Jack Rabbit: Hunting Lee Child's Jack Reacher

Book 23: The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series

by Diane Capri

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Financial Thrillers

Synopsis

Trust no one. Find Reacher. Stay alive.

The next gripping Hunt for Jack Reacher Thriller from Diane Capri!

FBI Special Agent Kim Otto picks up where Lee Child leaves off after Night School, in novel #20 of the Hunt for Jack Reacher!

“Make some coffee. You'll read all night.” Lee Child

Trust no one. Find Reacher. Stay alive.

Blood sprays across an Arizona dive bar as FBI Special Agent Kim Otto's only lead is shot and killed before her eyes.

Kim's mission to find Jack Reacher dropped her into a lethal conspiracy run by ex-soldiers, war profiteers, and government ghosts.

Following the trail of her murdered informant, Kim runs straight into the kill zone. The Lone Wolf team strikes hard, fast, and silent.

Operatives execute anyone who gets too close. Desert sand runs red as the mercenaries hunt across borders.

Disgraced NSA Deputy Director Marian Sinclair goes rogue with billions in black money. Now Kim is the target. Lone Wolf mercenaries, government assassins, and the legendary Frances Neagley are closing in.

Reacher's dangerously capable former sergeant doesn't take orders from anyone.

Kim's FBI badge is worthless against enemies willing to ignite nuclear Armageddon. Her only hope may be Reacher himself, a vengeful force of nature already moving through the shadows with his own deadly agenda.

The clock is ticking. The bodies are mounting. She's out of time. She's out of allies. And she's not done yet.


Lee Child Gives Diane Capri Two Thumbs Up!
"Full of thrills and tension, but smart and human, too. Kim Otto is a great, great character - I love her." Lee Child, #1 World Wide Bestselling Author of Jack Reacher Thrillers including Worth Dying For and The Sentinel.

The Hunt for Jack Reacher series enthralls fans of John Grisham, Lee Child, David Baldacci, Michael Connelly, Karin Slaughter, Lisa Gardner, Lisa Reagan, Freda McFadden, Kiersten Modglin and more:

"Diane writes like the maestro of the jigsaw puzzle. Sit back in your favorite easy chair, pour a glass of crisp white wine, and enter her devilishly clever world." David Hagberg, New York Times Bestselling Author of Kirk McGarvey Thrillers

"Expertise shines on every page." Margaret Maron, Edgar, Anthony, Agatha and Macavity Award Winning MWA Past President and MWA Grand Master

Readers Love the Hunt for Jack Reacher Series and Diane Capri:

"All Child fans should give it a try!"

Award winningNew York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author DIANE CAPRI Does It Again in another Blockbuster Hunt for Jack Reacher Series Novel

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Release date: June 18, 2025

Publisher: AugustBooks

Print pages: 408

Sample

Chapter 1

Tuesday, July 5

Washington, DC

Dr. Marian Sinclair touched the gold NSA service pin on her lapel. The medal ceremony buzzed around her. The Director stood at the podium and recited Sinclair’s career highlights including operations from Europe to Kabul, intelligence breakthroughs, terrorist cells disrupted, billions in American dollars recovered.

When he finally stopped talking, the audience applauded politely. Sinclair smiled without warmth. Everyone understood exactly what had already happened. The ceremony was pure theater.

Twenty minutes before, Director Phillips had pulled her into a side room filled with agency flags and official seals.

“The President wants fresh blood for the position, Sinclair. Early retirement is your only option.” He had pushed an envelope across the table.

Sinclair had picked it up. Rage burned through her veins like molten lava. She’d been deputy director for more than a decade. First under Alfred Ratcliffe, a legend in the intelligence community. She’d been his right hand, serving with loyalty and dedication. Running operations while Ratcliffe handled Congress and mingled with the top Cabinet members as well as whoever happened to be sitting in the Oval Office at the time.

