The Jack Reacher Cases_A Man Made For Killing
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Book One in The JACK REACHER Cases
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The Jack Reacher Cases (A Man Made For Killing)
Dan Ames
The JACK REACHER Cases (A Man Made For Killing) 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 or publisher.
Copyright © 2017 by Dan Ames
All rights reserved.
Published by Slogan Books, Inc., New York, NY.
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Contents
A MAN MADE FOR KILLING
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
About the Author
Also by Dan Ames
A MAN MADE FOR KILLING
THE JACK REACHER CASES
BOOK #3
by
Dan Ames
It is much more difficult to avoid wickedness,
for it runs faster than death.
-Socrates
Chapter One
The body washed ashore in pieces.
Each successive wave brought fresh evidence of a unique horror inflicted upon what was once a young woman.
When the tide receded, hours later as dawn began to break, the first of the gulls appeared overhead.
Simultaneously, a man emerged from the early morning fog. He ran with a slow purpose along the beach.
His name was Michael Tallon.
He was used to death.
He’d seen it in Iraq. Then again in Afghanistan. And in a few other places in the world he wasn’t allowed to talk about.
Even here on San Clemente Island, a remote barrier island off the coast of California, he knew he wasn’t immune to it. It was here that special forces personnel often spent a great deal of time. Sometimes they came here to train. Other times, it was their first stop back from duty overseas. They came here first because it was a safe place to begin the decompression process. Not safer for the special forces, safer for the people around them.
Still, even among professionals, accidents happened. And other things did, too, that weren’t always accidents.
Running on San Clemente Island was not to be undertaken lightly. The island was quite large, nearly twenty-five miles long and five miles wide. It had been used as an artillery range by Navy ships for decades. Now, it was a place shared by many different groups of the military. Some who knew each other. Some who didn’t.
And the public hardly knew about the place at all.
The ground was still full of ordnance, some of it unexploded.
Tallon was a pro and he had spent a lot of time on the island. He knew when and where to run.
One of those spots was along the Western coastline of the island. It was hard to get to and you could see where you were putting your feet.
So now, he turned up his pace as he neared the halfway point of his out-and-back run.
The morning sun was barely up and it was cold, yet sweat glistened on Tallon’s forehead and his legs were slick.
San Clemente Island really didn’t have a beach per se, simply larger outcroppings of rock with patches of sand here or there. This section of the island was the closest to being an actual beach and Tallon powered his way down the sand to the edge of the water.
As he slowed to a stop he noticed a large pile of sea cabbage, a frequent deposit found on the rocks. But a flash of white caught Tallon’s eye and he went closer to the clump.
His breath slowed and he felt the warmth of the sun as it began to burn through the faint morning mist.
Tallon stopped.
He realized the small pile wasn’t cabbage at all.
It was the shredded remains of a torso.
A female torso, as he recognized the sight of one breast that remained intact on the body.
He let out a long breath and looked around.
There was no one else here.
Tallon stepped closer to the remains and noted there were more deposited in a rough line along the remains of the outgoing tide.
He could make out chunks of human flesh. A severed limb that was most likely an arm.
Shark.
The island was surrounded by great white sharks, Tallon knew. You often saw them from the plane that brought personnel out from Los Angeles. Flying overhead you could frequently see the huge sharks, never swimming together, but on the prowl for the sea lions that made their home at various points along the shore.
The wounds on the torso were clear. Shredded skin that could only be a shark. He didn’t know if it was a great white or not, but whatever it was had done its damage.
The rest was a mystery. There were no surfers out here. No one swam for recreation. Hell, even the Navy guys were careful about going in the water.
And then Tallon’s breath caught in his throat.
Because he was looking at the foot that was partially covered with sand.
Peeking out of the sand was the top of a tattoo.
The ink on the skin was a rendering of a bird’s wings.
Tallon let out the breath that he had been holding.
A chill went through his body.
He knew who she was.
Chapter Two
“Jack Reacher needs your help.”
Those were the words that had brought Pauling from New York to northern Wisconsin to meet with one of the wealthiest men in the country, Nathan Jones.
Now, Pauling drove her rental car, an SUV, up the long, winding drive to the sprawling log home that looked out over Barrel Lake. It was a private lake with only one home located on its shores.
It was a classic log home, but on a grander scale than most had ever imagined. It had a towering entrance
with twin posts and a large steeped roof. There was an intricate carving above the front entrance, bigger than most double garages.
Pauling parked her vehicle on the circular drive, just past the entrance. Barrel Lake was reflected in the dozens of panoramic windows facing out from the house. A steady breeze blew in from the lake and in the distance, she saw a few whitecaps. The wind had picked up, and the fishing wouldn’t be as good.
As Pauling walked to the front door she considered Nathan’s call.
Her first thought was surprise that Jack Reacher needed help from her. More accurately, that Jack Reacher needed help, period.
Reacher was a guy who could handle anything on his own.
And most likely, had.
Still, Pauling was intrigued enough to meet with Nathan Jones. He had promised first-class accommodations and a week’s worth of pay just to meet with him.
Pauling had done her research.
Nathan Jones had made a fortune in the paper business, the lumber business and the stock market, in that order. Not only did he own Barrel House, the name of his estate that referred to his love of blues music, but he had an apartment in Manhattan and a penthouse condo in the Florida Keys.
Pauling walked up to the deck that had sweeping views of the lake, and noticed her reflection in the huge bank of windows and sliding glass doors.
She was still in great shape. Over the years she’d had a lot of self-defense training and in addition to traditional workouts, she frequently dropped in on martial arts classes to keep her reflexes sharp.
The woman looking back at her was in good shape, with light, blonde hair cut short but stylish, a lean face with startling green eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray Ban aviator sunglasses.
Pauling peeked inside the house through the sliding glass doors.
