Deep Cover Jack Read online

  DEEP COVER JACK

  BY

  DIANE CAPRI

  Presented By:

  AugustBooks

  Get Diane Capri Books FOR FREE when you sign up for her FREE newsletter.

  http://www.dianecapri.com

  Praise for

  New York Times and USA Today

  Bestselling Author

  Diane Capri

  “Full of thrills and tension, but smart and human, too. Kim Otto is a great, great character. I love her.”

  Lee Child, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author of Jack Reacher Thrillers

  “[A] welcome surprise… [W]orks from the first page to ‘The End’.”

  Larry King

  “Swift pacing and ongoing suspense are always present… [L]ikable protagonist who uses her political connections for a good cause…Readers should eagerly anticipate the next [book].”

  Top Pick, Romantic Times

  “…offers tense legal drama with courtroom overtones, twisty plot, and loads of Florida atmosphere. Recommended.”

  Library Journal

  “[A] fast-paced legal thriller…energetic prose…an appealing heroine…clever and capable supporting cast…[that will] keep readers waiting for the next [book].”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Expertise shines on every page.”

  Margaret Maron, Edgar, Anthony, Agatha and Macavity Award-Winning MWA Grand Master

  DEDICATION

  Thank you to some of the best readers in the world: Holly Hecker (Anneliese Miller), Mik Brown, and Michelle McQueen (Khalil), for participating in our character naming giveaways which make this book a bit more personal and fun for all of us.

  Perpetually, for Lee Child, with unrelenting gratitude.

  Table of Contents

  Reviews

  Dedication

  Dear Friends

  Cast of Primary Characters

  PERSUADER by Lee Child

  DEEP COVER JACK

  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

  About the Author

  THE REACHER REPORT

  Copyright

  Dear Friends,

  Thank you for buying this copy of Deep Cover Jack: A Hunt for Jack Reacher Thriller. No one loves Jack Reacher more than I do and I’m very excited to share this runaway bestseller in my Hunt for Jack Reacher Series with you. More than a million readers have already enjoyed the Hunt for Jack Reacher Series books—including Jack Reacher’s creator, thank heavens! Whew!

  The first question new readers usually ask me is how I’m allowed to write about Jack Reacher. The short answer is that Lee Child and I are friends, and he’s a big fan of my work. I write these books with his full support, for which I’m eternally and unrelentingly grateful. I’ve included his Reacher Report at the end of this collection in case you’re not signed up to receive email from Lee directly (and you can sign up to hear from him on his website, if you’d like to).

  I hope you’ll see right away why #1 worldwide publishing phenomenon Lee Child calls my work, “Full of thrills and tension, but smart and human, too.” And why Lee gave the series an enthusiastic two thumbs up when he said, “Kim Otto is a great, great character. I love her!”

  The second most frequent question I get is when the next Hunt for Jack Reacher book will be published. Right now, there are seven books in this series (three novellas and four novels). You can find a complete list here: http://dianecapri.com/books/

  And I’m always working on a new book. Please sign up for my mailing list to receive advance notice of new releases and lots of other exclusive stuff for members only. You can do that here: http://dianecapri.com/get-involved/get-my-newsletter/

  While you’re waiting for a new Hunt for Jack Reacher Series book, please give my other books a try. I believe you’ll enjoy them. And either way, let me know what you think. You can write to me anytime, and I hope you will. I’d love to get to know you better. You can always reach me here: http://dianecapri.com/get-involved/message/

  Meanwhile, thanks so much for reading. Readers like you are the reason I write.

  Caffeinate & Carry On!

  CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS

  Kim L. Otto

  Carlos M. Gaspar

  Charles Cooper

  Lamont Finlay

  Alex Branch

  Susan Duffy

  Theresa Justice

  Terry Villanueva

  Leo Abrams

  Viktor Sokol

  and

  Jack Reacher

  Persuader

  by Lee Child

  2003

  “Not really. I don’t really care about the little guy. I just hate the big guy. I hate big smug people who think they can get away with things.”

  “You produce the right results for the wrong reasons, then.”

  [Reacher] nodded. “But I try to do the right thing. I think the reasons don’t really matter. Whatever, I like to see the right thing done.”

  DEEP COVER JACK

  BY

  DIANE CAPRI

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday, November 19

  Abbot, Maine

  4:15 p.m. Eastern Time

  The Diplomat’s collar was flipped up against the raw wind that blew across the compound from the frigid ocean behind him. He pushed his gloved hands into his pockets and ducked deeper into the wool coat he’d bought for city streets, not for late November on the coast of Maine. Soon, darkness would envelop the compound.

