Jack Frost

by Diane Capri

  The second agent was almost there. Whatever had seemed so essential in the passenger’s bag just a moment before was quickly abandoned. He jerked his arm up and away from the X-ray scanner and turned to run toward the exit.

  He elbowed aside two women in line behind him. One of the women had a toddler belted into a stroller, which she held onto. Both the mom and the stroller fell over, and the toddler began to scream.

  The second woman, perhaps the grandmother, shouted in outrage. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  The man kept going, picking up speed as he pushed passengers aside with both arms like a fullback on the field, rushing toward the game-winning touchdown.

  He was approaching Kim’s position. Plowing through, head down, clearing his path as he moved.

  Agent Garrett lumbered along behind him in hot pursuit. “Stop! Hey!”

  When the passenger reached a point just a few feet in front of Kim, before he had a chance to correct his trajectory, she shoved her bags into the runner’s path.

  He swung one arm in a wide roundhouse to knock her aside.

  She stepped out of the sweep’s arc.

  He whiffed.

  The momentum of his swing kept him going.

  His arm continued to travel around his body, twisting his legs while his feet were still planted on the carpet.

  He lost his footing and stumbled while attempting to keep his balance.

  When he staggered and fell forward, Kim stepped to one side, shoved her right leg out, and tripped him. Momentum and gravity did the rest.

  He flailed both arms and stepped around his own feet in an attempt to stay upright. But he failed at that, too.

  Kim moved out of his way. The last thing she wanted was to end up on the floor with the guy. As it was, she’d have a bruise on her leg where he’d come into contact with her.

  As he went down, arms flailing, the sharp edge of his pinky ring scraped Kim’s neck, deep enough to draw blood.

  Half a second later, he’d fallen hard in a crumpled heap of howling outrage, cussing and screaming the whole time.

  A man walked up and put a booted foot on the passenger’s chest. He applied just enough pressure to keep him on the ground.

  “You’re bleeding, Agent Otto,” he said with a grin. Which was when she looked at his face for the first time. William Burke. No doubt about it.

  Kim reached into her pocket for a tissue and applied pressure to the stinging scrape on her neck.

  A second later, the two TSA agents finally broke through the crowd. Kim confirmed Garrett’s name on the brass plate above his breast pocket.

  “Thanks, Agent Garrett.” She showed her badge and nodded at Burke to do the same.

  Garrett glanced briefly at both badges.

  “Nice work, Burke,” Garrett said, bending down to cuff the passenger, who was still spewing curses.

  “You were right on him. But glad to help,” Burke replied with a grin. He moved his booted foot off the passenger and set it firmly on the floor again.

  Kim resisted the urge to glare at Burke’s smirking face. Hogging credit for her takedown? Conduct unbecoming.

  It was a small thing. But small things showed the measure of a man. Details revealed character. This was not a good opening gambit from her new partner. Gaspar would never have done it, for damned sure.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Friday, May 13

  Memphis, Tennessee

  12:30 p.m. Central Daylight Time

  A crowd had gathered, watching the show. A few passengers had pulled their cell phones out and recorded the whole sequence. The video would be posted online within the next ten minutes. The world would know who took the guy down. No need for her to make an issue of it now.

  “We need to get going,” Kim said.

  “Yeah,” Garrett nodded toward a gated area while still attempting to subdue the belligerent passenger. “Go through the swinging door there. We’ll take care of this guy.”

  Burke grinned again. “Just curious. What’s his problem, anyway?”

  Garrett shook his head. “Guess he thinks a concealed carry permit lets him take a loaded Glock on a plane. Dumbass.”

  “It’s my gun. I can take it anywhere I damned well please.” The passenger was still on the floor, squirming in his effort to stand while wearing handcuffs. “I’ll have your badge for this. Then who’s the dumbass? Do you know who I am? Do you?”

