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  Tonight, Nina looked much like someone else—the love of his life the last time he’d seen her. Before Pak had kidnapped and killed her all those years ago.

  Like his lover had been, Nina was way too good for Pak and everyone in the room could see that. Pak was a hideous troll. Nina was a goddess. Spectators might wonder what she wanted from him. It couldn’t be helped. Pak had a weakness for beautiful women. Nina could get close enough to him when the man in black could not.

  Nina gently removed the empty whiskey glass from Pak’s hand with tapered fingers adorned with brightly polished fingernails flashing gold in the reflected light. She refilled the glass from a silver flask and placed the glass in Pak’s sweaty palm. He downed the whiskey in two gulps. She refilled the glass again.

  Watching her fawning over Pak was both exciting and revolting. The man in black’s desire and revulsion flooded his body in waves, cresting and receding, like the rhythm of the sea.

  He scanned the warehouse once more. Two qualifying fights battled in another dark corner. The winners would fight each other in the main ring later.

  Safer to assume official and unofficial surveillance teams were stationed strategically throughout the building. He kept his distance and stayed in the shadows.

  If Pak’s dog won the fight he’d be a rich man.

  For a very short time.

  The main fight ended when Pak’s one-hundred-twenty-five-pound Bully Kutta mauled the champion mixed-breed pit bull to submission.

  Deafening applause and shouts of approval went up from the crowd. Nina played her part, laughing along with the rest, her total attention on Pak.

  The sweaty, red-faced Pak cheered along with them. His wide grin revealed a mouth full of misshapen teeth almost more frightening than the bloody, defeated pit bull.

  Pak collected fistfuls of bills from the gamblers. He dropped the whiskey glass on the ground as he filled both hands with the cash.

  As more gamblers crowded Pak to pay their debts, Nina bent to retrieve the glass. The sexy woman slid behind the crowd and out of sight.

  The man in black watched the show from afar and simply nodded when Nina slipped away. An overwhelming sense of accomplishment swelled his chest with every breath.

  The deed was done. Pak was as good as dead. The poison he’d ingested with the whiskey would do its work.

  Not immediately.

  Not even tonight.

  But later.

  When Pak returned to his room.

  After the whiskey glass and the flask had been destroyed.

  When the sexy woman was long gone.

  “May you die a lonely, painful death, you son of a bitch,” the man in black muttered under his breath. “No one deserves that fate more than you.”

  He kept his gaze fixed on Pak for a few moments before he slipped farther into the shadows as the next fights began. The aromas and noises and thrills he craved enveloped him for the last time.

  Only one loose end to clear up.

  The woman, Nina.

  But not yet.

  And not here.

  Ten minutes after Pak’s big win, the man in black was on his way. He walked the first four blocks, scanning for threats and witnesses until he located the stolen sedan he’d parked on the street.

  A piece of crap set of wheels had been rained on at least once after he’d parked it. Soot had settled on the raindrops leaving black residue on the paint.

  The silver sedan looked worse than it actually was. The old beater was in good enough shape to drive a couple thousand miles at least. Enough to get him where he needed to go.

  Not the kind of ride he’d normally be caught dead in.

  But then, he wasn’t the one he planned to bury in it.

  He drove the sedan to the airport.

  There he collected his personal effects and a change of clothes from a locker. He stuffed the black outfit into three trash bags and disposed of them.

  Then he moved to the rendezvous point where he met the sexy woman he’d left back at the warehouse.

  Nina Cloud wasn’t quite as young or attractive or sexy in the harsh overhead lighting of the terminal. She had some miles on her. She was forty, at least. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Native American. Not even the flashy gold fingernails remained to confirm potential witness accounts of her part in the murder. They’d been fake, too.

  Nina offered a brown paper bag containing Pak’s empty whiskey glass.

  He slipped the bag into his pocket before he gave her a kiss and a stack of counterfeit fifty-dollar bills to show his appreciation. They were good counterfeits. No one would object to them.

  Then he told her where to find the sedan and told her to drive herself home.

  “Take your time. Do some sightseeing. You deserve a little fun,” he said, pulling her close and kissing her a bit more thoroughly.

  Breathlessly, she pulled away, a satisfied smile on her lips. “See you later.”

  “You bet,” he replied as they turned and walked in opposite directions.

  When he reached his gate, he looked back. Nina was already at the terminal’s exit on her way to pick up the sedan. He didn’t expect to see her alive again. Which was more than okay. It was perfect.

  He grinned as he handed his boarding pass to the gate attendant and entered the jetway toward the plane.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Five Days Later

  Wednesday, May 11

  Washington, DC

  9:15 a.m.

  FBI Special Agent Kim Otto stepped out of the cab at the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building and stood for a moment in the foggy rain staring at the 935 Pennsylvania Avenue N.W. entrance. Some said it was the most hideously ugly 2,800,000 square feet of building space in DC. Hard to argue the point.

  Eight stories of damp, ugly concrete on one side, eleven stories on the other, and three stories underground. The FBI had been taking a media beating for the past few years. At this point, even the building’s architecture seemed untrustworthy.