When Ratcliffe had retired, Sinclair expected to step up. Instead, they’d brought in Phillips from the outside.

“Fresh perspective needed,” Ratcliffe had said, although they both knew it was bullshit.

She’d swallowed that betrayal. Stayed on as Phillips’s deputy. Taught him the job. Covered his mistakes. Kept the agency running while he played politics and had affairs with the women who came through the agency like rotating players on a sports team that never wins.

Five more years of waiting, watching, building her case for taking the helm when Phillips moved on. Which he would. They always did.

And finally, Phillips was bumped upstairs. Sullivan’s turn had arrived.

But that didn’t happen.

They’d chosen Thomas Reid.

Sinclair’s stomach churned as her anger mounted.

“The ceremony stays confidential.” Phillips glanced at the door. “A final recognition.”

Her fingers tightened on the envelope. Two decades of preparation. Every sacrifice, every operation, every piece of intelligence, all of it aimed toward this moment.

Her moment.

First denied after Ratcliffe retired and now denied again.

A woman might be forgiven for thinking this was the infamous patriarchy at work. But Sinclair had never bought into that nonsense.

She had been a member of the inner circle for a long time. She completely understood the real problem.

Simply put, Sinclair was better at the job than all of them.

Better than Ratcliffe. Better than Phillips. And sure as hell better than the new guy, Reid, who could barely find his ass with both hands.

But nobody seemed to care about the quality of

the work. Promotions were never about the best woman for the job. There was always, always a hidden agenda.

The ceremony was almost done. Sinclair waited. The applause grew louder. Phillips approached with the medal. He leaned close as he pinned it.

“The cameras want a smile, Marian.”

She met his eyes. “You never planned to choose me, did you? Just like they never planned to let me have Ratcliffe’s job when they chose you instead.”

Phillips gave her a nod and concluded the ceremony as if he were tying the whole thing up with a bow. Sinclair balled her fists behind her, itching to smash him in the face. The idea lifted her mouth in the first real smile of the afternoon.

At the reception, agents circled with rehearsed compliments. Their words bounced off her like bullets off armor. She nodded and smiled while fury pulsed beneath her skin.

All those years as deputy director.

Passed over twice. Two times too many.

On the way out, Sinclair gave each of her former colleagues a decisive nod while she stared directly into their cold, hard eyes.

Screw her over, would they?

Betray her to promote mediocre substitutes for political expediency? Okay. They could do that, obviously. They just did.

Failing to kill her when they’d had the chance was a classic mistake. She wouldn’t go quietly into the night. Nope. Never happen. Not a chance.

The moment she could slip away unnoticed, she walked out and headed home.

Sinclair’s Georgetown apartment felt foreign, as if she were trespassing on her own ambitions. She packed light. Two changes of clothes, her laptop, essential documents. The rest could burn.

Twenty-five years of diplomas and awards and ceremonial photos stared from the walls. Ratcliffe’s retirement photo rested on her desk. Her mentor. Her friend. She’d thought.

She’d believed him when he said many times over the years, “You’ll run this place better than I ever did.”

Another lie.

Her secure phone buzzed. A text from Phillips.

Marian. Let’s talk tomorrow. This transition doesn’t need to be difficult.

The man had a set of brass balls, she’d give him that.

She deleted the text without response.

The old Marian Sinclair would have answered. The good soldier. The team player. The woman who stayed loyal after the Ratcliffe betrayal.

That woman had died in the ceremony room today.

One of the agency’s personnel files glowed on her screen. Thomas Reid.

Forty-eight. Yale grad. Ten years her junior. His record sparkled with successful NSA operations she had engineered while serving two directors who took all the credit.

“Your mentorship made this possible,” Reid had said, glass raised in her honor.

Just like Phillips had thanked her when he took Ratcliffe’s seat.

Reid’s words had burned her throat like acid.

A second phone vibrated. The encrypted one. GPS coordinates appeared, followed by a time. Four a.m. She knew the location. A private airfield outside Baltimore.

