A Man Beyond The Law

by Dan Ames

  The white van with the single hospital logo on one side wound its way through the hospital’s campus and then carefully merged onto the freeway where it stayed in the slow lane and made no attempt to speed around slow traffic. Eventually, it took the exit for a road with a sign indicating that it led into the nearby state forest. The sign also indicated there was a boat ramp and campsites were available.

  Eventually, the van turned down a dirt road that skirted a small pond. Passing the public access boat ramp, the vehicle instead bounced along a secondary gravel road bordering a marshy area. There, it made a series of turns that steadily led away from any signs of human occupation, in the opposite direction of the camp areas.

  Finally, when the last road amounted to no more than a dim two-track choked with weeds and mud backing up into a stretch of tall grass with soft, mucky earth, it stopped.

  There, it carefully executed a U-turn, nearly getting stuck, until the vehicle was facing back toward the trail and its rear doors were several feet from a recently dug pit. During his scouting excursion, the driver had found the remote location and decided to do the hardest work ahead of time, which would also limit the risk of exposure.

  The driver exited the vehicle, opened the rear doors and climbed into the rear of the van. From inside his white jacket he withdrew a large hypodermic needle filled with a combination of sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide and potassium chloride, the triple-strength cocktail most often used in executions performed by lethal injection.

  He plunged the needle into the large man still strapped to the gurney. Moments later, the patient was dead.

  The gurney with its now lifeless body was pushed from the van and rolled directly into the freshly dug grave, sinking into the watery muck at the bottom of the trough.

  The driver’s hospital clothes and the hospital logo decal from the side of the van all joined the dead man in his final resting spot. Using the only other item from the van’s interior, a shovel, he shoveled mounds of moist dirt on top of the grave. The driver, wearing surgical gloves to avoid leaving prints, then tossed the shovel out into the pond, where it sunk from sight. He would throw the surgical gloves away after he ditched the van.

  Satisfied, the driver got back into the now generically white van, and drove away.

  Chapter Four

  Michael Tallon had been walking for two days. He wasn’t lost. Nor had his car broken down.

  For the last 48 hours, he had been recreating a forced march he’d endured nearly twenty years earlier, on one of his first missions. It had taken place in Africa, near the western edges of the Sahara Desert. His team, although he was not in command as he was still a young soldier, had nearly perished. The heat had been brutal and they’d been on the run from a much larger enemy force, with no hope of an extraction.

  It had been one of his most physically challenging experiences of his life.

  So, naturally, he’d wondered if he could recreate it. Now more than twenty years later. It was the kind of twisted physical challenges men like Tallon often dreamed up to stay fit.

  As he and his buddies were fond of pointing out back in their younger years, when the alpha males were constantly eager to challenge each other, things tended to “escalate quickly.”

  It didn’t matter to Tallon that he was much older and that his body had endured many hardships since that period of his life way back when. There had been broken bones, gunshot wounds, and a rusty bayonet jammed into his thigh, along with the usual bouts of strange illnesses from operating in foreign lands under hostile conditions.

  No, Michael Tallon simply didn’t believe age had anything to do with physicality. It was all mental. Aging was simply an excuse, in his mind.

  So now he swept down the southern edges of Death Valley, the heat well over one hundred degrees, and powered through the final hour of his march, reaching his adobe ranch house just before sundown. He checked his watch, and was disappointed that his two-day excursion had taken him nearly six hours longer than when he’d done it decades ago.

  Of course, back then, there had been bad guys with lots of guns chasing him.

  A little extra motivation.

  Tallon disarmed the extensive security system, went inside and drank deeply from a cold bottle of water. He was exhausted, filthy and extremely pleased the ordeal was over.

  He showered, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and ate slowly from the prepared meal he’d made for himself before he’d left. Just the right mixture of carbs, protein and fat. Not much, though. He would have to ease back into his meals.

  Although his body was exhausted and he dearly wanted to sleep, he stepped into his office and checked the security cameras. Everything was cloud-based, and if need be, he could scroll through all of the video and still images that had been taken. But there hadn’t been any activity during his trek.

  Finally, he decided to check his email.

  There were a dozen messages which he either read or immediately deleted.

  The last one was curious.

  It was from another mercenary he’d worked with in Europe years ago, and there was an attached image.

  Tallon hesitated.

  He knew computer viruses were often transmitted via attachments, but he also recognized the sender in this case, which gave him some measure of confidence he wasn’t about to open an infected file that would ruin his network. Plus, his software was loaded with special security measures that would block any malware.

  Tallon clicked on the image.

  A face filled his computer screen.

  At first, he couldn’t place it.

  But then the name linked cognitively with the pretty face staring back at him.

  Jessica Halbert.

  Chapter Five

  Morning in New York meant a full-contact walk to the office. It was only a few blocks from her condo, but Lauren Pauling loved the time outside. In fact, she often walked home for lunch just to get out of the filtered air.

