Jumping Jack: Hunting Lee Child's Jack Reacher

Book 24: The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series

by Diane Capri

Genres: Vigilante Thrillers; Financial Thrillers

Synopsis

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

FBI Special Agent Kim Otto picks up where Lee Child leaves off on the Hunt for Jack Reacher!

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

Jake Reacher's ex-girlfriend fell into a world she was never meant to touch. Now she's being hunted by teams with orders to kill her.
Today.
When Jake can't reach his Uncle Jack, he needs FBI Special Agent Kim Otto.
Otto pulls every lever she can reach to save Valerie's life while her former partner, Carlos Gaspar, hits the ground running in Miami. She drives the investigation from the moment Jake makes contact.
Every secret they pry open triggers lethal force and Otto recognizes the fingerprints on this black ops pattern. She suspects who's wielding the real power here, and Jack Reacher is never far from the consequences.
Jake arrives as the war hits full speed, and together they fight to keep Valerie alive.
Gaspar, Otto, and Jake have one last chance to stop the killers.


If they fail, Valerie dies before sunrise.


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, Frieda 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

Read more

Release date: December 15, 2025

Publisher: AugustBooks

Print pages: 150

Sample

CHAPTER 1
Monday, July 21
Miami, Florida
When the call came in, the air conditioner was rattling against the window frame
as it pushed cooler air around inside Carlos Gaspar’s home office. July in Miami.
The heat and humidity never quit. Sweat stuck his shirt to the chair as he
adjusted positions to take the pressure off his wrecked body.
Gaspar’s office was as well-equipped as a software development lab. Monitors
hummed on the walls. Laptops rested on the desk. Beside them were scanners,
printers, and what looked like enough cables and power strips to outfit a small
server farm.
He spent most of his days and nights at the desk since he’d retired from the
FBI. After he’d been shot in the line of duty years ago, he rarely slept and the
office had become his sanctuary.
The rest of the family kept normal hours in other parts of the house. His wife,
Marie, their four daughters, and the new baby boy, Juan. Gaspar loved them like
crazy. He’d do anything to keep them safe. The home office was great for that.
He reviewed three new case files. All cold. All boring. Skip traces for an
insurance company in Tampa. A background check for a law firm in Coral Gables.
Asset search for a divorce attorney in Brickell. Same old, same old.
He’d traded the FBI for a job at Scarlett Investigations, a high-end
investigations firm located in Houston. The remote desk work was okay, and the
money was certainly a lot better than he’d ever made being a public servant 

But some days he wondered if he’d made the right choice. He missed field
work. Simple as that.
His daughters’ voices carried from somewhere in the house. Laughter. An
argument about trivial transgressions by the youngest one. A door slammed and a
second door slammed afterward. The usual chaos.
Marie’s voice cut through, calm and patient. She’d been managing chaos at
home alone for years and seemed comfortable with the role. Which was more than
okay with Gaspar.
His phone rang. The sound cut through the noisy house.
He checked the screen. Unknown number. Could be his former partner, FBI
Special Agent Kim Otto. She changed burner phones like they were dirty coffee
cups.
Could also be a potential client. Or a robocall.
His crystal ball was too cloudy on this one. He shrugged and picked up.
“Gaspar.”
“Hey, it’s Jake Reacher,” he said. “Got a minute? I need a favor.”
Gaspar arched both eyebrows all the way to his hairline.
Joe Reacher’s kid. Jack Reacher’s nephew. Like his old man and his uncle in
ways that mattered. Army. Smart. Solid.
Mostly, Jake was young and untrained, but his heart was squarely in the right
place, which went a long way with Gaspar.
Both Gaspar and Otto agreed that Jake would become useful.
Gaspar wondered how long that would take.
He had worked with Jake twice before. If Jake was calling now, he had a
serious problem he couldn’t resolve quickly alone.
“What’s wrong?” Gaspar asked.
“Got any free time today?” Jake’s voice was controlled, but stress leaked
through anyway.
“Where are you?”
“Officer Candidate School in Georgia. I’m locked in here for another forty-eight
hours,” Jake said. “Can’t leave. I tried every angle. My CO won’t budge.”
Gaspar pulled his keyboard closer, but he didn’t commit. “What’s the problem? 