  “These folks in the crowd here seem to know.” Garrett shook his head. He pulled the guy up off the floor. “Come on, Mr. Celebrity. You can tell me all about it back in the office.”

  When he walked the guy away, the remaining passengers in the security line applauded.

  Kim collected her bag and pulled it toward the door. Burke followed her.

  “Who was that guy?” Burke asked.

  “No clue,” Kim replied. She went through the security door and followed her nose straight toward the coffee. She had fifteen minutes to make her flight.

  Burke sauntered easily along behind her.

  At the java stand, she grabbed a muffin and paid for two coffees. “We’d better hustle. They’re closing the door.”

  “I’m on it.” Burke grabbed his cup and strode off, faster than Kim’s legs could carry her without running. Which she flatly refused to do.

  Burke made it to the gate with two minutes to spare. He spent them chatting up the pretty gate agent while Kim approached.

  “She’s with me,” Burke said. The gate agent nodded, and they rushed into the jetway half a moment before she closed the door behind them.

  She’d known the guy fifteen minutes, and he’d already rescued her twice. Which was annoying. Just what had the Boss told him about her and the assignment, anyway?

  A short line of passengers was waiting to board inside the jetway.

  The flight attendant standing just inside the bulkhead doorway said, “We have a full flight today, folks. We need you to take your seats and stow your belongings as quickly as possible.”

  Burke flashed her a megawatter smile before he turned to Kim and said, “My seat is 1A. Where are you?”

  “3B. Have you reviewed the files?” She shuffled ahead, the line of passengers moving in fits and starts and making little progress.

  “Yeah. We’re headed to Bolton Correctional Facility. A prison two hours’ drive east and north of Rapid City,” Burke replied. “Before we get there, we’re to interview a local jailhouse lawyer named Fern Olson.”

  His accent was slightly southern U.S., Kim thought. But she’d just spent a few days in Mississippi, so maybe she was hearing things.

  “Why are we going out there?” she asked.

  This was the first time the Boss had sent her to a prison. It was a strange task. Reacher rarely let criminals live long enough to be tried and convicted.

  “Interview one of the inmates. Guy worked as an informant for the Bolton PD seven years ago when Reacher came through, I guess.” Burke shrugged. “The file’s a little vague on what the guy is supposed to know or why it matters. Care to fill me in?”

  The line had finally begun to move and Kim walked onto the plane. When she reached Burke’s seat, she said, “Let me get settled and read the files. Then we’ll talk. We’ve got five hours to get up to speed.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he replied as he hefted his bag into the overhead bin and slid into his seat.

  Kim walked back two rows and slid into the aisle seat in row three. She stowed her bags, snugged her seatbelt tight, and waited for the plane to defy gravity.

  Once the plane had reached cruising altitude at thirty thousand feet, the flight attendant brought coffee, and Kim opened her laptop to work.

  She’d downloaded the encrypted files from her secure server from the Boss earlier and set them aside. She’d also downloaded encrypted files from Gaspar. She’d asked him to research her new partner. Now that she’d met Burke, she opened Gaspar’s file first.

  Her initial impression from Burke’s behavior back
at the airport confirmed he was no Gaspar. That impression was firmly cemented as she read through the file.

  She covered the basics quickly.

  William David Burke. Age thirty-six. Two years older than Kim. Birthday April 10. Aries the Ram. No surprise there. He’d already shown a few of the classic Aries personality signs when he jumped right into the situation she already had under control back at TSA.

  Aries was a fire sign. He was likely to have an abundance of ambition, which was okay. She was ambitious herself.

  A flash-fire temperament was not okay. He’d need to keep his anger on a leash. She wondered if he could actually do that. Time will tell.

  No siblings. Parents deceased. Divorced. No kids.

  Employment history was somewhat common for certain kinds of agents. After college, he’d joined the Navy SEALs and stayed for ten years before moving to the FBI. He’d been employed at FBI for four years. After the required two years as a field agent, he qualified for the Hostage Rescue Team.

