by Dan Ames
“He’s dead,” Edgar said. “I’m sure of it.” His voice was a deep and rich baritone, he could adjust for maximum impact. It was a tool he had used often to aid his command.
“We all know you can’t be sure without a body,” Silvestri said. “We’ve made that mistake before.”
The electronic clock on the wall ticked once and the minute hand clunked onto the next mark. The sound echoed around the small room.
They were sitting in a conference room. It was only one of two spaces in the office that bore the name G & E Diversified Holdings, Inc. The name meant nothing. Some faceless minion in the vast government industrial complex had selected it, most likely from a list. Or maybe a bureaucrat figured having GE in the name would lend some sort of credibility.
It mattered little to the three men in the room.
They’d arrived separately, all of them driving dark SUVs with tinted, bulletproof windows.
The office itself consisted of a front door that only opened after biometric tests were passed. This included palm and retinal scans, as well as voice verification. There was an empty foyer where ordinarily a receptionist would sit, and the short hallway lead to the only space within which was now occupied by the three military men.
There was no rear entrance and the security system was military-grade.
“Agreed, but we can’t wait for the body to turn up,” Edgar pointed out. “We have to move forward based on some agreed-upon assumptions. My vote is to assume he’s dead and act accordingly.”
Jacobs rubbed his hatchet-like jaw. “He was a luxury. Someone to unwittingly perform the required footwork on our behalf. The entire time not knowing he was doing so. How are we going to replace him?”
“That’s the big question,” Edgar said. “The case was closed long ago. No one within the army is going to pick it back up unless we come up with an alternative solution.”
“What about the package?” Silvestri asked.
“What package?” Jacob countered.
“The day before someone blew up his car with him in it,” Silvestri lifted his chin toward Edgar. “Tell him.”
“Surveillance recorded him going into a mall that included a mail drop,” Edgar explained. “It’s possible he sent something to someone. By the time we got inside, he was already on his way out. Footage showed he had something with him, but it was under his coat. On the way out, it looked like it was gone. He had very little time to do anything else. Not even buy a coffee or make a phone call.”
“We’ve got people who can find out-”
“They’re already working on it,” Edgar cut off Jacobs. “We should know if he sent anything, and if he did, to whom it was sent. That information ought to be in our hands within twenty-four hours.”
“What is our alternate plan?” Silvestri asked. “I don’t like waiting. Waiting gets us nowhere.”
“I figured you would say that,” Edgar replied.
He pulled out a personnel file.
“Here’s what I’ve initiated.”
Silvestri and Jacobs glanced at the file and the face of the man looking back up at them.
Michael Tallon.
Chapter Nine
Pauling’s instincts were in full overdrive and all of them were throwing up red flags left and right.
She had no business being in possession of a classified army file, detailing what appeared to be a homicide case that bore the name of Jack Reacher. Pauling was fairly certain that it was illegal for her to even have the document.
It looked like a copy and not an original file, which made her feel a little better. She figured being in possession of an original government document was worse than a copy. Still, even copies of classified material were usually illegal to distribute, but she was no expert in that regard.
Nonetheless, she felt uncomfortable with the material staring back up at her. It shouldn’t be here, and she shouldn’t have it.
Yet, here it was.
Pauling sat back in her chair and sipped from her cup of coffee. She had a few options. She could tape the file back up and tell her secretary to send it back to the return address. Pauling could then claim that she hadn’t opened it and had simply returned it promptly.
Or, she could make a copy and send back the original copy she’d received. That would at least allow her to read it at her own speed.
The other things she could do was simply dive in and start reading to see if it wasn’t even worth the mental agitation.
Or she could toss the whole thing into the recycling bin and claim she’d never received anything.
Pauling knew she wasn’t about to destroy the documents, which could potentially create a whole new host of problems.
Instead, the right decision was to send it back to where it came from. She also instantly recognized the ability to compromise. Read the file, see what it’s about, and then send it back. She revisited the idea to make a copy of the copy, but that would put her on the same shaky ground.
She sent a note to her secretary to clear her schedule for the morning and then Pauling grabbed a fresh legal pad and pen, set it next to the package, and opened the file on top.
It was, indeed, a homicide report.
The victim was named Jessica Halbert, and she was a member of the army stationed on a base in Turkey. Her record showed no criminal misconduct. In fact, just the opposite. She’d been a success in all of her postings and had clearly been earmarked for greater things.
Pauling followed the narrative. Halbert had last been seen drinking at a local bar, left by herself, and then her body was later discovered in a forest nearby. She’d been raped and mutilated.
The suspect list was short. A few past boyfriends. Other people at the bar. Her personal items had been gone through, including her computer, email and social media accounts.
There had been no threats against her. No jealous ex-boyfriends. No sign of anyone wishing her harm.
Her cell phone had been the source of much time and effort among the investigators.