  She stopped at the café next to her office building and bought a small coffee. No cream, no sugar. The barista, a young man with dark curly hair and expressive brown eyes, tried to flirt with her. She was flattered, but had a lot on her mind. Namely, the incredible size of the offer that had been made to buy her firm. She still couldn’t believe it, but for now, she pushed it from her mind. It wouldn’t do to be distracted from her current workload just because she was considering selling out.

  She flinched at the term. Selling out. Was that what she was doing? Selling out? Technically, she was simply considering an offer. But exactly who would she be selling out? Her employees would continue on their current roles.

  No, if she accepted the offer – and that was a big if – there would be no guilt. She had built the business by herself. So if it was her decision to sell, she only had to answer to herself.

  Pauling entered her own private office which consisted of a casual sitting area out front, and a separate private space in the back that housed her desk, computer, and guest chairs.

  When she entered her private space, her eyes were immediately drawn to the thick envelope on her desk.

  It was rare to receive a package this early in the morning. Ordinarily, FedEx didn’t make its first delivery of the day until mid-morning which meant this was either an international delivery by a different courier, or that it had been hand-delivered.

  The second thing Pauling noted regarding the package was its thickness. This was a serious collection of material. Either a thick book or two was encased in the packaging, or an extremely dense file. These weren’t totally out of the ordinary. She often received substantial case files from existing or potential clients.

  Pauling set down her briefcase on the desk, and took a drink from the cup of coffee. It was thick and rich, just the way she liked it.

  Pauling sat down and took a closer look at the package.

  The address label showed Pauling’s investigative firm’s location, with an address in Virginia on the return label.


  She used a letter opener to cut through the thick layers of tape.

  The envelope opened and Pauling slowly withdrew a set of thick folders, all held together by two thick, industrial-grade rubber bands.

  The top folder had a square label and in its center were a series of bold, block letters.

  Property of U.S. Army.

  Pauling’s brow furrowed. The army? Why in the hell would the army be sending her something?

  She took a deep breath and opened the folder.

  The first word in red leapt out at her.

  Homicide.

  Her eyes scanned the first document, looking for anything to do with her.

  And then, at the bottom, she saw a name listed as the investigating officer.

  Reacher.

  Chapter Six

  The driver of the counterfeit hospital van heard the screams.

  They were terror incarnate and all around him. The pleas for help were raw and ragged, coming from deep within the souls of humans consumed with extreme pain.

  The smell of burned flesh added a texture to the horror, as did the sound of laughter and shouted commands.

  In the distance, someone was playing American rock ‘n roll from a tiny boom box that had probably been made in the 1980s.

  People ran to and from. There was the sound of a vehicle starting its engine, the squawk of a handheld radio, in the distance, gunfire.

  Madness.

  Complete and total chaos had descended into a public hell.

  It took a minute to realize the screams were his own. He was crying and begging, pleading for his life. They were the shouts and cries of a madman.

  More importantly, they were ignored.

  His body was on fire. Both literally and figuratively. The odor of charred flesh clogged his nostrils and he thrashed wildly against his captors.

  They responded by stabbing him. His blood was being splashed across his own face. He could taste droplets in his mouth. Someone had smashed him in the face repeatedly with a crowbar and most of his teeth were gone. He had bitten down on his tongue and it too was bleeding. Blood poured from his mouth.

  Through the slits of his swollen eyes, he could see the knives.

  They reflected the flames of the fire that had been built in the center of the village. He’d lost track of how many blades there were. He simply knew that they were all different. A few short knives, a rusty machete, a bayonet that looked like it had possibly been used in the Second World War. It looked like whatever knife was handy, they had grabbed.

  There was a woman wielding a butcher’s knife going for his groin.

  They were stabbing him but they weren’t trying to kill him.

  Not yet.

  In fact, every time they cut him, they used a rod of superheated and repurposed rebar to cauterize the wound.

  They wanted him to live.

  So he could suffer as long as possible.

  His eyes were clenched shut but then suddenly, the music stopped. The sound of running footsteps ceased.

  He opened his eyes as best he could.

  A man stood before him with a wicked, curved blade. Razor-sharp, it gleamed in the orange glow of the fire.

  The man’s face was scarred and his teeth were missing.

  He felt someone grab his hair to stretch out his neck and then the man with the curved blade placed it against his throat.

  He closed his eyes.

  And opened them again.

  He saw the ceiling of the cheap motel room, smelled and felt the cloying sweetness of the sweat that covered his body, brought on by the same nightmare that had haunted him all these years.

  After a few minutes, the trembling stopped. The smell of his own burning flesh and leaking blood dissipated, leaving him cold and exhausted.

  But focused.

  It always had that effect on him.

  In the nightmare, he was helpless.

