Hit the Road Jack
HIT THE ROAD JACK
BY
DIANE CAPRI
Presented By:
AugustBooks
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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
Compilation Copyright © 2014 Diane Capri, LLC
All Rights Reserved
Jack in a Box © 2012 Diane Capri, LLC
Jack and Kill © 2012 Diane Capri, LLC
Jack in the Green © 2014 Diane Capri, LLC
Mistaken Justice © 2011 Diane Capri, LLC
Fatal Enemy © 2012 Diane Capri, LLC
Published by: AugustBooks
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Hit the Road Jack is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
License Notes:
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eISBN: 978-1-940768-07-6
Original cover design by: Cory Clubb
Digital formatting by: Author E.M.S.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Praise for Bestselling Author Diane Capri
Copyright
Dear Friends
JACK IN A BOX
JACK AND KILL
JACK IN THE GREEN
MISTAKEN JUSTICE
FATAL ENEMY
More from Diane Capri
About the Author
Lee Child: The Reacher Report
Dear Friends,
It’s an honor and a pleasure to write for you. Many of you found me because of my connection to my great friend, Lee Child, and the spin off books I’m writing on The Hunt for Jack Reacher series. This collection is especially for you.
Like many authors working today, both Lee and I publish ebooks more frequently than “tree” books. Many readers enjoy tree books and also collect them. So when readers asked for a collection of my novellas and also asked me to publish them in print as well as electronic versions, I was thrilled to oblige.
What I’ve packaged for you here, never before collected together in electronic form and never before in print, are five exciting short reads. Three are Hunt for Jack Reacher Series tales and two are Hunt for Justice Series shorts.
Why combine this particular set of stories, you might wonder. Two reasons. First, because you asked me to. And second, because these five short books definitely fit together. When you read them, you’ll see why. No spoilers here from me!
I hope you enjoy these collected tales as much as I enjoyed writing them for you.
If you love this collection, please leave a review at the retailer where you bought the book and anywhere else you think readers might see it. Your reviews really help other readers to decide whether or not to give my books a chance.
Now sit back in your easy chair with your favorite beverage close at hand and dive in while I get back to work on more new books especially for you, the best readers in the world. One of these days, I hope to meet you and say thank you in person. Until then—
Caffeinate and Carry On!
Best,
Diane
p.s. I hope you’re on my email list, where we let you know about new books, opportunities, contests, giveaways, and, well everything first and exclusively. I certainly don’t want to leave you out! (And don’t worry—I’ll never, ever send you any spam. If it’s email from me, you can be sure it’s got something terrific to offer.) If you’re not signed up and you’d like to be, you can do that here: http://dianecapri.com/get-involved/get-my-newsletter/
JACK IN A BOX
by
DIANE CAPRI
DEDICATION
For Lee Child, with unrelenting gratitude
CHAPTER ONE
FBI Special Agent Kim Otto’s slowly descending eyelids abraded like forty-grit sandpaper along her corneas and rested briefly before ascending in gouging retraction. How long had she been sitting here? The FBI headquarters building was quiet here in the basement. Activity was limited to higher floors where essential matters were handled.
“What are you missing?” she asked the empty room as if she expected the answer to be revealed, when she expected nothing of the sort. If she was going to find anything at all, she’d have found it long before now. But she couldn’t give up, so she thought it through again.
She’d begun by searching for general information. Finding none, she’d narrowed her search to the fingerprints. Fingerprints never changed, never disappeared, never failed to identify. Every law enforcement officer knew a fingerprint was worth a thousand eyewitness reports and often better even than DNA.
But, like DNA, fingerprints were only useful when compared to known identities. Law enforcement files around the globe were filled with unidentified prints and DNA. The first order of business was to find proof of positive identity. She’d thought that would be easy. Wrong.
Jack Reacher must have been fingerprinted by the Army, like every other soldier. Maybe a single set of prints made all those years ago could have been misplaced in the days before computers ruled the world. Or maybe accid
entally destroyed somehow.