  He moved awkwardly down the long, straight driveway from the gray stone house toward the outbuilding closest to the gate, losing his footing several times as his leather-soled shoes slid on the slick pavement.

  He sensed no threat or danger and expected none. The property rested within a high, granite wall topped with coiled razor wire. In the center of the wall was an iron gate. The gate opened only on the Diplomat’s orders when the man posted at the gatehouse made it so. One way in. One way out. Entry by invitation only. No unauthorized persons had entered since the Diplomat arrived two days ago.

  He reached the gatehouse without falling on his ass, which was a minor miracle. When he was still attending the Russian Orthodox Church, he’d have offered thanks to God for safe passage. But that was a long time ago. He’d set aside the faith of his childhood and never looked back.

  He reached up and dropped the heavy door knocker onto the thick oak door three times, then returned his gloved hand to his pocket and waited, stamping his feet against the cold.

  The Diplomat was born in Siberia, so had known bone-chilling cold. He hadn’t missed it.

  He had chosen this house on the coast between Kennebunkport and Portland because it was vacant, renovated after some prior damage to the main dining room and the roof, and perfectly suited to his needs. Locals called the compound Abbot Cape beca
use the rocky finger it occupied jutted into the ocean.

  Long after he’d settled his organization here, after it was too late to relocate, he’d learned the troubling history of the place.

  The new man opened the gatehouse door. He was tall. Maybe six feet, five inches. Big, too. Maybe two-sixty. Not an ounce of visible fat anywhere. His hands were as big as baseball mitts. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and black wool blazer that stretched taut across his hulking body. Black jeans rode low on his hips. The work boots on his feet were immense, yet seemed too small to support the rest of him.

  The gateman nodded and said nothing. He stood aside and the Diplomat, not a small man himself, felt dwarfed when he stepped across the threshold into a room that was marginally warmer than the outdoors, even though the house featured an adequate heating system. Perhaps the new guy’s body mass generated more heat than normal.

  The Diplomat scanned the main living area’s open floor plan. Small kitchen, table with four chairs, a fireplace surrounded by a sofa, two recliners, and a television. No one else was present. “What’s your name again?”

  “John Smith.” He didn’t smile.

  The Diplomat shrugged. He could call himself Genghis Khan, as long as he did the job as required. “Where is she?”

  “This way.” Smith moved toward the back of the one-story gatehouse toward the bedrooms.

  The Diplomat followed.

  The last renovation here had tripled the gatehouse’s size and added a private bath to each of the eight new bedrooms. Guests often preferred to entertain out here, away from the prying eyes and ears from the main house. Particularly if their desires were somewhat unsavory.

  Tonight, the Diplomat was not entertaining guests. The extra bedrooms were empty.

  At the end of the corridor was a doorway that led to a mudroom and beyond into an attached garage. Smith opened the door and stepped through, and the Diplomat followed.

  The Diplomat shivered. He instinctively raised a gloved hand to cover his nose and filter the overwhelming stench of car exhaust.

  One vehicle was idling here. A ten-year-old sedan, stolen from a shopping mall parking lot a hundred miles away. The sedan had spent its entire life driving snowy winter roads, wallowing in rock salt, and the rusted exhaust system had never been replaced. It vibrated loudly as if it might fall off its hangers. The gasses made a chuffing noise as they passed from the engine and escaped before they reached the rear of the car.

  The Diplomat nodded, and Smith pushed a button, and the double garage door rolled itself up along an overhead track. The open maw displayed the low cloud ceiling and the roiling Atlantic Ocean beyond like a giant theater screen, to majestic and chilling effect. Harsh wind blew into the garage and the ocean’s roar collided with the running engine to combined ear-pounding decibel levels.

  Smith pushed another button and ceiling fans whipped through the heavy air inside the garage at high speed, but the air was so thick it would take a while to clear it.

  The setup was purposefully clumsy like a distraught woman bent on suicide had staged the scene herself. A flexible hose connected the tailpipe to the rear passenger window, which was open only wide enough to receive the hose. The interior of the car was obscured by smoky silver air as if the scene were a magician’s trick.

  The gas tank had been full when Smith started the engine, but it had to be almost empty now. The Diplomat estimated twenty-four hours run-time on a full tank. More than enough to do the job.

