CHAPTER ONE
Monday, April 11
12:30 p.m.
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Mason O’Hare hadn’t seen the threat coming.
He was running late, which was unavoidable during the busy tax return season. His tardiness shouldn’t have mattered much. His lunch date would have been comfortably seated in the air conditioning with a cool drink, relaxed and waiting.
Mason had borrowed a sedan and parked in a lot two blocks away. He felt reasonably sure he hadn’t been followed, but he was no clandestine operations expert. He worked a regular job. Had a girlfriend with a kid.
He was a regular guy in a tough spot, that’s all. No more, no less.
He hurried nervously along the unfamiliar section of San Felipe Street, glancing back over his shoulder and scanning side to side from behind the oversized sunglasses he’d bought at the drugstore that morning.
Mason had never been to The Last Chance Saloon. It was a tourist spot located in an adobe building in the heart of historic Old Town Albuquerque. He’d checked the place out online before he’d chosen it. He’d heard Bruce Ray mention the place a couple of times, but no one Mason knew hung out here. He didn’t expect to be recognized.
He looked both ways before he jaywalked quickly across the street to the saloon’s entrance. He planned to start working out when tax season ended. He’d made the promise to his girlfriend several times before, but somehow he never found the time to follow through.
All of which meant that he was a little breathless, somewhat paunchy, more than a little out of shape, and plenty nervous. He’d had very little contact with law enforcement in his lifetime and he’d have been very happy to keep it that way.
But the way he looked at it, he’d had no choice but to poke his head out of his hole and report what he’d seen. And now here he was. Nothing he could do to change things at this point. He just had to suck it up and get it over with.
Mason pulled the saloon’s heavy wood door open and stepped into a cold cave of darkness, realizing instantly that he’d made another serious mistake. The place was way too busy. There were too many people here.
The noise of a hundred conversations going at once, along with some kind of piped in Mexican music, slammed against his ears.
The air-conditioned dining room was dimly lit, but it was the change from the hot, bright sunshine coupled with his dark sunglasses that blinded him.
Sweat dripped from his armpits and trickled down inside his shirt. What had possessed him to wear a suit and tie today? He never wore suits anymore. Not since he’d moved to Glen Haven. No wonder he was uncomfortably hot and sweaty. Could he possibly get heat stroke so early in the season?
He stood inside the doorway at the end of a long line of patrons waiting for a table. He removed his sunglasses and dropped them into his breast pocket, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to blot the salty rivulets from his brow.
A casually dressed man approached from the shadows on his left.
This guy wasn’t a local. His skin wasn’t sun-leathered and he had no crinkles around his eyes from squinting against the relentless sun. He was six feet tall, give or take. Normal looking brown hair. Nicely dressed in what fashionistas called business casual.
“O’Hare?” the man asked.
When Mason nodded and shook his hand, he said, “John Lawton.”
Lawton tilted his head to the dining area on his left. “This place is jammed. There’s two tour buses in the parking lot out back. They’ve taken every table in the place and it looks like they just got seated. Probably won’t finish up for a while. We won’t be able to talk here. Is there another spot nearby?”
Mason considered the question, which made him more nervous. He wasn’t familiar with the restaurants in the area. He didn’t know another place to suggest.
Lawton tapped him on the shoulder and walked toward the exit because conversation was impossible inside the saloon. Mason unfolded his sunglasses, slipped them onto his face, and followed.
On the sidewalk, Lawton inclined his head toward the Albuquerque Museum of Art and History and Old Town Plaza. “Let’s walk.”
“Yeah, sure. We can do that,” Mason replied, taking a few steps beside Lawton on the sidewalk, hustling to keep pace. “I’ll need to get back to work soon, though. They’ll start to wonder where I am. I almost never leave my desk during tax season, you know?”
Mason glanced around, hoping to see the plaza crowded with tourists. But it was one of those almost freakish times when, for no reason at all, the popular destination was practically deserted.
After walking along for a few yards, Mason heard footsteps behind them on the sidewalk, following in the same direction, keeping pace. The footsteps made him uneasy, too, but looking behind seemed foolish, somehow. So he didn’t.
At the traffic light on the corner, Lawton paused while two pickup trucks, an SUV, and a couple of sedans sailed through. The light turned yellow.
They waited for a white panel van to pass before they stepped into the crosswalk.
Mason noticed the van’s front windows were tinted darker than permitted by law and the back had no windows at all. He figured it had to be a hundred degrees or more inside that steel box.
The van sped up to rush through as the light turned red.
The crosswalk sign flashed “walk.”