  A lifetime ago, simply entering FBI headquarters had filled her with pride and excitement and a sense of belonging like no other place on earth. Back then her chief ambition was to become the first female director of the FBI. Back then she believed she’d get there.

  She felt none of those things today.

  Kim had been working the Jack Reacher file since early November, and she’d traveled all over the country and parts of the world like a bloodhound. But she hadn’t been to the Boss’s office even once since she got that first 4:00 a.m. phone call.

  Her assignment was off-the-books. Not undercover. Not sanctioned or monitored by the usual FBI channels. Zero supervision or accountability.

  Which made it feel clandestine and lonely and extremely dangerous.

  In the movies, working outside the well-trained team environment was made to seem glamorous. In real life, not so much. The work was threatening, treacherous, and too often deadly.

  Kim wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about walking into headquarters now, but pride and excitement were not in the mix. She was anxious, sure. Situation normal there. But what else?

  She glanced at the wet scene, smelling nothing but exhaust fumes hanging on the heavy air. The famous cherry trees, a curious but welcome gift from Japan in the last century, had bloomed late this year. On the ride from National Airport, she’d seen a few wilted blossoms barely hanging on, here and there.

  The National Cherry Blossom Festival had finished weeks ago, but the entire city was still flooded with tourists.

  Too many people, traipsing through the puddles with their umbrellas, no reliable method for separating hostiles from friendlies. When she’d lived in Georgetown with her ex-husband, Van Nguyen, back in law school, she’d made every effort to avoid the crowds. Now, as then, the effort was futile.

  An overwhelming sense of déjà vu settled on her shoulders, weighing her down whenever she thought about Van. It was strange how viscerally she reacted to him, even now. Humans seemed to absorb old wounds into
our DNA somehow. We never let the anger.

  She rarely allowed herself to go back there, even in her mind. She hadn’t heard anything from him in years, which was the good news. She wasn’t sure how she’d react if she met him on the streets of DC, out of the blue. She shivered involuntarily, all the way to her toes.

  She shook off her sense of disquiet along with the rain sliding into her coat collar, squared her shoulders, grabbed her identification, and hustled toward the employee entrance. She felt like she was headed to the guillotine, but she couldn’t be late. She didn’t want to get fired today and she sensed she was in enough trouble already.

  After she’d cleared security, Kim noticed the television mounted on the wall above the reception desk. The story that had filled the national newscasts for days was all about the mysterious poisoning of a North Korean diplomat in New York, identified by the American news media as Hana Pak.

  After being hospitalized for a couple of days, the man had died. She’d heard lots of saber-rattling from the North Korean government, but he had no family and few friends. Not many who knew him or knew of him mourned Hana Pak.

  She took the elevator and walked down the corridor to the Boss’s office, removing her trench coat and folding the wet sides together. She draped it over her arm, knocked on the big wooden door, and entered.

  She glanced out the window behind his desk.

  The view wasn’t that impressive. When she’d worked in a Chicago law firm, her first job after law school, her boss had been a mid-level partner. He’d had a much better office than this, with a stunning view of the city. His annual income was about ten times higher than the director of the bureau, too.

  She could have surpassed her old boss by now. Sometimes she regretted getting off the glide path to a big law leadership job. Finding her soul mate. Starting a family. She’d left all of that behind a long time ago, too. Had she made the right choices?

  Some days, she really wondered.

  A television played Hana Pak news, which had been all over every broadcast station. The Boss was half listening while standing near the large desk, a hammer in his hand. He was hanging a framed photo of himself with the president. When she entered, he gave the nail two solid whacks and squared the picture on the wall. He placed the hammer on his desk and gestured her toward a chair.

  He picked up the remote and turned off the TV.

  “Strange story, isn’t it?” Kim said, shaking her head. “Some North Korean diplomat who never comes to the US is in New York for two days, and someone kills him.”

  “Pak was a butcher who had a lot of enemies. One was finally able to kill him. No real surprise. Did the world a favor,” he replied absently.

  “You knew the guy?” She stood behind the chair he’d offered.

  “Anyone who served in South Korea for any period of time bumped up against Pak, one way or another. Never a pleasant experience.” The Boss shrugged and changed the subject. “I’m worried about you, Otto.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. His simple statement seemed ominous, considering the source. She knew he had no affection for her. The feeling was mutual now, although their relationship had been much better once. Another thing that had changed.

  He settled into the oversized black leather chair, his back toward the window, and folded his hands over a slim blue folder on the desktop. He waved her to sit in one of the chairs opposite the desk and waited until she perched on it.

  “You haven’t begun to romanticize Reacher, have you?” he asked.

  The question was bizarre, and it immediately raised her blood pressure. She arched her eyebrows, stalling. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “This assignment is difficult. Not many could handle the demands. I thought you were up to it. Your record suggested that you were the best agent for the job.” He paused, staring at her as if he could see all the way to her soul. “Was I wrong?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wednesday, May 11

  Washington, DC

  9:35 a.m.

