CHAPTER ONE
Thursday, February 10
4:20 p.m.
Lake Forest, Illinois
When the mansion came into view, Arthur Scorpio’s smoldering rage burst into white-hot flames, licking his damaged body as if he had burned at the stake. He rubbed his scarred scalp behind his right ear, once again feeling the heat from the tumble dryer as it had seared his flesh.
Jack Reacher had a lot to answer for. Scorpio would make him pay.
The driver, Thorn, rolled the rented SUV into the long driveway and stopped close to the front entrance of the grand old Tudor with ancient bricks, leaded windows and a spectacular view of Lake Michigan.
Much too big for one couple with no children, although the owner had lived here alone until he married.
Concealed by the thick snow blanket, none of the landscaping was visible now, and the dark clouds gave the entire place a Gothic feel. Which suited Scorpio’s mood perfectly.
He had located the mansion easily enough, the internet being what it was. A month ago, only exterior satellite views, shot in the summer, had been posted.
A lush green lawn and a garden to rival an English palace surrounded the house and extended all the way to the street. The photos showed off the back of the house, which was equally grand.
He’d become obsessed by the house. During his time in the hospital and afterward, at the rehab center, he’d spent hours staring at the images. His product was stored in there. Those who helped Reacher to steal what was rightfully his, too. Jane and her sister Rose.
What kept him going, all those long days after he survived Reacher’s effort to kill him, was planning to get his property back, leaving nothing but corpses behind.
When the mansion popped up on a real estate site about a week ago, his pulse quickened, and his eyes popped. Selling the house? Odd. Very odd. Why would they do that?
Scorpio would find Reacher again. He had scores to settle. But first things first. Because the mansion was for sale. When it sold, they’d all be in the wind, taking his product with them, no doubt. He had to act fast, even though he wasn’t ready.
The first order of business became the twin sisters. The real estate agency had posted videos of the interior, the way they do these days. He’d studied every room carefully, repeatedly, until he was sure.
Rose had moved into one of the guest suites on the second floor a while back.
He only wanted what was rightfully his. He knew precisely where to look.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Ten-four, boss,” Thorn replied, like some idiot who spent his days watching cop shows on television.
Scorpio plopped a hat on his scarred head. He unfolded his skinny length as he crawled out of the SUV, left hand resting uselessly in his pocket. His recovery from his last encounter with Reacher was not complete. Rehab was exhausting. Rage and determination, in equal parts, fueled him on that score, too.
He stumbled awkwardly up the steps to the massive dark wood door. He lifted and dropped the door knocker against the strike plate, twice. He stepped back and leaned on the head of his cane to wait.
The agent was expecting him.
An attractive, smiling woman with expensively messy blonde hair and perfect skin opened the door. If he’d never seen photos of the sisters, he might have mistaken her for one of the twins. The twin sisters were spectacular. This woman’s facial features were pretty enough, but not spectacular.
She stepped aside to let him enter and started her prattling motor running.
“Mr. Scorpio, right? I’m Brooke Malone. Please come inside. It’s unbelievably cold out there, isn’t it? I hate February. It seems to go on forever. All that lake effect snow. And the wind! It can blow you right over sometimes…” She closed the door behind him and continued babbling like a running brook.
He tuned her out as if he’d flipped a switch in his head.
The foyer was enormous and tastefully appointed. Entire families lived in smaller spaces. A wide staircase wound up the right side of the room to a bridge on the second floor. The online videos showed two wings of the house with guest suites on each side of the center.
Rose’s rooms were in the back of the house overlooking the lake and the lawn, according to the house plans on file with the Lake Forest property tax assessor.
Scorpio cleared his throat and pounded the metal tip of his cane on the marble floor.
Babbling Brooke’s eyes widened, and her mouth briefly opened into a perfect “O” before she recovered. “Was there something, in particular, you wanted to see, Mr. Scorpio?”
He cleared his throat of the near-constant phlegm that settled there. His voice was raspy, and he struggled to produce enough volume to be heard. “I’d like to see the guest suites overlooking the lake. My daughter fell in love with the online videos of those corner rooms,” he croaked.
Mentioning the fictitious daughter seemed to solve the woman’s problem. Her frown smoothed instantly as if an airbrush had erased it. She glanced at his cane pointedly. “Would you prefer to use the elevator?” She turned to lead the way.
Bile rose in his throat. Elevators were for decrepit, weak-boned old women and broken men in wheelchairs with warm shawls covering their hunched shoulders. He glared a hole into the back of her perky sweater. Reacher would pay for reducing him to this.
