much in the email folders, and even less on the news websites and military blogs he followed.

  It wasn’t until he was going to close his browser, that Tallon noticed his spam folder.

  It had the number 1 in bold in parentheses.

  There was a little line next to the parentheses that read ‘empty now.’

  Tallon brought his cursor over and was about to click on the ‘empty now’ but he didn’t. His finger hovered there for a moment.

  Many times, he would look back and wonder what would have happened, or what would not have happened, if he’d just emptied the spam folder without opening it.

  But he didn’t.

  He clicked the folder and an email appeared in the main window.

  It was from an address he had never seen before.

  The subject line was empty.

  The body of the email was simple.

  They followed us. –F.

  Tallon sat there, stunned.

  F.

  Figueroa?

  Chapter Ten

  The Senator from the great state of Oklahoma was Noah Raskins, the great grandson of a wildcatter and the spitting image of a riverboat gambler. He wore expensive striped suits, sported a thick moustache and had one of the largest and most valuable cowboy hat collections in the world.

  He was in northern California for a conference with Oklahoma’s Economic Development Council. It seemed someone had decided a vineyard in California might be an excellent investment for the state of Oklahoma. Wine was bigger than ever. All sorts of fancy wine subscription services were taking off, and some wine-drinking politician had a brilliant idea.

  When he’d gotten the invite, Raskins had smiled. He knew there would be no purchase of a California vineyard.

  Not in a million years.

  Raskins imagined the howling that would ensue if the purchase was made, once some enterprising journalist got ahold of it.

  No, the state of Oklahoma would most definitely not be buying a vineyard in California.

  However, the most important aspect of that for Raskins and the other men (no women allowed) had nothing to do with purchasing.

  No, it had to do with research.

  And for that, the state of Oklahoma would unequivocally pay.

  The entire trip, lodgings, and per diem were all being footed by taxpayers.

  The men assembled were going to have a great time, get drunk, and maybe see if there were any ladies available for some additional entertainment.

  Raskins also had to smile because the vineyard was actually for sale. And it might even be purchased by some members of his group, but it would be handled privately, by a member or two of the council, with maybe a few silent partners, such as Raskins himself, through a private investment group with no public ties to anyone at the vineyard.

  He almost laughed again. Research!

  A bunch of good ol’ boys sitting around a giant fireplace in some lodge in California, drinking wine and scotch, getting absolutely shit-faced. And it was all a taxpayer-funded boondoggle.

  The spoils of victory, he thought to himself. All those years out pounding the flesh, making speeches, listening to “real” folk bitch about their problems. He’d put in his time, that was for certain.

  The fact was, he hated real people. Oh, he had a great touch with the locals. They loved him.

  But there was a reason they were “little” people. A lack of skills. A lack of intelligence. A lack of drive.

  They were at their current station in life thanks to their own doing. He wasn’t about to blame himself for being a cut above.

  Way above, he corrected himself.

  So what was wrong with a getaway to wine country?

  Hell, half the senators in Washington hired hookers as “staff.” Nothing like having Joe Taxpayer pony up the cash for your pussy. Now that was a little over the top, Raskins thought, even though he’d been guilty of the practice a time or two. Maybe three.

  Now, as the tall Oklahoman stepped out onto the porch of the vineyard’s lodge, he took a moment to soak in the fading California sun. It wasn’t hot out here like in Oklahoma, he thought.

  Not as humid, either.

  In his home state, it didn’t matter if you were in the sun or the shade, the heat and cloying dampness was the same.

  Back home, he would be sweat–

  A slight movement in the distance made Raskins pause. He had excellent eyesight. His pale blue eyes were notorious for being able to pick out distant mule deer on a hunt in the mountains.

  So his train of thought was interrupted by something vague in the distance.

  And then his mind was permanently interrupted by the bullet that crashed through the center of his forehead and blew apart most of his head.

  Later, the mayor of a small town in Oklahoma who’d managed to get invited on the “business trip” to the vineyard, would remember Noah Raskin’s cowboy hat. The mayor had been standing just inside the vineyard’s lodge, watching Raskins stand on the porch like he owned the place.

  He would tell the story for years to come, how Raskins’ cowboy hat suddenly popped up into the air and hovered for the briefest moment, while the senator’s brains were splattered all over the wooden floor.

  No one heard the shot, they only saw its aftermath.

  Senator Noah Raskins, dead on the porch of a vineyard in California.

  Shot by a sniper.

  His three thousand dollar cowboy hat?

  Not a mark on it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Pine Beach. Deception Pass.

  The names meant nothing to Pauling. She’d heard of Whidbey Island, only because she knew there was a military base there, and at some point she’d been in Seattle and someone had referenced the base.

  But Pine Beach, the town where Reacher’s body was found, was unfamiliar to her. Where it was in location to the military base, she had no idea.