Mason and Lawton stepped off the curb, which was the last normal thing he remembered.
Everything after that was one big blur.
On the other side of the traffic light, just beyond the range of the cameras mounted on the pole at the corner, the van’s driver mashed the breaks.
The wheels locked.
The tires squealed as they skidded leaving black marks on the pavement.
The van jerked to a full stop.
The side door zipped open.
Lawton had been a step ahead. Before he had a chance to react, he was propelled from behind and his feet scrambled to keep him upright. He lurched toward the open maw of the van and tumbled inside.
Within the dim interior of the van, two men grabbed Lawton and shoved him face down onto the floor. One man struck him on the head with the butt of a shotgun. His body went limp.
A split second later, Mason felt a hard shove against his back. He stumbled forward, almost losing his balance.
“What the hell?” Mason swung his arms wide and swiveled his head to see who had pushed him.
He tried to pivot, but there was not enough space between him and the big dude holding the pistol jammed into his back.
All Mason had a chance to see was a beard, a baseball cap, and a pair of sunglasses.
“Get in the van,” the man said gruffly. Like he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“What do you want?” Mason said, preparing to stand his ground. He was slightly off-balance, his weight on one leg.
The big man used his left forearm like a crossbar and put his weight behind it as he shoved Mason into the van. Inside, two men knocked him to the hard, steel floor.
The big man jumped inside, slid the door closed, and ordered the driver, “Get us out of here!”
The van lurched forward and kept accelerating, headed north. The big man staggered into the front passenger seat.
The kidnapping was practiced and efficient and completed in less than sixty seconds, from the time the van stopped until it sped away.
Mason was on his knees, dazed, probably in some kind of shock. He’d fallen against Lawton, who was out cold.
A pair of rough hands patted him down, found his wallet, and pulled it from his pocket.
The guy cursed and said, “You’re gonna want to see this, Hector.”
A solid blow to the back of Mason’s head bounced his nose to the floor and smashed it all over his face. He tasted his own blood before he fell into oblivion.
CHAPTER TWO
Monday, April 11
12:10 p.m.
Detroit, Michigan
FBI Special Agent Kim Otto’s late night at work followed by an early morning meeting with her team had caused her to miss her morning run along the streets of Detroit.
She exercised for stress relief as well as exercise and training. When she missed a day, she felt out of sorts, body and soul. Which was why she’d completed her run on her lunch hour today.
There were more people on the streets at noon, which was not great. Navigating around them was a nuisance. She changed up her route, running along the side streets and through the park instead of north and south on Woodward Avenue.
But there were compensations to the change of scenery. The weather was warmer than early morning. There were no icy patches on the sidewalk to worry about. She pounded the pavement, basking in the slices of sunshine that fell between the tall buildings, until she’d completed her miles.
Which left her in front of one of her favorite places on earth. One of Detroit’s best coffee shops. She pulled the door open and stepped inside to wait in the line of java addicts, inhaling the best brew in the world.
After she’d left Jake Reacher in San Diego back in February, her life had settled into a predictable pace. She’d picked up a few routine cases in the Detroit Field Office, consisting mostly of paperwork and phone calls and assisting in occasional surveillance instead of dodging bullets. She arrived at work in the mornings and returned home again in the evenings on a more or less steady schedule, like a normal human being with a dependable government job she’d always loved.
It was the same kind of work she’d done before that first four a.m. phone call from the Boss back in November had upended her life and sent her on a breathless chase, hunting Jack Reacher.
She hadn’t found Reacher. Not yet.
But she would. Eventually.
Because Mrs. Otto’s daughter Kim was no quitter.
Even if hunting Reacher was the scariest assignment she’d ever had.
Not that she’d let anyone know that. Not a chance.
There were downsides to this peaceful break in the assignment and her new work rhythm, though. The search for Reacher had pumped her adrenaline sky high for weeks, making the routine field office work she’d once found fascinating now seem sleepy and dull by comparison.
Which caused her to question her career choices, too. The Boss she’d admired since before she joined the FBI had tested her faith. She was no longer sure she could trust him. The knowledge worried her.
But she didn’t have time to think about that today.
The line moved slowly toward the barista taking orders. Kim shuffled along with everyone else in the line until she heard a woman shriek like a frightened three-year-old behind her.
“He stole my purse!” she said, pointing the gloved hand that extended from her mink coat toward the guy dashing out the door.
“Oh, hell,” Kim said, pivoting on the balls of her running shoes and heading after the guy. Chasing purse snatchers wasn’t her usual line of work. But that looked like a twenty-thousand-dollar Cartier bag. Which made it grand larceny, at the very least.