  Smith opened the driver’s door, reached in, and turned the engine off.

  The Diplomat held his breath and pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket. He covered his mouth and nose to filter the air. He walked closer to the sedan and peered through the window into the back seat.

  She looked waifish lying there, stretched out on her back, as if she were enjoying the sleep of the just. In life, she’d looked angelic, almost. Tall, lean, pale skin and blonde hair. She had been the perfect type for his needs. Now, her skin was mottled and cherry red and hideous.

  Still, she looked peaceful. Dressed in the outfit she’d been wearing when she arrived here. Black workout clothes. Gloves. A red hoodie. One neon running shoe on her left foot, the other resting on the roof of the sedan, waiting.

  Her right shoe had been expertly repaired after the Diplomat’s team took it apart and found the tracking device in the heel. She wasn’t able to communicate using the device, but she could be tracked. The device had been returned to its hiding place. Let her team believe she was still on the premises. As long as they could pinpoint her location, perhaps they’d stay away, assuming her still on the job.

  When he was ready to let them find her body, they’d find the device exactly where it should be. They’d be reassured, perhaps.

  She’d carried nothing else with her the day she approached the iron gate and asked to come inside. She claimed she’d been running and turned her ankle. She had no cell phone. No ID. Nothing. The prior gateman had judged her harmless and admitted her. He’d paid for his mistake and so had she.

  The Diplomat stepped away from the sedan and nodded. “You gave her the valium first?”

  “I added it to her food. She was already sleeping when I put her in there.” Smith’s voice was medium pitch, a baritone not a bass. The words were clipped and somewhat Midwestern. Ordinary.

  The Diplomat wondered briefly where Smith had come from and what his real name might be. He looked and sounded completely American, which was useful. Locals tended to accept Americans more readily than Russians. All of his hired muscle met those same standards. There seemed to be an endless pool of them. They were similar in size. They dressed alike. They were indistinguishable from one another, like a computer-generated army.

  “Get her out of there.”

  The Diplomat stood aside while Smith made his way around the front of the sedan and opened the back door on the opposite side. He bent his heavy torso at the waist, slipped his big mitts under her arms, and pulled her out of the back seat.

  “Check her pulse.” She certainly looked dead, given the condition of her skin, but from experience, the Diplomat knew that some suicides took longer than others.

  Cradling her easily in one arm, Smith laid two fingers the size of hot dogs alongside her neck. He moved his fingers a couple of times, trying to feel her carotid pulse. After a moment or two, he shrugged. “Probably. If not, she will be soon enough.”

  The Diplomat nodded. “Where’s the freezer?”

  “This way.” Smith grabbed the neon running shoe off the roof of the sedan, set it upon the woman’s belly, turned and marched toward a closed door in the far corner of the garage. The Diplomat followed. Smith opened the door, reached inside and flipped a light switch before he carried her over the threshold.

  When The Diplomat reached the open doorway, Smith was sliding the woman into a body bag on the cement floor. Her eyes remained closed.

  Smith zipped the bag closed. He lifted the lid on the twenty-cubic-foot white chest freezer, which was seventy-two inches wide and twenty-nine inches deep—large enough to hold a butchered cow, according to the sales data for this unit. He laid her flat inside the body bag, which would make her easier to transport and to thaw, then lowered the freezer’s heavy lid and placed the shoe on top where it would be easy to find when they needed it.

  The Diplomat handed him a padlock, which he passed through the freezer’s hasp and clicked the shackle into place. Smith stood aside. The Diplomat yanked on the padlock. It was secure. The padlock opened with the key he kept on a chain around his neck.

  The Diplomat looked around the room to confirm that everything was in order. He didn’t expect to return to deal with her until after his business at the main house was concluded, probably not until next week or even the week after. Unfortunately. He’d prefer to return her thawed body to her personal vehicle waiting inside a garage in Houston now. Get her away from him and his operation. Knowing she was out here was an annoyance, felt like a loose end. But
there was nothing for it.

  Eventually, she would be found. No forensic evidence of freezing would exist.

  Cause of death would be listed as carbon monoxide poisoning and manner of death would be suicide. Time of death would be established within appropriate recent parameters.

  Her suicide would be lamented and mourned and not questioned. Her murder would go unnoticed and uninvestigated. The Diplomat and his business would remain off the radar.

  But there was no time to ship the freezer to Houston. And while the woman remained missing, her agency colleagues might still come looking for her, which was less than ideal.