Reacher? Pauling wondered.
There had been nothing suspicious, save for a text message that had eventually been traced to a burner cell phone that was never used again. The message had provided next to nothing. It had simply been an agreement to meet outside the bar where Halbert was last seen.
The phone had certainly been destroyed, Pauling figured. And it had most likely belonged to the murderer. Which meant the killing had been premeditated, and not an act of passion.
She looked at the crime scene photographs and was glad she had skipped breakfast. They were as gruesome as one could imagine. Halbert’s official army photograph was part of the file and Pauling saw that she had been a strikingly beautiful woman.
In no way reflected by the shocking brutality of the crime scene photographs.
Pauling took a quick glance at the rest of the files. They were mostly interview reports and witness statements.
She would read them later.
No, what mattered to her now was Reacher.
Had this been his case?
Pauling studied the return address, fired up her computer, and entered it into Google maps.
It pulled up the address of a veterans military hospital in Virginia. Was Reacher a patient there? Had he been injured and sent her this file as a way of asking her to investigate the case?
If so, why not call?
Or, more his style, why not just show up? He knew where she lived and worked.
Pauling saw there was a phone number along with the hospital’s information, so she used her cell phone to call.
When the operator answered, she asked to speak to a patient named Jack Reacher.
After a few moments, the woman responded, “We have no patient here under that name. Might he be under a different one?”
Pauling remembered that Reacher used to check into hotels using the names of former Yankees baseball players. It was the kind of thing she knew he did to amuse himself.
Well, there was no
way she could guess the name that way.
Instead, she thanked the operator, hung up and considered her options.
Pauling had a lot on her mind. There was still the ridiculous amount of money she’d been offered for her firm.
There was a fairly large caseload she was overseeing, most of it being done by investigators on her staff. Still, the management took time.
Could she really afford to do what she was thinking of doing?
She got to her feet and stretched, took some deep breaths, and crossed the room to look out the window. The scene below was as busy as always. People rushing back and forth, trying to make a buck. Survival of the fittest and often the fastest.
Her mind went to Jessica Halbert. What had Pauling told herself last night about her DNA? That chasing bad guys was in her blood?
She returned to her desk, called her secretary and told her to postpone her meetings for the next two days and book her a flight to Virginia.
Pauling would go to the hospital and look for Reacher, or whomever sent the file.
Reacher could change his name, but he couldn’t really change his appearance.
You could spot him a mile away.
Chapter Ten
Alcohol. Sweet nectar to the minds of military men and women. Booze was as integral a part of the life of a soldier as saluting, chow and regulations.
No matter where the Army, Navy, Marines or Air Force went, sales of booze shot up.
It was a great thing for him. He knew all about it. Knew the lifestyle. He even knew the favored bars of groups within the military.
Like the one he was focusing on tonight.
A group within a group.
A small, select team compromised of only a few members and tonight, he was focusing on one.
Why?
After he’d taken care of the patient in the hospital and dumped his body in the swamp, and after a sleepless night filled with nightmares of torture and suffering, he’d regained his focus.
And tonight, his focus was on one with whom he shared a history that needed to be rectified. Plus, the soldier in question had a delightful young girlfriend.
She was a real beauty. He’d done his requisite surveillance and despite his best intentions had fantasized immediately about what he could do to her.
Her name was Dawn. Red hair, cut stylishly short. Pale skin as smooth as ivory. All delicious curves on full display thanks to yoga shorts that practically made her amazing ass and inviting butt crack perfectly visible. The half T-shirt she wore exposed a flat stomach and tiny waist.
Dawn was what men called a “spinner.” As in, get her in bed, sit her on top of you and spin away.
He watched Dawn and his target, a real blockhead named Doug Franzen, go into a bar called The Swing. Loud country music emanated from the place and there were vehicles parked everywhere, many of them four-wheel drive trucks and crotch rocket motorcycles.
The air smelled of beer, cigarettes and body odor.
This was a challenging situation for him. Not one he was afraid of, though. In fact, he took an incredible amount of pleasure from meeting the challenges of an operation like this.
Most of the important work had been done with makeup in his cheap motel room, putting on his “game face.”
He parked his nondescript sedan quite far from the entrance to the bar, noting the location of Franzen’s truck. He would need it later.
He crossed the parking lot and made his way inside the bar, ordering a beer from a female bartender wearing a straw cowboy hat and a thick flannel shirt. She was sweating profusely. Perhaps she was the source of the body odor smell.
Inside, the crowd was swelling. There was already very little room to maneuver and some of the things he’d used to blend into the crowd were already making him uncomfortable. He would have to move quickly while simultaneously conveying an air of perfect casualness.
Eventually, he made his way to where Franzen and Dawn were drinking. They had just returned from the dance floor and Franzen had chugged a huge pitcher of beer, with Dawn hooting by his side.