“Her name is Valerie Nash. We dated in college. She called me. Said she needed
advice.”
“What kind of advice?”
“Her mother died years ago. Valerie’s been going through her mother’s
belongings. Getting ready for the anniversary memorial. She found something. She
wouldn’t tell me what. Just said she had located disturbing evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“About her mother’s death. She thinks something about it doesn’t add up.” Jake
paused.
Gaspar’s fingers flew over the keyboard taking notes. “Not that uncommon.
Kids who lost parents at a young age can refuse to accept it for years. Decades,
even.”
“Yeah, well, she wasn’t that young. Thirteen, I think. She seemed like she’d
moved on when I knew her. But her father is Lloyd Nash. Defense contractor.
Major player. Hundreds of millions in government contracts. Serious connections in
DC.” Jake exhaled hard. “He’s the kind of guy who has his fingers in a lot of pies.
He won’t like it if Valerie stirs up any kind of trouble.”
Gaspar agreed. Everyone connected to the defense industry knew Lloyd Nash.
Nash Defense Systems had contracts with the Pentagon, the State Department, half
the alphabet agencies, and most of the world.
The kind of company that didn’t make mistakes and buried them when they
happened. And Lloyd Nash was the kind of loose cannon nobody wanted to cross.
Already Gaspar felt sorry for Valerie, and he didn’t even know her.
“Why didn’t you call Otto?” he asked.
Otto had discovered Jake’s existence and saved his life more than once. She
was also fit for duty and still employed by the FBI. Jake would be a lot better off
with Otto. No question.
“I did call her. No response. I tried to reach my uncle, too. No luck. Besides,
you’re closer to the problem. You can get there quickly,” Jake said without humor.
“What do you need from me?” Gaspar asked.
“Valerie Nash is in Miami. She’s meeting someone tonight at six o’clock. Guy’s
supposed to help her. I don’t know who he is or what he’s supposed to be able to
do. I also don’t know where she’s meeting him. She wouldn’t give me details over
the phone.” Jake’s frustration was obvious. “I’m trying to get emergency eave. I can
fly down there as soon as I have my orders. But that could be hours away, if I get
them at all. Val needs us now, before she gets herself into the kind of trouble she
can’t handle.”
Gaspar checked his watch. Four hours until the meeting. “Send me what you
have.”
“Already done. You should have encrypted emails waiting on your private
server now.”
Gaspar’s system pinged three times. Sealed messages from Jake appeared on the
screen. Gaspar decrypted and opened them with a few clicks.
The first was a photo of a woman in her twenties. Jake’s age. Dark hair pulled
back in a ponytail. Wide brown eyes. Strong features. High cheekbones. Square jaw.
She stared at the camera without smiling. Serious. Determined. Or maybe just tired.
The second message showed an address in Miami Beach. A phone number with
a 305-area code. Vehicle registration for a white Honda Civic. Three years old.
Florida plates.
The third message was a recent photo of Lloyd Nash. Short, stout, scowling.
Expensive but casual attire. The kind of man Gaspar had spent his entire career
navigating around. Men who expected people to jump when commanded.
“Got everything,” Gaspar said.