Kim thought not.
Relevant military files were integrated with FBI and other agency files now, she knew. But Reacher’s army discharge was long before 9/11. Back in those days, government agencies didn’t share information in the way they did now. Some old files involving military personnel instead of criminal defendants were not searchable in the various FBI databases Kim had the necessary security clearance to examine without raising the alarms she didn’t want to trigger.
Her plan was to check the military files last because they were the oldest. Her accounting background led her to prioritize the most recent information first, or first in, last out.
Reacher wasn’t an army grunt who’d been drafted, served a quick term, and mustered out. He’d spent thirteen years in service to his country, including his last stint with the military police. As an MP his reference fingerprints would have been routinely used to exclude his prints from those left by witnesses and suspects at crime scenes.
Kim should have found at least a few Reacher exemplars in the FBI databases. But she hadn’t.
Nor had she really expected to find anything relevant, although she hadn’t abandoned all hope. But her realistic plan was only to confirm her assumption that nothing concerning Jack Reacher existed in FBI files. After that, she and Gaspar could move on to conducting additional interviews with victims, witnesses, reporting parties, and informants. Always assuming they could find any of the above.
“Coffee. You need a caffeine jolt,” Kim said aloud.
She stood, eyes closed to avoid the gouging, stretched like a cat, then a downward dog, working the kinks out of her stiff muscles. She heard nothing but her own breathing. She stretched her neck and shoulders again before making her way to the elevator in search of java, nectar of the gods.
Kim pressed the elevator button and completed another round of stretches while she waited. Lights above the door flashed up and down and up and down, stopping at floors high above. The basement was low priority, below stops where others were consumed by important activity, Kim concluded. The only coffee at this hour would be inside the busiest sectors of the building, places she didn’t want to be seen. Yet… She sighed, shrugged, headed for the stairs.
When she exited on the ground floor her personal cell phone vibrated. She checked the caller ID before answering.
“Good morning, Dad. You’re up early.”
CHAPTER TWO
FBI Special Agent Carlos Gaspar had planned to leave early even before the classified envelope arrived containing nothing but a copy of Major Jack (none) Reacher’s formal headshot; on the back, a time and place for a meeting.
Had Reacher planned the meet? Or was it someone else who wanted Otto and Gaspar present? Either way, the big question was why?
Nothing traceable about the envelope or its contents. He chased down the delivery service but got no further data. The headshot was easily obtainable by any number of people. Hell, he’d been supplied one just like it when he initially received the Reacher file assignment.
The time and place for the meet was a bit out of the ordinary, but not alarming. The National Gallery of Art, East Building, on Pennsylvania Avenue. Ten o’clock tonight. It would be dark but not deserted. The building was one of those modern designs full of angles and shadows suitable for clandestine activities. But not a bad neighborhood, unless you hated politicians, and the entire town was infested with those.
He’d tried to call Otto, but her plane was already in the air and flying straight into an early winter storm. She hated flying under the best conditions; she’d be too wired by the storm and her errand to make any sense, even if he’d reached her. They’d talk tonight. In D.C.
Fifty minutes before he planned to depart, his bag was packed and stowed in the Crown Vic’s trunk. He’d dressed in his Banana Republic suit. Gaspar popped another Tylenol, rested on the chaise lounge, and watched his youngest daughter from behind mirrored sunglasses that reflected little of Miami’s winter sunlight and none of its heat.
Today was Angela’s fifth birthday, meaning five giggling girls had invaded his home overnight. That was one of his wife’s rules. No sleepovers until age five, then five girls for her fifth birthday, six for the next, and so on. His eldest would be thirteen in a few months; the idea raised gooseflesh along his arms and not only because thirteen teenagers in his small house would be ear splitting.
Thirteen was a dangerous age. Rebellion. Independence. Sex. He clearly recalled himself and his buddies at thirteen. The prospect of launching his firstborn daughter into that realm terrified him, but he acted as if it didn’t. He shrugged. No way to stop the clock. It is what it is.