  Awake, he was motivated by a single, clear vision.

  Revenge.

  Chapter Seven

  Tallon poured himself a cup of coffee. He’d had some of the best sleep of his life. Walking for 48 hours straight tended to induce quality shut-eye. But now he was awake, and the smell of coffee had never seemed better to him.

  From his kitchen window, he saw the early morning sun creeping over the foothills that marked the beginning of Death Valley. He was reminded again of his choice to make this place his home. There had been some other considerations, namely parts of Montana and Idaho, but after touring the land there extensively, he decided against it. Tallon had also visited the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, a spot he’d been to previously, but also chose not to set up shop there. Mainly because of the long winters.

  Tallon preferred the heat over the cold.

  Which made his corner of the world perfect.

  While some might consider his choice of living near Death Valley an odd one, knowing his past, Tallon viewed it as life-affirming. The barren landscape, harsh conditions and vast empty spaces were an illusion; in reality the land was full of living creatures and Tallon was inspired by the powerful life forces he saw on display every day.

  There was nothing like fighting for one’s life to be reminded just how precious it could be.

  Now he took his coffee and sat in the leather club chair in his living room. It was his favorite room in the small home he’d acquired years before. It was a classic California adobe ranch, with white stucco walls and a Spanish tile roof. He’d practically gutted the interior of the place, fortifying it for security and adding some special storage rooms for guns and other equipment.

  But the living room was where he spent the most time, other than his home office. The room was large, with a spectacular stone fireplace, a mid-century Native American rug covering the floor, and original artwork, mostly oil paintings done by local artists.

  Against the backdrop of rustic ambiance, Tallon studied the smartphone in his hand.

  His mind went back to the email he’d received just when he’d returned from his two-day hike.

  The beautiful face of Jessica Halbert had looked back at Tallon.

  Of course he’d remembered her. How could he not? She was a stunner. One of the most naturally beautiful women he’d ever encountered. All of her good looks were genetic as opposed to being manufactured by heavy doses of cosmetics and skimpy clothing. Being in the army, she rarely wore makeup and the natural curves of her body were often concealed by dull green pants and baggy shirts.

  None of that mattered. She still turned heads wherever she went.

  Part of it was because she had the kind of looks that stopped men in their tracks, but it was also because she’d radiated a warmth and honesty that was rare. It wasn’t quite charisma, although she had a bit of that, too. It was more the recognition that when one met Jessica Halbert, they were meeting a good human being. Plain and simple.

  He had known her only briefly, years ago. They had worked on a joint mission – overseen by a shadowy task force no one involved was allowed to understand. It might have been any of the collective alphabet groups: CIA, NSA, DEA, SpecialOps. Who knew?

  Tallon had been one of the main players, Halbert had been support staff. After the successful completion of the mission, Tallon had made sure to bump into Halbert at the post-op drinking session, held in a local tavern near the army base from which the mission had originated.

  They’d had a little fling that lasted no more than a couple of days. The sex had been wonderful, but both knew that’s all it would be. Tallon wasn’t stationed at the base, Halbert was. Their lovemaking had been intense, genuine, and full of caring. They’d even made vague plans to see each other again when Halbert had some R & R.

  But it had never happened.

  Tallon set down his coffee cup and swiped his smartphone to open the home screen. He launched his mobile browser and typed Jessica Halbert’s name into the search window. He hit the return button and waited.

  It took a few moments, but the first search resul
ts from the web began to populate his screen.

  It didn’t take long for Tallon to understand what had happened to her.

  He set down his coffee and stared hard at his phone.

  She’d been murdered.

  Chapter Eight

  Due to death, retirement, and a shrinking pool of candidates eligible to meet the absolutely highest level of security clearances, their number was now down to three.

  Three men.

  Two white.

  One black.

  All of them were well past the point most call middle-aged. While none of them had begun to acquire additional padding around their waistlines, the three did share the development of the first vestiges of gray hair.

  They weren’t exactly humorless, in fact, the de facto leader of the group, the black guy whose name was Edgar, had been known in the past among the men under his command for his sharp wit and keen ability at satire. He could even do a fair impression or two.

  No, the situation had long ceased to be one in which mirth and light-heartedness were welcome.

  As both a group and individuals, the three men shared careers exemplified by staggering levels of success. Equally impressive was the fact that their portfolios of excellence were devoid of a single blemish.

  They were working very hard to keep it that way.

  The lone potential failure was the one they all shared and the reason for them meeting.

  Along with Edgar, there was Jacobs, a hawk of a man whose face consisted of sharp angles, and nearly colorless light blue eyes. His body was devoid of fat, instead, his arms, neck and forehead were corded with thick veins.

  The other man, Silvestri, was thick, dark and hairy. Known for his immense physical strength, he also possessed an animal cunning that had allowed him to survive scrapes that had taken the lives of many men not his equal.