Scorpio followed as she pointed out features of the house that didn’t interest him in the slightest. He was exhausted and breathing heavily long before they reached the elevator door under the stairs.
Babbling Brooke’s travelogue continued all the way to the second-floor suite, where she opened the double doors with a flourish, like a magician revealing the grand finale.
Scorpio hobbled into the suite, consisting of a generously sized sitting room, larger bedroom, and private bath.
“How many closets?” he asked, mainly for the brief respite in the constant babbling. “I can’t abide clutter, and my daughter seems to have an endless supply of stuff.”
“I know what you mean. All kids are like that these days, aren’t they?” She nodded and smiled and continued talking as she pointed out all the features of the rooms, opening closets, doors, and drawers. She mentioned not a single thing that interested him.
Scorpio scanned for his property in every closet, cabinet, dresser, and bedside table she displayed. Rose lived here. Her coats and shoes and clothes were stored in the closets and dressers. Her toiletries filled the bathroom shelves.
He saw no room safe anywhere in the closets. He would have checked behind the artwork on the walls and knelt and searched under the bed. Two things stopped him. Babbling Brooke would have asked too many questions. And if he got down on all fours to search under the bed, he might need her help to get up again.
“These rooms are tidy. Is no one living in the suite now?” he asked, to confirm what he suspected already.
“I believe the owner’s sister is living here. She’s been visiting for a few months.” She barely paused for breath before she continued babbling on topics that he tuned out.
She was wrong.
Maybe Rose used the Lake Forest house as her permanent address on her tax returns and her driver’s license and what not. But Scorpio was a man who lived by his wits, and he would place a bet with every loan shark in Chicago that she had vacated the premises.
The bed didn’t look as if anyone had slept in it for a while. He sniffed. No lingering female scents. No clothes in the laundry hamper or razor in the shower or hair strands in the sink. Unless an exceptionally thorough cleaning crew came in this very morning, there was no way Rose slept here last night or any night in the past week, at the very least.
She might have been gone even longer.
Scorpio sat in one of Rose’s chairs to think. Could she be with Reacher? Were the two of them blowing through his product right now? And what about the sister? Jane Mackenzie? Where was she?
Suddenly, he noticed something he hadn’t heard for the past hour.
Silence.
Brooke had stopped babbling. When he glanced toward her, she had cocked her head and was staring at him strangely.
He said, “I’m sorry. Did you ask me a question?”
She cleared her throat. “I have only one more appointment today. They’re arriving any minute now, Mr. Scorpio. I don’t mean to rush you. Please stay as long as you like. Wander around the house as you please. But I do need to greet them downstairs when they arrive.”
“No problem.” Scorpio hid a wry smile with a phlegmy cough behind his hand. “You go ahead. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
She nodded, turned, and left the room. When he heard Brooke’s spike heels clicking down the hardwood stairs, he satisfied his urge to look under the bed. He slipped off the chair and rolled his skinny body toward the bed, which was a lot easier than walking.
While he rolled along the carpet, he used his microbeam flashlight to look under the sofa, chairs, and tables. He found exactly what he’d expected to see. Nothing.
But under the bed, out of reach, he spied a foil pack the size of a fat playing card. The kind used by pharmaceutical manufacturers to keep twenty prescription fentanyl patches sterile and potent. He felt around behind him for his cane.
His position was awkward, and the cane wasn’t meant for the job. Progress was slow. But he inched the foil pack toward him with every swipe of the cane until he could reach it with his fingertips.
Breathless with the exertion, he pulled the pack into his hand and then toward his body, holding it like a kid might hold a squirming frog.
He flopped onto his back to rest a minute while he let reality sink in. He held the empty foil pack above his face to examine it carefully. The blue logo. The silver foil embossed with the brand name. He’d seen them thousands of times before.
The truth hit him like a wrecking ball to the gut. Even though he’d suspected it all along, confirmation was another thing. His heart pounded hard and his face flushed. He drew a few ragged breaths, attempting to regain control of the rage.
He’d been right. He had the proof now. Rose had cost him hundreds of thousands of dollars. Along with Reacher. And Jane. They’d destroyed him and went on their way, assuming he was dead.
Laying on the floor wouldn’t change anything. He shoved the foil pack in his pocket.
He struggled to his knees and then pushed his body against the bed, using the cane to force himself upright and regain his footing. Fueled by increasing rage, panting and sweating, he straightened his clothes and dusted the carpet lint from his black wool coat.
He heard Babbling Brooke headed this way. What the hell?
CHAPTER 2
Thursday, February 10
5:20 p.m.