A waitress delivered more drinks to them and he sidled up next to Franzen.
“Don’t I know you?” he asked Franzen. He mentioned the name of a military outfit he knew Franzen had been a part of.
“Oh yeah, sure!” Franzen said drunkenly. He clearly didn’t recognize him, which was fine.
He grabbed the arm of the waitress and asked for shots of tequila.
He winked at Dawn, then dropped the names of some of the other men in the outfit. Franzen nodded along, clearly in the middle stages of intoxication.
When the waitress brought the drinks, he slid the vial of clear liquid from his pocket and into the palm of his hand. He, Franzen and Dawn tossed back the shots of tequila, but he threw his over his shoulder.
Dawn hooted again like a mentally challenged owl and she and Franzen engaged in a long deep kiss, during which he was able to pour the contents of the vial into Franzen’s beer.
He raised his own beer and proposed a toast. “To the buddies who didn’t make it back,” he said.
Franzen raised his beer and together, they chugged the contents of their respective bottles.
He turned away, as if he had other people to talk to, and Franzen did the same, probably embarrassed that he couldn’t remember the name of the buddy who’d just bought him some tequila.
It took a few minutes, but he saw in his peripheral vision Franzen stagger, and Dawn caught him before he fell.
He rushed over.
“Here, let me help,” he said.
“I don’t understand, Doug can drink anyone under the table.”
“Maybe he just needs some fresh air.”
Together, he and Dawn got Doug outside, which was no easy feat as they maneuvered the nearly comatose man through the crowded bar.
“Lower the tailgate on his truck, we’ll sit there until he comes around,” he told her, trying not to laugh.
Having her prepare the truck for him was highly enjoyable irony.
As he watched her incredible ass walk away from him, he turned to face Franzen.
“She’s a real hottie, Doug. It’s a shame you’re going to kill her tonight.”
Chapter Eleven
Tallon was perplexed.
He knew how incredibly difficult it was to trace anonymous emails. They could be sent from public IP addresses, routed through generic hosting accounts and automatically forwarded or deleted remotely.
Still, it bothered him.
Who had sent him a photo of Jessica Halbert, and why?
The obvious answer was that someone wanted him to discover that she’d been murdered. But what good would that do?
He’d certainly had nothing to do with her killing. According to the news reports he’d read, he wasn’t even in Turkey at the time of her killing. His passport would prove that, among other things.
Certainly, he’d never been contacted by anyone regarding her death, so he must not have been on the list of suspects. Nowhere had he seen a mention that the case had been solved, so it would either still be an active investigation, or filed as a cold case.
He booted up his computer and looked at the email again. There was no message, no subject, and the email address was a collection of letters and numbers that appeared to be a jumble, randomly chosen.
After some debate, he forwarded the email to a technology-savvy friend and asked if there was anything he could find out for him.
Tallon figured the answer would be no, but he had to try.
Once he’d fired off the message to his geek buddy, Tallon let his mind drift back to the mission in Turkey where he’d met Jessica Halbert. Like just about every operation he’d ever been a part of, things hadn’t gone as planned, yet the objective had been achieved. There’d been casualties, he remembered that.
Because the operation had been highly classified, there’d been no news reports of any kind. Additionally, the team had been relatively small in size and the
scope equally modest.
Knowing full well that a “normal” day of work for him was unlike anyone else’s. Still, he remembered quite clearly how everything had happened.
A terrorist cell had been identified, hiding in a small village across the border from Turkey in Syria. They’d done a smash and grab, lost one member of the team in the firefight, and been forced to leave one behind.
Afterward, they’d delivered the terrorist to a debriefing team and unloaded all of the information they’d been able to grab, including some computers and cell phones.
Back in Turkey, the team had celebrated with a few days off that included drinking, and for Tallon, a few nights with Jessica Halbert.
A few days later, he’d left Turkey and had never been back.
He really hadn’t thought about her since then.
Until now.
When someone had anonymously emailed him a photo of her.
Tallon wondered if it was an innocent mistake.
Deep down, he figured it wasn’t.
Chapter Twelve
They met again in the office of G & E Diversified Holdings, Inc. It was rare for the three men to meet as a group, in person, two days in a row. But these were important times.
And Edgar had news.
“Lauren Pauling.”
“Who the hell is Lauren Pauling?” Silvestri asked.
“She’s a former FBI agent turned private investigator,” Edgar explained. “She has a private firm in New York and does a lot of work for corporate, private and individual security. Only a few regular employees but she also employs a lot of specialist contractors. We also found out that she is currently sitting on a huge offer from one of her competitors.”
“What did he send her?” Jacobs asked.
Silvestri consulted his notes. “That was my responsibility. Found out that she received a package that weighed just under three pounds.”
“Files,” Jacobs replied.