Nathan Jones stood in the great room, looking out toward the lake, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He waved Pauling inside.
“Hello,” she said.
“Lauren Pauling, thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Thank you for the invitation.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Sure,” she said. “Whatever you’re having.”
He nodded and went to a sideboard where a decanter of whiskey and several glasses sat.
Pauling studied him as he poured her drink. Nathan was a big man, with broad shoulders and just a bit of gut beginning to hang over the edge of his pants. But he had a fine head of silver hair, ruddy cheeks, and the presence of a man who was used to getting things done. And getting them done his way.
Nathan returned with a drink in hand. He gave it to Pauling and then took a seat in one of the big chairs that flanked the main window looking out at the lake.
Pauling chose a chair across from him.
“So you said Jack Reacher needed help,” Pauling said.
“Yes,” Jones said. “I asked him to do a favor for me, and now he says he needs your help.”
Pauling shook her head.
“Hard to believe, but I’ll play along,” she said. “What does he need help with?”
“It’s about my daughter, Paige,” Nathan said. “I’m sorry to be blunt, but she’s dead.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Pauling said.
“What happened?” she asked.
“They say she drowned,” Jones answered. He took a drink of liquor. “The story is she drowned and then sharks attacked her. Or vice versa.”
His voice trembled briefly before he regained his composure. Pauling noted the sarcastic emphasis Jones had placed on the word story.
“She was working on San Clemente Island,” he said. “Studying the Shrike. It’s a kind of endangered bird.”
“San Clemente?” Pauling thought the name sounded familiar but she couldn’t place it.
“It’s one of the Channel Islands off the coast of southern California. Owned by the Department of Defense.”
“Was she working for the government?”
“No. That species of bird is endangered. Paige was working for the Bird Conservatory. They have a whole program out there to basically protect the bird population and try to get it to grow.”
Pauling took a sip of Scotch. It wasn’t her kind of drink, but it gave her a little time to think.
“When did this happen?” she asked.
“Six weeks ago.”
Pauling straightened in her chair.
“Six weeks ago?”
“Yes. It took me awhile to determine the quality of the investigation.”
“The police are investigating?”
“That’s just it, they aren’t.”
Suddenly, Pauling was struck by where the conversation was going.
“I see,” she started to say.
“It’s all bullshit,” Jones finally blurted out. He had seen the realization in her face.
“What’s bullshit?”
“Everything the cops told me,” Jones said.
“That she drowned?”
“Paige didn’t drown,” Jones said, his voice as harsh as sandpaper. He tossed down the rest of his Scotch and banged his glass down on the table next to his chair.
“She was murdered.”
Chapter Three
Pauling wasn’t sure she had heard right. She figured Nathan Jones was a pragmatic man. A mourning parent often had the inability to think clearly.
Pauling chose her words carefully. She had seen more than her fair share of death and killing. It was instinctive to believe that accidents just can’t happen – that a loved one can’t be dead just by a cruel twist of fate. It gave comfort, in an odd way, for family members to believe that it had been a part of someone’s plan.
But she had her doubts about this one.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
He held out his thick hands and grabbed his pointer finger.
“One. Paige was not a swimmer. Not even close. The only time she ever enjoyed getting in the ocean was in the Caribbean,” he said. “And even then, she liked to stay shallow where she could see the bottom. When we went snorkeling she absolutely did not want to go out into deeper water.”
“I can see that,” Pauling said.
“Hell, half the time when we were traveling she didn’t even want to swim in the goddamned hotel swimming pool. No way she would have gone out into that water. No way in hell,” he said. His face was flushed and his voice had grown in both volume and intensity.
Pauling knew instinctively that what he was saying he unequivocally believed to be true.
“Two,” Nathan continued. “We did some research. That water around San Clemente, at that time of year, is absolutely freezing. It’s ice cold. There’s just no way in hell Paige, who didn’t like the water all that much to begin with, would suddenly decide to swim in fifty degree water. Absolutely no way in hell that was happening.”
That made sense to Pauling. She’d spent more than her fair share of time in southern California. The water was usually pretty cold.
“And three, that water around the island is not conducive to swimming,” Nathan concluded. “First of all, there are a ton of sea lions around the island so there are about a bazillion sharks. And not the little bitty ones like you see in Florida. I’m talking the big boys. Great whites. Even the Navy guys who train there don’t like to swim. And two, the water isn’t very clear. In some spots it might be. But in most, it’s not. So you tell me, would a girl who doesn’t like to swim suddenly decide to jump in water that’s ice-cold, murky, and full of sharks?”
To avoid answering, Pauling took another drink of her Scotch.
“No,” Nathan said. “Absolutely not.”
“What if she had gone out on a boat? Fallen off the boat and then drowned?”
“Whose boat?” Nathan countered. “Why didn’t they alert the authorities? I checked, there were no missing boats during that time period. No sailboats gone missing. Plus, Paige had been working on the island.”
“So what
do you think happened?” Pauling asked. Nathan Jones had already done a lot of thinking and researching.
He finished off his glass of liquor before speaking. “What I think is that someone killed her and dumped her body out in the ocean and then let the sharks destroy the evidence.”
Nathan slammed his empty glass down onto the table next to his chair.
“In fact, that’s not what I think happened. That’s exactly what happened. I know it more than I’ve ever known anything in my life.”
He pointed his thick finger at her.
“That’s why I got in touch with Jack Reacher. And now I need you to go out there and help him.”
Jones leaned forward, the intensity coming off him in waves.
“You and Jack Reacher need to find the bastard who killed my daughter.”
Chapter Four
“Here’s why you and Reacher are the perfect pair to get the bottom of what happened to my daughter,” Nathan said.
Pauling figured Nathan Jones was a master of negotiation so she sat back and listened.