“Will you help?”
Gaspar looked at the photos again. Valerie Nash didn’t look like someone who
scared easily. It was obvious what Jake liked about her. But he wouldn’t have
called if he wasn’t worried.
“Yeah. I’ll find her and hang onto her until you arrive. Shouldn’t be that
difficult,” Gaspar said, mostly because Otto would have his head if he allowed Jake
to get over his skis.
Jake Reacher was Otto’s ace in the hole, she’d said more than once. He’d
finished basic training and moved on to OCS, so he’d learned some skills. But he
was still wet behind the ears.
Gaspar couldn’t let him blunder into the wrong places. Otto wouldn’t like it
and neither would his uncle. Pissing off Jack Reacher wasn’t a recipe for a long
and happy life.
“Call me when you know something. Doesn’t matter what time.” Relief flooded
Jake’s voice, as if he’d been unsure Gaspar would or could rise to the challenge.
Truth was, Gaspar wasn’t sure he could do it, either. “Roger that.”
“I owe you, man. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Jake hung up.
Gaspar set the phone down on the desk. He studied the photo of Valerie Nash
for another moment. Then he pulled up his contact database on one of the laptops.
Names scrolled across the screen. Former FBI colleagues. Miami PD contacts.
Private investigators. Bail bondsmen. Skip tracers. Informants.
He had four hours to locate a woman he’d never met. Four hours to figure out
what danger she was in and to make sure she stayed alive long enough for Jake
to get there and take the handoff.
His bad leg throbbed as it always did when he sat for too long. He shifted in
the chair to ease the spasms and then ignored them as he worked.
His first call went to a bail bondsman who knew every skip tracer and bounty
hunter in South Florida. Woody Brown answered on the second ring.
“Gaspar. Long time no chat, man,” Woody said.
“Yeah, you know how it is. I need a locate and you’re the best,” Gaspar
replied.
“You don’t need to butter me up. Not after all you’ve done for me. Who is it?”
Gaspar nodded. “Woman, late twenties, white Honda Civic. Believed to be in
the Miami Beach area. Name is Valerie Nash.”
Woody was quiet for three seconds. “Popular girl. That name just came up.”
Gaspar’s fingers stopped on the keyboard. “When?”
“About two hours ago. Guy was referred to me, he said. Called asking if I
knew anyone who could find her. He was willing to pay premium rates for quick
work.” Woody paused. “He seemed both worried and angry. Said it was a family
matter. Father looking for his daughter.”
“Where’d you send him?”
“Best three trackers I know in Miami. He hired them all,” Woody replied.
“Client is Lloyd Nash. We gonna have a problem?”
“Possibly.”
“Check your server. I sent you what I got from him and the names of the
three guys I recommended. But you didn’t hear any of this from me. He’ll have
my ass if he finds out,” Woody said before he hung up.
Gaspar checked the clock. The situation was already out of hand. Lloyd Nash
had a two-hour head start. Professional trackers were already looking for Valerie.
Gaspar reviewed the intel from Woody. He knew these guys by reputation.
They had resources. Contacts. Experience.
Which meant they’d find Valerie well before six o’clock. Damned embarrassing
if they didn’t.
Unless Gaspar found her first. 