  Pauling sat in her office and contemplated the next move.

  She certainly had no intention of hopping on a plane and flying across the country to find out this was all someone’s idea of a sick joke.

  Not when she had a cell phone and the contact information for Pine Beach Police Department, Whidbey Island. It was on the screen of her laptop and she punched in the number.

  After several rings, a male voice answered, sounding tired.

  “Pine Beach PD,” he said.

  “My name is Lauren Pauling and I’m calling because I was notified that a body was found in or near your jurisdiction.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “I was told the victim was identified as Jack Reacher,” Pauling continued. “Can you confirm or deny this?”

  “Uh, hold on,” the voice said.

  Pauling wasn’t impressed so far with the Pine Beach, PD. But she reserved judgment. Maybe the guy was an intern.

  There was an abrupt click on the line and Pauling was certain the operator had disconnected her, but then another voice spoke on the line.

  “This is Chief Jardine,” the voice said. “With whom am I speaking?”

  The speaker was female, and Pauling could sense the annoyance in the woman’s tone.

  “Lauren Pauling.”

  A pause and Pauling heard the sound of pen on paper. Taking notes. Always a good idea. She was doing the same.

  “You have some information for me?” Jardine asked. “Is that correct?”

  Pauling almost smiled at the woman’s attempt to put her on the defensive. “Not exactly. I received a call that a deceased person was found in your jurisdiction. ID’d as a man named Jack Reacher. I was calling to confirm.”

  There was a sigh
on the other end of the line. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Ms. Pauling,” the chief said. “Are you family? Related to this man you mentioned?”

  “Not exactly,” Pauling admitted.

  “Okay, well, even if parts of what you say may or may not be true, we would never give out any kind of information like that over the phone,” Jardine said. “We do have some questions for you, though.”

  “I’m in New York, Chief Jardine,” Pauling said. “I’m sure there’s nothing I can tell you.”

  “Sure there is,” the woman said, suddenly sounding cheerful. Almost like a chirp.

  Pauling waited.

  “For starters,” Jardine said. “Who the hell is Jack Reacher?”

  Chapter Twelve

  They followed us.

  Tallon couldn’t make sense of the message.

  Who did?

  He sat in front of his computer, the iced tea forgotten.

  Behind him, the television was on, and the announcers were talking about the murder of Senator Noah Raskins of Oklahoma.

  “I’ll be damned,” Tallon said. He’d never met Raskins, but he’d heard plenty of stories about him. A member of multiple committees on military issues, Raskins was known to most of the armed forces.

  Not much was known.

  It was clearly murder.

  A gunshot from some distance.

  A sniper? Tallon wondered. Now that would certainly ratchet up the intrigue.

  From stories he’d heard, Tallon figured that if it was true Raskins was murdered it would either be from somebody he screwed in a shady business deal, or a woman he screwed on his desk in the Senate.

  It was too early for any actual information and after about ten minutes the news coverage began to repeat itself, so Tallon shut off the television. He enjoyed the quiet more, anyway.

  Besides, he wanted to wrestle some more with the email from Figueroa.

  They followed us.

  It made no sense.

  Tallon and Figueroa had done a lot of work together. Both officially in the military, and unofficially for various employers.

  They weren’t mercenaries, per se. They had standards and never worked for anyone who was clearly on the wrong side of humanity.

  But they had been very busy.

  Their skills were always in high demand.

  The thing was, it seemed impossible for Tallon to imagine anyone following them. They were nearly always strangers in a strange land. Faceless. Nameless. Without a country. Without allegiances.

  And had Figueroa actually sent the email?

  He’d clearly been very sick. That was the thing with electronic communication like email, you didn’t always know for sure who was on the other end.

  He thought back to over a year ago, the last time he’d seen Figueroa.

  It had been a bad mission, in a bad place, with some very bad people involved.

  They followed us.

  Tallon went into his kitchen, grabbed a beer and peered out into the dark desert landscape.

  He thought about the missions he had shared with Figueroa. There were so many it was nearly impossible to count. They’d fought side-by-side in Africa, Indonesia, South America, Mexico and at various spots in Europe.

  Most had been successful, others had resulted in an imperfect solution.

  None of them had been abject failures.

  The other thing that stuck in Tallon’s mind was the idea that someone had followed them. Generally, the bad guys they targeted on missions weren’t left alive. Harsh, he knew.

  But dead men tend not to have the option of following their killers around. Unless they’re ghosts hoping to haunt guilty consciences.

  Tallon didn’t have a guilty conscience.

  And he certainly didn’t believe in ghosts.

  One word repeated itself in his mind.

  Impossible.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Back-to-back contracts were not the ideal way to work. Normally, there would be a need to take some time off, clear the head, get back in the zone. But this had been a special case. Or two special cases, as it were.