Sinclair opened her wall safe. Inside a black passport, credit cards, and bank documents under another name. Insurance against this day.

Ratcliffe had taught her to prepare for every contingency. She’d learned well.

Her doorbell rang. She froze.

No one knew she lived here except the past and present directors. Security protocols demanded secrecy.

The bell rang again.

“Dr. Sinclair?” A man’s voice. “Building maintenance. Water leak in the unit above you.”

She moved silently to the door. Checked the camera feed. Two men in maintenance uniforms. They’d turned their faces away from the camera’s view.

She scanned both men slowly. On the first look she noticed the truth.

The shoes were wrong. Both men were wearing combat boots. Not standard issue for the maintenance staff here.

personally implemented. She understood the nuances.

The agency had moved fast. But she moved faster.

Sinclair killed the lights. The emergency exit waited in her bedroom.

They thought they knew her. They knew nothing.

She’d kept her best strategies secret as she’d watched lesser agents come and go over the years. Tips she’d picked up from more seasoned agents after a long, successful career. At the time, her secrecy had simply felt necessary. She didn’t examine her motives too closely. Instead, she relied on instincts honed by years in the game.

Sinclair pressed a button to release the lock on the frame of the life-sized painting she’d bought in New Orleans long ago. Louis Armstrong holding his trumpet in the bayou with a quirky blue dog sitting nearby.

The lock released with a quiet click. Sinclair pushed the painting aside and slid open the bedroom window. A metallic crunch echoed from her front door.

The maintenance lie died fast.

They were breaking in.

Sinclair stepped out of the window and closed it again. She pressed the remote to return the Blue Dog to its place before she hurried along.

Chapter 2

Tuesday July 5

Washington, DC

The fire escape rattled under her feet. She descended three floors swiftly. Her muscles easily remembered decades of field training and responded accordingly.

Above her, boots scraped metal. They’d followed her path.

She hustled faster.

The alley opened ahead. A security camera blinked red on the corner. She walked straight toward it. Let them track her. Give them a sense of purpose, she grinned.

Her Lexus was parked two blocks away. She left it there to keep them busy with weak surveillance that would yield nothing.

A cab rolled past. She raised her hand.

“Union Station,” she told the driver.

His radio played soft jazz. She watched the mirror. No tail yet.

Phillips was using the tactical handbook she’d written herself years ago. The tactics were sound then and now.

Tactics were not the whole plan, though.

Phillips should have known that, too.

The station buzzed with late night travelers. She bought a ticket to New York with cash. Walked down the platform toward Track 4. Then she slipped into a maintenance door and out through the parking garage.

Her burner phone showed 11:40 p.m. Enough time until her appointment at the airfield.

Sinclair knew they’d watch every private plane within fifty miles. Phillips knew her methods because she’d trained him.

He wouldn’t vary the protocols. That would take skills, talent, imagination. All of which Phillips had missed because he was standing behind the door when vital attributes were passed out.

A bus pulled into the station. Baltimore glowed on its display.

She boarded with the others in line and sat near the back. Old tricks worked best. The agency trained agents to look for complex plans. They forgot the simple ones Ratcliffe had taught her.

Her encrypted phone vibrated.

Another message. They’ve activated ARGUS. Full surveillance net. Careful.

Her stomach tightened. ARGUS. Her greatest achievement at the agency. A surveillance web that connected every traffic camera, every ATM, every storefront security system into one AI-driven network.

ARGUS was excellent and damned near infallible.

She’d designed its algorithms herself. She’d built-in access points and blind spots only she knew about.

Now ARGUS hunted her, but she wasn’t worried. She knew what ARGUS would do and when.

ARGUS could not say the same about Sinclair.

The bus engine rumbled. Baltimore waited, ninety minutes away.

She closed her eyes but kept her body alert. The real work began at dawn.