 

CHAPTER 2
Before he could head out, he needed more intel. Gaspar quickly pulled up his FBI
database access. He kept his clearances up to date and he still had friends in the
right places.
He typed Valerie Nash into the search field. Hit enter. The system started.
Three monitors glowed and flashed as they worked.
The results loaded fast. He scanned through them quickly.
No arrests. No outstanding warrants. Not even a traffic ticket in the past five
years.
He clicked through the screens.
Employment history showed she worked as a marketing coordinator for a tech
startup in Brickell. Decent salary. Nothing remarkable. She rented an apartment in
Ft. Lauderdale. Modest rent. Far below what she could afford if her father was
supporting her. Which probably meant Nash wasn’t sharing his considerable wealth
with his only kid.
“Living within her means,” Gaspar muttered. “That’s rare these days.”
Valerie Nash owned a three-year-old Honda. Paid her bills on time. Credit score
in the seven hundreds. The data presented a picture of a responsible adult who
didn’t rely on daddy’s money.
Which made Gaspar wonder why not. Daddy had plenty of money and only
the one kid. Why was Valerie so ambitious?
He opened another screen and searched for her mother, Vivian Nash.
First thing up was the death certificate.
Cause of death was listed as drowning.
He clicked deeper into the files to a police report for a single-vehicle accident
on the Rickenbacker Causeway at two in the morning. Vivian Nash’s car went
through the guardrail into Biscayne Bay.
Vivian drowned inside the vehicle before rescue arrived.
Gaspar read through the entire file twice, which only took a few moments. The
report and the evidence were thin. Very thin.
Traffic scene investigators reported no skid marks, suggesting Vivian had not
tried to stop. Nor did they find evidence of mechanical failure.
The pathologist found no drugs or alcohol in Vivian’s system.
The investigating officer concluded she fell asleep at the wheel.
Case closed in less than a week.
Gaspar sat back and stretched out. He’d never been a local cop or worked
traffic accident investigations. But he’d read enough reports to know the timeline
was wrong.
Even a clean car crash case with fatalities took longer to close than Vivian’s.
Paperwork. Witness interviews. Vehicle inspections. Insurance company involvement.
Do it once and do it right was Gaspar’s motto. Vivian’s case couldn’t possibly
have been properly finished in five days. Not even close.
This one wrapped up like someone wanted it buried fast. Way too fast.
He flipped through the screens until he found the lead investigator’s name.
Detective Scott Jacob. Miami-Dade PD. Retired now.
Gaspar would track him down if he had the time.
He went back to Vivian’s insurance records. The life insurance policy was
purchased three years before his wife died. The benefit payout went to her
husband, Lloyd Nash. Two million dollars.
Gaspar leaned farther back in his chair. It creaked under his weight.
Two million dollars in life insurance was both excessive and not. It was a lot of
insurance for a wealthy family who could afford to bury its own.
Surely Nash didn’t need an extra two million. Chump change to a guy like
that.
And the timing bothered Gaspar. The life insurance policy was purchased three
years before Vivian’s death. Probably to get past the standard exclusions for early
death. Made sure the policy would pay out.
He glanced at the clock. Time was flying past at an alarming speed.
Quickly, he searched for Lloyd Nash’s financials in the public records. Which didn’t yield much. Nash Defense Systems was privately held. No SEC filings. No
public disclosure requirements.
But property records showed Nash owned several homes. Three in this
hemisphere. Miami. Aspen. The Bahamas. All mortgaged and regularly refinanced
over the years.
Lloyd Nash seemed successful. But he was leveraged. Heavily.
Maybe he had needed the two million back when Vivian died after all.
A text message from an FBI contact in the financial crimes unit popped up on
the screen.
Lloyd Nash. Clean on paper. Rumored to be overextended. Word is he’s hunting
for capital. Big deal pending. Needs cash.
Gaspar’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Thanks. I owe you.
The reply came fast. You owe me more than either of us can count. But who’s
counting?
Gaspar grinned. He pulled up his tracking software. Entered the phone number
Woody sent for Valerie.
The system pinged. A red dot appeared on the map. Miami Beach. The signal
was stationary. Had been for the past six hours.
Was she there or had she left her phone behind and switched to a new
burner?
He cross-referenced the location with property databases. The ping showed at a