  The interesting part of his resume was the most recent entry.

  The details were classified, so Gaspar’s hurriedly gathered report was sketchy. He was still digging for more details. What he knew so far was that Burke got mixed up in some sort of situation. Whatever it was, Burke ended up sideways and could have been fired.

  But the Boss, for reasons of his own, didn’t want to let Burke go. So he parked Burke with Otto, out on the fringes of the FBI, where no one could see or complain about his behavior. Which was okay. Kim had been in this no-man’s land for a while now and she could use a guy with Burke’s skill set.

  The whole Reacher assignment was temporary anyway. If Kim didn’t finish it soon enough, Burke would stay until things cooled off inside the HRT for him. Then he could go back to hostage rescue and other feats of daring-do, she supposed. That sort of stuff was a young man’s game, but Burke wasn’t too old for it. Yet.

  She closed the file and the laptop to think about what she’d learned.

  Reading between the lines, she suspected that the Boss had sent Burke in to do what Kim had failed to accomplish so far: Find Reacher. Which pissed her off royally.

  Not that she could do anything about it. The Boss made all the decisions. He held all the cards.

  The question was whether or not she could trust Burke. With his background, he should be more than capable. The hunt for Reacher was dangerous business. Burke’s skill set would be helpful and maybe even crucial.

  Maybe, like Gaspar, Burke could be relied upon to think like Reacher. Kim had understood from the first minute of this assignment that if she was to succeed, brains, not brawn, was her best weapon. To deploy it, she had to understand Reacher’s moves before he made them.

  Gaspar had been helpful with that issue. Maybe Burke would be, too.

  But unlike Gaspar, Burke was Cooper’s boy. No doubt about that at all.

  So the real question was: why was he here?

  The answer was not contained in these files.

  She closed the file and stashed it. Time to get up to speed on her assignment in Bolton, South Dakota. She ordered fresh coffee, opened the files from the Boss, and went to work.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Friday, May 13

  Bolton Correctional Facility

  4:55 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time

  “Sorry, but no. And I gotta go. I’m here, and I’m running late. I’ll call you when I’m done,” Fern Olson said into the blue tooth speaker as she pulled her red BMW into the mostly empty visitors’ lot and parked in the area reserved for lawyers.

  The vibe was different, somehow. She’d felt it for the past week, right after she’d delivered the messages from last Friday’s regular visit to Bolton Prison. Something was off. She didn’t know what. Regardless, she didn’t want her son wandering the streets today, even in the small town, five miles south.

  Her regular client conferences at the prison were a chore. Necessary, yes. Lucrative, sure. But like many things any lawyer does every day, most prisoner conferences were pure drudgery. Usually.

  “How long are you gonna be?” the kid whined. Like every teenager on the planet, he wanted his mother’s world to revolve around him.

  “My goal is always to get in, get it done, and get out,” she replied, glancing around the compound. Everything looked the same as always. Solid. Impenetrable. Secure. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way home.”

  The day was sunny and clear, but colder than she liked. Spring had blown into Bolton a few weeks ago, stayed for about forty-eight hours, and fled south again. The change of seasons was, as always, unpredictable.

  No one living in Bolton expected different, except her son. He wanted to go swimming in the lake with his friends.

  “But, Mommmm,” Noah whined, drawing out the single syllable until it seemed to last forever. “All the guys are going. It’s not too cold. People swim in the Arctic Ocean, for cripe sake.”

  “Heaven help me,” Olson muttered under her breath, shaking her head. “We’ll talk about this when I’m done here. I’ve gotta go. Love you.”

  He hung up.

  “Was I ever that obnoxious?” she said looking up to the roof of her car.

  She grinned and spoke to one of the women she’d admired most as a child. Long gone, now, Janet Salter had been an inspiring role model to young girls growing up in Bolton.

  She said, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Salter. I’m not half the woman you were. I’ve done the best I could with him.”