  Although luck was never really involved in this line of work, the first project had been fortunate. Relatively easy, although there was hesitation to use that term when it came to the profession of killing human beings. The actual process might be simple, but the stakes were high, so it would never be considered easy.

  But compared to other jobs, the first one had definitely been without complications. A lone man, walking near the forest. Multiple evacuation routes. Plenty of opportunity to scout the location, make sure no witnesses were present before, during or after. No security cameras.

  Law enforcement nowhere nearby.

  A good, clean kill.

  The second one had been a doozy.

  A much more populated kill zone. Plenty of witnesses. Several evacuation routes to choose from, however, most of them had a fair amount of traffic. Law enforcement was definitely present, along with the senator’s private security detail.

  It had been a huge planning process. It had required a trip to the winery, armed with the target’s travel itinerary, and a thorough job of preliminary scouting. Then a return to the site of the second job to scout it, and execute the mission.

  Afterward, it was back to the second project, and make the kill.

  The intensity of the planning for both jobs, along with the added stress of the high-profile second target, had created fatigue.

  But also an edge.

  Whenever the job was finished, it always did the same thing.

  Hole up in an expensive hotel, and book a high-priced escort from the most expensive service of its kind.

  Quality was essential.

  And worth the price.

  Now, the blonde entered the hotel suite. He was young, but well-built, dressed in cotton shorts and a form-fitting short-sleeved shirt. Probably linen.

  The shooter who had just assassinated a senator, smiled at the escort’s reaction. He had probably been expecting an ugly, overweight business woman desperate for male companionship.

  She must have been a surprise to him.

  Small. Petite. Red hair and a slim, but rock-hard body.

  He smiled at her.

  She smiled back.

  Walked toward him.

  She had earned this prize.

  And now, she was going to make sure he earned his money, too.

  “Get on your knees,” she said to him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lauren Pauling firmly believed in experiences over objects.

  She was not the type to obsess over luxury vehicles, expensive jewelry (to a point) or engage in competitive real estate acquisition.

  BSOs, a.k.a. bright shiny objects, tended not to hold much allure for her.

  However, comfort was a different matter.

  It had nothing to do with prestige, but when Pauling had worked for the FBI, travel was often highly unglamorous. Budget-friendly, as her coworkers liked to say. Cheap hotel rooms. Second-rate rental cars. Less than stellar restaurants due to a small government per diem.

  So now, when Pauling traveled on business, it was her business. And she gladly paid for comfort.

  Nearing fifty, Pauling was in great shape and stretched her legs, enjoying the extra room in first-class. An unopened bottled water sat on her tray table, and she toyed with the idea of ordering a Blood Mary, then decided against it.

  Instead, she took out her laptop and fired up her browser.

  Pine Beach was a small community on Whidbey Island, which sat in Puget Sound just north of Seattle. Pauling had been to Seattle many times, and had even driven north on I-5 into Vancouver, Canada. Beautiful, rugged country, she recalled. She’d never been on Whidbey Island, though.

  Was it where Jack Reacher died?

  Pauling shook the thought from her mind.

  Too soon to jump to conclusions. She had to admit though, the remoteness and ruggedness of the place would have drawn R
eacher to it. She could imagine him hitchhiking along the single highway that cut through the middle of Whidbey Island. Looking for a diner for a strong cup of black coffee. Maybe someone in trouble who needed help.

  Reacher always looked out for the little guy.

  It was one of the things about him that fascinated her. It just seemed like there weren’t men like Reacher around anymore.

  He was one of a kind.

  While Reacher was more than happy to stick a thumb out for a ride, there would be no hitching rides for Pauling.

  She would land in Seattle, get a rental car and make the drive. She checked her watch. By her estimation she would be in Pine Beach around dinnertime.

  It would give her an opportunity to talk to Chief Jardine face-to-face, as the phone conversation hadn’t been very effective.

  Later, she would check into her hotel room and grab a bite to eat.

  Pauling connected to her airline Wi-Fi account, for which she paid a premium. Her plan was to take a quick peek at the best restaurants in Pine Beach.

  Instead, a breaking news article popped onto her screen.

  Senator Noah Raskins had been assassinated.

  Pauling looked at the photo of the man.

  She knew him.

  For a brief, fleeting moment, she remembered that he had been a prominent part of certain military committees and her mind connected it with the body of a man who may or may not be Jack Reacher.

  Pauling saw in the story that the senator had been shot in California.

  She subtly scolded herself. There was no way someone killed Jack Reacher in Washington and then shot a prominent senator the next day.

  No way.

  For starters, she had no idea if the body was Jack Reacher. And secondly, she had no idea if he’d been hit by a car, or stabbed, or fallen off a cliff.

  So there was no reason to try to connect the two.

  Pauling laughed at herself. What the hell? Was she becoming a conspiracy theorist?

  She shut her laptop.