Twenty years of secrets filled her memory. She knew where the bodies lay. Which deals bought which lies. How deep the corruption went. She’d watched it all from the deputy director’s chair, serving too many who climbed over her to reach the top.

Phillips and his chosen ones would learn. Power didn’t come from titles. It came from knowing the truth. And no one knew more truth than she.

encrypted phone lit up again. New coordinates. A closed gas station off I-95.

The bus wheezed to a stop outside Baltimore.

Sinclair counted four unmarked NSA vehicles in the parking lot. She smiled. Agency procedure was to cover the major transit points. Which meant they were following the standard playbook. The one she’d created.

She stayed in her seat. The bus continued north.

When the bus parked at a rest stop, she ducked into the toilet while a cluster of sleepy passengers went outside.

The tiny bathroom was a tight squeeze. Fortunately, she’d maintained her field fitness. She was taller than most, but no wider. Pride had kept her training even after they stuck her behind a desk.

Stretching to see through the narrow window above the toilet, she quickly spied the blue pickup truck waiting by the dumpsters.

She slipped out the back door of the bus. Hands shoved into her pockets, hood up to shield her features from prying eyes, she hustled to the truck. Keys were under the front tire, as promised. Her network of contacts had stayed reliable. Or maybe they hadn’t heard she’d been kicked out the door yet.

The truck smelled of cigarettes and fast food. Perfect cover, although she almost gagged on the stench.

Sinclair fired up the engine and pulled away from the rest stop. She checked her watch. Two-fifteen a.m. The rain fell harder now, but the tires were good enough.

The agency would expect to intercept her at private airports. Looking for chartered planes and fake documents. Old protocols.

But she’d written those protocols, too. And she’d left herself backdoors.

The gas station sign glowed ahead. A single car sat by the darkened building. Right make and model. She pulled in and dimmed her bright lights.

A man stepped from the car. Tall, precise in his movements, wearing a tailored coat suggesting European refinement.

She recognized him easily.

Klaus Weber. Former Deutsche Bank executive. Seven years ago, she’d tracked a complex derivatives scheme that would have destabilized three currencies.

Instead of destroying him, she’d turned him. His financial network became her entre into the world of hidden money.

After knocking the rain from his coat, he slid into the passenger seat and closed the door.

“Your timing is exact,” he said approvingly in German as he checked his watch. “Four minutes to spare.”

She took the envelope he offered. “They’re using ARGUS.”

“As expected.” Weber’s eyes narrowed. “The blind spots you built into the system remain active?”

“Three hundred and twelve of them. Invisible unless you know where to look.” Sinclair smiled. “The harbor cameras will show static at 5 a.m. Which will be interpreted as routine maintenance.”

“Duration?”

“Seven minutes. Precisely.”

Weber nodded. 

She slipped a cargo manifest from the envelope. A container ship was leaving Baltimore harbor at dawn tomorrow. Destination Hamburg. The crossing would take two to four weeks. But she wasn’t worried about that. NSA would board the ship in a couple of days to find her missing. Which would save him from pushing her overboard.

Phillips wanted her dead. Sinclair’s plan might keep him satisfied long enough.

“Your cabin is prepared. No digital trace,” Weber said with satisfaction.

It was a feint. Sinclair would not be on the ship. But the NSA would believe she’d left the country, which would give her a bit of room to move.

Sinclair studied the manifest. “The accounts?”

“The patterns confirm your analysis. Money moves in specific sequences. Always the same banks. Always the same timing.” Weber spoke like he was dissecting a balance sheet. “The numbers tell a story. One that goes back to Ratcliffe’s time.”

The rain drummed on the truck’s roof. Weber checked his phone.

“Search radius expanding. Time to move. Stay in touch. Let me know when you get to Hamburg. I’ll keep my ear to the ground, just in case.” He stepped out of the truck and blended into the scenery.

Sinclair flipped the windshield wipers on again and slipped the transmission into drive. ...