mid-range Miami hotel. The kind of place that took cash and didn’t ask questions.
“Smart girl,” Gaspar said to the empty room.
He checked his watch. He’d been working for forty minutes.
He stood and walked to the closet. His leg complained. He ignored the pain and walked it off, like he always did.
Gaspar’s go bag sat on the shelf where he always kept it. Already packed.
Weapon. Extra magazines. First aid kit. Burner phones. Cash.
He grabbed the bag and carried it to the desk. He added a laptop, chargers,
and cables, and zipped it shut.
Footsteps in the hallway announced his wife seconds before Marie appeared in
the doorway. She held a bottle of water in one hand and a hot-pressed Cuban
sandwich wrapped in waxed paper in the other.
“Thought you might like to take your lunch along,” she said with a smile.
He took the sandwich and gave her a kiss. “I’ll eat in the car.”
“You always say that.” She walked to the desk and unzipped the go bag,
placing both sandwich and water inside and closing the zipper. “How long will
you be gone?”
He looked up at her. “Not sure. I’ll keep you posted, but don’t hold dinner.”
She cocked her head and studied his face. Her gaze moved across his features.
Looking for something. Worry lines appeared at the corners of her eyes.
“Be careful,” she said.
“Always am.”
Marie had long ago made her uneasy peace with his work. She’d accepted that
he might leave one day and never come back. She didn’t like it. But she no longer
tried to change him.
She kissed him again. Her lips were warm and familiar and full of history as
well as promise. Then she turned and left without another word. Her footsteps
faded down the hallway.
Gaspar shouldered the go bag. The weight settled against his back as he moved
toward the door.
He glanced at his monitors. The red dot on the map hadn’t moved. Valerie’s phone was still stationary at the hotel.
He had the location. He had the background. He had intel suggesting Lloyd
Nash’s motive.
Now he needed to get to Valerie before Lloyd Nash’s trackers did.
Or before six o’clock.
Whichever came first.
He headed for the door.
Half a second later, the Florida heat hit him like a wall when he stepped
outside. Humidity thick enough to chew. Sweat formed on his forehead before he
reached the driveway.
His armored black Crown Vic waited. Old but reliable. The model had been
used by law enforcement and FBI for years. He knew the Crown Vic’s strengths
and weaknesses. Knew exactly how it would perform under stress and how it
could fail, too.
Gaspar liked it because he could slide in and out of the huge cabin with his
bad leg easily enough. And because it was familiar.
He opened the driver’s door and waited for the heat to pour out before he
tossed the go bag on the passenger seat and slid in behind the wheel. The leather
steering wheel was hot to his touch.
The engine turned over smoothly. He flipped the air-conditioning up full blast
and backed out of the driveway. He headed north toward US-1 and Miami Beach.
Traffic was moderate for a Monday afternoon. Early enough to miss rush hour.
Late enough that the roads were much busier than he preferred. He merged onto I-95 north. Twelve miles to Miami Beach. Twenty minutes if
traffic cooperated. Thirty if it didn’t.
The MacArthur Causeway was ahead. Six lanes crossing Biscayne Bay. He’d
lived in Miami all his life and crossed the bay at least a thousand times before. He
checked his mirrors and moved into the fast travel lane.
Which was when he saw a silver SUV. Three cars back. Same lane.
Gaspar switched lanes without signaling.
The SUV switched lanes.
He slowed down.
The SUV slowed down.
It was a professional tail. Careful. Disciplined.
Probably one of the trackers Lloyd Nash hired.
Gaspar clenched his jaw. They were watching him now and had been since he
left home. Maybe longer.
Which suggested they knew about Jake’s call somehow. Were they monitoring
Jake’s phone?
If he drove straight to the hotel, he’d lead them right to Valerie. He’d be doing
Lloyd Nash’s work for him.
He needed to lose the tail. Fast.
But that would burn time.
The silver SUV accelerated behind him and closed the distance. Fifty feet.
Thirty. Close enough for Gaspar to make out the driver’s profile. Dark sunglasses.
Square jaw. His gaze never left the traffic ahead.
The heavy vehicle quickly surged into the left lane and drew even with
Gaspar’s rear bumper. Then even with his door.
The passenger side window rolled down, and a man leaned toward the open
window.
Mid-thirties. Dark hair. Sunglasses. Teal colored Marlins baseball cap.
The man smiled to display shiny silver teeth the likes of which Mother Nature
had never created.
Then his hand came up and Gaspar caught the dull gleam of a pistol.
He steadied his weapon and pointed it directly at Gaspar’s head. ...