  What could she say to that?

  The Reacher assignment wasn’t merely difficult. It was damned impossible. Had been from the start.

  She’d seen more action and collateral damage in the past few weeks than in all of her life before. Her assignment was so far from difficult that the understatement was laughable.

  Yet, it seemed like he wanted a response from her, so she simply said, “I appreciate your confidence.”

  She left out the “Sir.” They were long past that level.

  “I have confidence that Reacher is the best man for the job we need him to do. I’m worried that my confidence in you has been misplaced,” he replied sternly, like a father chastising his daughter for breaking curfew. “You haven’t found Reacher yet. I’m beginning to wonder if you ever will.”

  As if he’d believed in the team when Gaspar was her partner. But now that Gaspar had retired, she was somehow lacking. That’s what she interpreted from his tone.

  Kim felt fury rising in her gut. Who was he to find her wanting? She was the one who’d been out there, in the fight, dodging bullets and worse while he sat back and watched.

  He was welcome to do the job himself if he thought he could do it better. Or find someone else to use for cannon fodder.

  Grace under pressure, her mother’s voice repeated in her head. She didn’t speak every thought that came into her head.

  She nodded. “It would help if I knew what the job is that you want Reacher to do.”

  “Still classified and above your clearance.” He frowned. “You don’t need to know.”

  “It would help me to understand what I’m doing. Perform better,” she said stubbornly.

  “If you can’t work under these parameters, now’s the time to say so, Otto,” he stated flatly.

  She held her temper. The straitjacket was okay when she thought she was merely conducting a background check on a job candidate.

  Now that her assignment had been upgraded to a manhunt, she wanted more intel.

  Not that it mattered what she wanted.

  She wasn’t going to get more intel.

  Take it or leave it.

  And leaving it was simply not an option.

  The Boss tapped the blue folder with two fingers. “The last few reports you’ve filed seem…misguided. Off-center.”

  “How so?” she asked, controlling her anger with the sheer force of will.

  He frowned and leaned in, an expression resembling concern on his face. As if he cared what happened to her. She knew damn well he didn’t give a whit.

  Matter-of-factly, he said, “You’ve gone off-mission. Reacher is not some sort of romantic hero. Not even remotely. Get that out of your head.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Her tone was barely civil, wondering where this was going and how soon she could escape.

  “Make no mistake, Otto. Reacher can seem like a good man. He’s not. Underneath a paper-thin suit of civility, he’s a vicious killer. Particularly when provoked. And a lot of things provoke him.”

  She nodded. Tell me something I don’t know.

  “The army created him. Intentionally. We spent a lot of time and a lot of money training him to be exactly what he is,” he lowered his chin and stared over his reading glasses. “And he’s damned good at it. You’ve seen all his commendations, medals. You know he’s an expert.”

  “Yeah, I understand that, even from the thin file of intel you gave me,” she said, pure rage bubbling beneath the words.

  She could have said there was more to Reacher than his skills as a soldier.

  She’d seen Reacher’s aftermath, up close and personal. She knew how he rolled.

  She might have pointed out that Reacher had saved her life. More than once.

  But she didn’t say any of those things.

  What would be the point? Arguing with the Boss solved nothing. Unless she wanted to quit now. Which she most definitely did not.

  Reacher had gotten under her skin. She wanted t
o find him now. The assignment was no longer just a job. It was a point of pride for her. And if she died trying, well, everyone dies of something.

  “Do you understand, Otto? I wonder. Because it seems like you’re losing your focus.” He slammed the palm of his hand onto the blue folder. The abrupt noise made her jump. “Your job is to find Reacher, when and where I send you. Period. No improvising.”

  She stared at him.

  “If you need more resources, you ask me. I decide how you do this job. Me.” His nostrils flared and his tone hardened as he jabbed the blue folder with his index finger to emphasize each clipped order. “You don’t make up your own rules. You don’t go rogue. You don’t follow your whims. You definitely do not ask your own contacts to get Reacher to help you, for crap’s sake!”

  “I understand,” she said again, hurling clipped words and a frosty tone right back at him.

  This would be the time to toss her badge on the table and walk out.

  But she wasn’t ready to do that. And the simple fact was that he did have more resources than she could muster alone. He kept intel from her and refused backup. He had his reasons. She respected that. But she didn’t see the reason for it and she didn’t like it.

  She didn’t believe in the no-win scenario.

  He withheld the tools she needed for the job. She’d find other tools. Simple as that. After she’d accomplished the mission, the rest of the chips could fall where they may.

  “Let me be crystal clear.” The Boss stuck out his pugnacious chin. “It’s not your job to rescue Reacher’s friends, or his maybe babies, or his nephew. We’re not paying you to bond with his girlfriends. Or any of the rest of the crap you’ve been doing.”

  He was simply thumping his chest. Charles Cooper had been an army general and then the Deputy Director of the FBI for more years than she’d been alive. He could end her life as she knew it right here, right now.

  It was a point worth keeping in mind.