More importantly, a ring of thieves had been working the neighborhood lately. The locals suspected a counterfeit luxury goods ring. Kim lived here. She didn’t like the idea of letting him get away with anything.
The dude wasn’t a very good thief and he was a slow runner, too. He might have been a high school footballer, but the weaving between cars parked at the curb like a running back failed. She caught him in the middle of the second block.
She wasn’t even slightly breathless. But she was pissed off that she’d missed her coffee.
She grabbed the guy and walked him to the closest precinct. When she handed him off to the desk sergeant, she identified herself and gave him a business card.
“You can find the owner of that bag at Java Joe’s on Woodward,” she said. “Give me a call if you need me. I gotta get back to work.”
She hurried to the lobby of her apartment building, slightly winded but feeling smug about braving the cold instead of running on the treadmill inside as she usually did in the mornings when the temperatures were cold.
Walter Hill, the private security guard manning the front desk, waved her over.
“Hey, Kim. Have a good run?” he asked, friendly as always.
“Yeah. Great.” Breathlessly, she swigged water from the bottle she’d attached to her belt.
“You’re working pretty hard out there,” he said. “But don’t forget to have a little fun, too. That John Lawton seems like a nice guy, for a Treasury agent. The good ones won’t wait forever, you know.”
“You sound like my mother.” She grinned to take the sting out of her words and moved along. Her mother was constantly asking about her nonexistent love life. Avoiding the topic had become second nature.
Walter nodded like an indulgent big brother. “I’d be proud to have one of my daughters dating a man like John Lawton. My guess is your parents would, too. Have they met him yet?”
“Not yet,” she said, waving her way past the desk as she headed toward the elevator.
She and Lawton had been dating now and then, when they had the time, for a few months. He lived in New York, which made the dating sporadic. She liked him well enough. He was fun and interesting to talk to. Nice-looking, too.
She punched the elevator’s call button and waited for the car to arrive. It seemed to stop at every floor on the way down. She stretched her sore muscles so they wouldn’t stiffen up.
Maybe Lawton had been coming around a little too often lately, if Walter Hill was already pleading his case.
She’d given little thought to whether there was a chance the relationship could develop into something more. She wasn’t looking for that and she assumed Lawton wasn’t, either. She’d been married once. Not an experience she wanted to repeat.
The elevator finally reached the first floor. The doors opened and several people she didn’t know piled out. She entered the car and selected her floor. She pushed the button to close the doors and held onto her stomach as the elevator shot skyward.
Lawton was working on some big case somewhere out west now. Chasing down a whistleblower who’d called the tip line, he’d said before he left. She hadn’t heard from him for a few days and she hadn’t noticed whether his absence was making her heart grow fonder. Which she supposed meant he wasn’t all that special to her.
Still pondering the question, when the elevator stopped at her floor, she walked down the hall and used her key to enter her apartment. Maybe Lawton would be back in a couple of days. Did that thought make her body hum with anticipation?
She considered the question as she showered and dressed. John Lawton was a good guy, just like Walter said. But no. He wasn’t what her younger sister would call “the one.”
Which meant he was a great guy to date. Nothing more. And that was fine, too. Left her open to new possibilities.
The digital clock on her bedside table caught her attention. She was late already. Her supervisor was waiting to hear the results of last night’s operation in Greektown. A routine arrest after a boring surveillance. Nothing remotely anxiety provoking about it. Which didn’t mean she could blow it off, either.
When Lawton came back, she’d know what to do. If nothing else, the Reacher assignment had taught her to trust her gut.
She grabbed her gun and her keys and hustled back to the office.
CHAPTER THREE
Monday, April 11
1:30 p.m.
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Four blocks from the Last Chance Saloon, Pinto Vigo waited behind the wheel of a black SUV. The IRS agent had left the restaurant prematurely and Vigo’s team had to scramble, but they’d done the job adequately.
Except for the extra hostage, everything was on track.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, marking time until he could safely follow the van to the meeting point. He thought about how to deal with Mason O’Hare. He was both clueless and beloved at Glen Haven. Vigo would need to tread carefully with him.
Kidnapping a member of Glen Haven was just one more piece of bad luck in a string of bad breaks Vigo’s cartel had suffered lately. And the timing couldn’t have been worse. His big shipment was on its way and expected to arrive Friday. Nothing must interfere. He needed the money.
He wasn’t worried about being noticed while he waited for the van. Nothing about the vehicle was the least suspicious.
The SUV was purchased with cash and registered to a man who didn’t exist. Which meant its Nevada license plates were legitimate.
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