  For a brief moment, she considered changing her mind about the swimming.

  Elevation in Rapid City was three thousand feet and in Sioux Falls, it was fourteen hundred feet. Bolton lay between them and farther north. The land was flat here. All the interesting elevations were closer to Mount Rushmore. Weather fronts came and went. Mostly warmer in summer and colder in winter.

  But sometimes Mother Nature could act more than a bit drunk. Like this year.

  Now it was mid-May and the trees were still bare, but daffodils and tulips had pushed up through the thawed ground. Roads were clear, and the last of the snow piles had finally melted. Flurries last night had left a light dusting of new snow in the grassy areas, but it had melted before noon.

  Still, it was way too cold to go swimming.

  Any halfway intelligent fifteen-year-old should know that, shouldn’t he?

  She shook her head, still mumbling to herself. “The weather will get better, Fern. Mid-July, he’ll be complaining about the heat.”

  Olson had worn jeans and boots to work because she visited the prison every Friday afternoon. She’d gathered her hair into a bun at the base of her neck to tame the long, unruly curls she preferred to leave free.

  The chill in the air had prompted her to don a brown leather blazer over her crisp white shirt. She tossed her sunglasses onto the passenger seat, slid her phone inside the console and locked it, and grabbed her briefcase.

  Cell phones were on the long list of prohibited items, including things like cigarettes, drugs, and weapons, not allowed inside the federal prison.

  If she had the phone on her, she’d be required to leave it in a locker. Her entire world was stored on that phone. No way would she leave it where one of those idiots could grab it.

  The prison guards insisted that they wouldn’t open lockers or try to breach the security on phones.

  “And if you believe that, you’re not a jailhouse lawyer, for damned sure,” she muttered to herself.

  Unlike everyone else in Bolton, Olson locked her car and dropped the key fob into her pocket. The BMW was new. She didn’t want some kid taking it for a joy ride.

  She trudged across the parking lot, avoiding the puddles as she made her way toward the visitor’s entrance. It was late. She’d already had a long day. She didn’t plan to waste any time she had left before the prison locked down for the night. The last thing she wanted to do was be forced to come back tomorrow.

  She could find her way with her eyes closed. She’d made the s
ame trek every Friday for a long time, regardless of the weather. Just like her predecessor.

  Olson had been a junior partner when she got this gig. The senior partner who’d handled the legal needs of prisoners before her had been murdered seven years ago.

  In all law firms, shit work flows downhill. Which was how she got the prison detail. She shrugged. When her kid went off to college, maybe she’d make a change. Until then, there was nothing she could do but suck it up and do the job.

  She reached the building, pulled the heavy entrance door open, and walked through. A slight citrus scent disinfected the air.

  There was no line inside. Friday wasn’t a regular visitor’s day. But the interior was no less depressing. Linoleum on the floor and green paint on the walls and fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling cast a greenish tint everywhere.

  The prison was thirteen years old and built to last a hundred. But the money was spent on design elements that had more to do with basic human needs, security, and function than a homey appeal.

  When the heavy door snugged solidly closed behind her, it seemed to suck the life out of the room right along with the possibility of breathing free air.

  Ahead of her was the big lobby, an empty X-ray belt, a walk-through metal detector, and three prison guards standing around doing nothing, discussing the weather and the baseball season.

  She nodded and they nodded back. She wasn’t friends with them. Didn’t even know who they were. Personnel seemed to rotate through the visitor’s entry duty on a randomized schedule she hadn’t bothered to figure out.

  But they were all on the same side, really. Prison was a binary world. Either you were locked up, or you weren’t. She wasn’t. They weren’t.

  Olson removed her visitor badge from her jacket pocket and placed her folded jacket into a plastic bin. She clipped the badge onto her shirt. Then she pulled down another bin and placed her briefcase in it. She opened the briefcase, stashed her car key fob inside, and closed it again.