Lake Forest, Illinois
The last thing Scorpio needed was more interference from her. She’d want to know what he’d been doing up here all this time. He didn’t have the energy to lie to her, even if he’d wanted to make an effort. Which he didn’t.
Her heels tap, tap, tapped on the hardwood along the corridor, ever closer. She was alone. He knew because she wasn’t talking. Had anyone been with her, she’d be running at the mouth, as usual.
He swiped his good hand across his face to remove the thin sheen of perspiration, and then straightened his hair while he leveled his breathing.
She strode into the room as if she owned the place and, without so much as a brief pause, offered him an explanation. As if he cared. “My appointment canceled, Mr. Scorpio. Too cold to bring the baby out, they said. So, it’s just us for the rest of the day. Would you like to see the remaining guest suites, or would you rather move on to the rest of the house now?”
He gripped the head of the cane until his knuckles whitened. “Actually, I’d like to talk with the owners. When will they return?”
“The owners? You mean Mr. Rex Mackenzie? He’s the sole owner of the house. He’s married, of course, but his wife has no ownership interest. I can reach him by phone. Is there anything, in particular, you wanted to know?”
Without stopping for an answer or a single inhaled breath, she continued like a fire hose opened to full capacity. God! The woman would never stop.
Scorpio’s rage had reached the boiling point. He’d developed a throbbing headache. The lights in the room pierced his skull like a cleaver. He couldn’t summon the strength to scream at her to Shut the hell up!
She probably wouldn’t have, anyway.
There was nothing in this room he wanted or needed now. Why was he wasting his time with Babbling Brooke?
Still leaning against the bed, he released the cane, slid his hand into the deep pocket of his coat, and pulled out a nine-millimeter pistol. He pointed the gun directly at her torso, center mass.
She took half a second to comprehend. When she did, her eyes widened, and her mouth circled, and she gasped. The silence that followed was the first momentary peace she’d offered since he arrived.
He pulled the trigger three times in quick succession, but the first shot was the one that did the job. The last two almost supplied full satisfaction.
She fell to the floor, eyes wide, mouth still open. Gravity pulled the blood from the exit wounds in her back and pooled it around her torso like a small lake.
He fired again, just for the pleasure of hearing the soft thump when the bullet went through and exited her body into the floor.
After that, for more practical reasons, he shot her in the face. The blood had already stopped pumping, but three shots at close range were sufficient to maul her features beyond recognition by her own mother.
He slipped the pistol into his pocket and plopped down into the upholstered chair next to the bed. Scorpio waited three full minutes. Plenty of time to compose himself.
He pulled his phone out and called Thorn.
“Yes, boss?”
“Come inside,” Scorpio said. “Second floor, in the back.”
“Roger that,” he replied before he disconnected.
Scorpio listened for sirens but heard nothing. The mansion was a significant distance from other homes in the area. He thought it conceivable that no one would have reported the gunshots immediately.
Thorn appeared in the doorway. He barely gave the body a second glance.
“Check behind the artwork on the walls for a safe. Check everywhere else, too, just in case Mr. Mackenzie has one of those concealed storage spots,” Scorpio said.
Thorn performed the task efficiently and returned empty handed. “Nothing.”
“Check the other rooms on this floor,” Scorpio said and glanced at the bedside clock.
Thorn performed as instructed. Same as always.
Scorpio heard his footfalls on the hardwood floors, receding and returning.
“No luck,” he reported. “All the heat registers are just that. Nothing concealed in the plumbing or anywhere else.”
“Any of the rooms look like someone’s living up here?” Scorpio asked.
“No. The whole place looks like it’s been sterilized or something,” Thorn replied.
“Grab her phone from her pocket.”
While Thorn bent to the task, Scorpio struggled to his feet. Thorn handed him the phone. “Take a look around downstairs. I’ll meet you at the elevator on the first floor.”
“Yes, boss,” Thorn said on his way out.
Scorpio didn’t expect him to find anything remotely useful. The house had been abandoned. It had that vacant feel. He knew that now.
He scrolled through the last dozen calls, looking for Rex Mackenzie’s number. He memorized it. Then he checked the voicemail messages. Mackenzie had left two. Scorpio listened to both twice, to be sure he’d recognize the voice when he heard it again.
He scrolled through the contact list until he found Rex Mackenzie’s office address and committed it to memory.
Finally, he removed the sim card from her phone. He’d explore the rest of its contents later. He tossed the phone next to her body and left the room.
He shuffled to the elevator and rode down two floors. When he reached the basement, he pushed the button to hold the door open and glanced around the cavernous, empty space. No boxes. Nothing stored here at all. Like it had been cleaned out before they put the house on the market.
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