Gaspar felt his eyelids slide closed and shoved them up again. Yes, he was tired, but that was nothing new. Exhaustion had been a constant companion since his injury. He rarely slept more than an hour before throbbing pain in his right side awakened him. He’d become a quick-nap expert to capture missing sleep, but he felt his senses dulled, his reaction times slowed. The healed scrape where a bullet had seared his abdomen burned like a rash, reminding him to stay alert. He was grateful to have the fearless Otto as his partner, a solid assignment, and damn lucky to be alive to see his daughters’ birthdays.
Cacophonous noise drowned such thinking. Five girls cavorting in the backyard pool, squeals, shouts, splashes. Surely decibel level ordinances in Miami’s residential neighborhoods were violated. He’d tried asking them to quiet down, and they did, but joy erupted again louder than ever after maybe five subdued seconds. Was impulse control equal to age? Would the quiet seconds lengthen to six and then seven? Would it be five more years before he might enjoy ten seconds of silence at home from his youngest girl?
He’d survived many life-threatening situations, but fathering frightened him more than anything. Four daughters already and his wife pregnant with a boy. Job one was keeping his family safe.
Before his injury he never considered such things, never worried that he’d fail, never gnawed the consequences. Maria had handled the girls effortlessly and he’d swooped in to count noses and grab hugs before bedtime. Confidence had oozed from Gaspar’s pores back then. Four kids hadn’t seemed overwhelming. He hadn’t felt boxed in so much as engulfed by creatures he loved more than anything.
Not anymore. Adding a fifth child at this point terrified him. A boy. Boys needed a solid role model, a strong father like his own had been, but Gaspar’s body refused to perform as required and he could barely keep his head in the game.
How would Maria manage the girls and a new baby while he worked the Reacher file, traveled all over the country, only coming home for brief stints, not knowing how long this assignment would go on, worried that the work would end too soon?
He shrugged again without realizing he’d moved this time. It was what it was.
As Otto said, only one choice. He’d do what he had to do.
Men work. Husbands work. Fathers work.
He had to work.
They needed the money.
Twenty years to go. Simple as that.
But he’d bought a big life insurance policy. Just in case.
CHAPTER THREE
FBI Special Agent Kim Otto had made a quick dash to Wisconsin over the weekend because Grandma Louisa Otto was dying. Not shocking, given her age. Modern medicine had pulled her through heart arrhythmias, osteoporosis, micro-strokes, and cancer, twice. This time she’d had another heart attack.
Kim doubted Grandma Louisa would actually die. Ever. Pure German stubbornness had kept her alive more than 102 years. Kim figured she had inherited the stubborn gene from Louisa.
But if death was to happen, Kim didn’t want to be there to see it. She was not comforted by bodies in coffins or funerals or memorial services and avoided them whenever possible. Closure? Humbug.
“God knows how much longer she’ll last, Kim,” her father said, probably noticing Kim’s lack of enthusiasm for the trip.
“Is mom going?” Kim asked. Her stom
ach was already churning at no prospect of playing referee between Grandma Louisa and Sen Li. Kim reached into her pocket for an antacid and slipped it under her tongue.
“We’ve been there all week. We’ll return Monday,” Dad replied, subdued. “Just go to Frankenmuth, honey. Say goodbye while you still can. You’ll be glad you did.”
In what universe?
Still, her father rarely asked her for anything. Sen Li had drilled into her children from infancy—when there’s only one choice, it’s the right choice.
So she went.
Just in case.
Kim had flown out early, before she could chicken out. Adding two plane flights to her life was never her first choice, but too often it was her only option.
Miraculously, the plane didn’t crash and she made it to Madison in one piece. Frankenmuth Otto Regional Hospital was a twenty-mile cab ride from the airport. She’d booked a two o’clock flight back to D.C. God willing, she’d arrive at Reagan National by five-thirty. Plenty of time to take care of the things she needed to do before she met Gaspar Sunday. Get in, get out. That was her plan.