The Man Who Strikes Fear
Page 1
A USA TODAY BESTSELLING BOOK
Book One in The JACK REACHER Cases
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The Jack Reacher Cases (The Man Who Strikes Fear)
The Jack Reacher Cases #9
Dan Ames
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Copyright © 2019 by Dan Ames All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
THE MAN WHO STRIKES FEAR
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
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Also by Dan Ames
THE MAN WHO STRIKES FEAR
The Jack Reacher Cases #9
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by
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Dan Ames
1
Special Agent in Charge Edward Giles had lost his rage. Road rage, that is. For years, the drive home to his house on Long Island had been characterized by frequent shouting and obscene gestures.
For people who knew him, it would have been a revelation.
As an FBI agent in the New York office, he was known by his colleagues as being a very even-keeled, well-tempered investigator. Calm, methodical, and easily able to study the most heinous crimes imaginable with a serene sense of detachment.
Perhaps that was why he frequently lost his temper driving home. It was because he’d spent the day bottling up his emotions and the commute provided the perfect outlet to release his tensions. That way he wouldn’t kick the dog and shout at his wife the minute he walked in the door.
The rage, however, had completely disappeared two weeks ago.
He hadn’t started seeing a therapist. Or popping antidepressants.
Instead, he’d announced his retirement and given the office his two weeks notice.
Now, he didn’t mind the traffic at all because he was in a good mood. As much satisfaction as he’d had over the years as an agent at the Bureau, the amount of good he’d done, there had still been pressure.
He was not one of those men who hated their jobs. Who cursed their co-workers behind their backs and dreamed of the day they could tell everyone to go to hell and storm out of the building.
All that being said, he was happy to be ending his career. He and his wife had a condo in Florida, a boat tied up at a marina down there and Giles planned to spend nearly every day out on the water, fishing, swimming, or just tooling around and enjoying the sun, warm weather and fresh air.
Perhaps for the first time since he was a kid, he would have a tan.
It was amazing how much faster the drive went sans the anger. It seemed like in no time he was pulling into the driveway of the four-bedroom colonial house with immaculate landscaping and a commanding view on the hill.
The home was Giles’ pride and joy. He was a man who liked order and had found it therapeutic to putter around the house on weekends, fixing things, sprucing up the exterior, squaring everything away. In his line of work, there weren’t always neatly tied endings. Usually, just the opposite. It was perhaps one of the reasons he found yardwork and home renovation so refreshing. There was always a very clear before-and-after.
Giles parked the car and entered the home from the side door and felt the prongs of a Taser slam into his neck.
There was no time to defend himself.
His muscles went rigid and then everything collapsed.
He was still conscious but felt enormous pain and he was immobile, save for twitching and jerking as the voltage continued to wreak havoc on his muscular and nervous systems.
Giles felt himself being dragged into the living room where he saw his wife pinned up against the wall.
The image made no sense to him.
Nancy was naked and her arms and legs were spread.
Giles realized she wasn’t pinned to the wall.
She’d been nailed to it.
Blood seeped from each of her hands and feet, down the beige wall, the very wall he’d respackled, primed and painted over the winter.
Whoever had done this to his wife had cleared away the furniture and torn the artwork from the wall.
Because there was a big space next to his wife.
He knew the space was for him.
His mind and body were in shock, but he was still an FBI agent and his training was kicking in. He fought to assess the situation.
Giles got his first look at the assailants. There was more than one of them, at least three. Probably men, dressed in black clothes, with plastic around their shoes and they wore surgical gloves.
And masks.
Giles felt his clothes being ripped from his body and then one of the men lifted him up against the wall while another one with a nail gun drove nails into his hands and feet. He tried to fight but he had no strength.
He wasn’t sure when he started screaming but a scalpel had been produced and they were cutting off parts of his body. He saw one of the men holding something that had been sliced from his body and then the man approached his wife.
Giles couldn’t see what happened because he was losing blood at an astonishing rate and he felt himself floating above the scene.
He couldn’t see anything.
Couldn’t feel anything.
And then he was gone.
2
One month.
It had been exactly one month since Lauren Pauling had officially sold her private investigative firm in New York, and moved in with Michael Tallon.
Tallon’s little adobe ranch near the Nevada/California border, within a stone’s throw of Death Valley, had been her home for the past thirty days.
It was their anniversary.
Of course, it hadn’t been without incident.
A bizarre psychological experiment at a military base nearby had led to multiple murders and the worst kind of violence one could imagine. Some of it had even taken place here, inside Tallon’s home.
They’d recovered, naturally. Tallon was an experienced Special Ops soldier and had seen more than his fair share of gore. Pauling, too, was no babe in the woods.
So they’d moved on.
Now, Pauling had
cooked a meal she knew Tallon would love. Baby back ribs on the smoker behind Tallon’s house. They’d been slow-cooking out there for the better part of the afternoon. Inside, she had some gloriously indulgent homemade biscuits with sautéed green beans.
In the fridge, Pauling had a bottle of Tallon’s favorite beer, ice-cold and at the ready.
Pauling heard him pull into the driveway, and then he entered through the side door. She had a bottle of beer ready for him.
In his hand was a big bundle of red roses.
“Ah, you’re just full of surprises,” she said. They embraced and she kissed him, then handed him the beer.
“Flower for the lady. Beer for the gentleman,” she said. “Look at us, we’ve fallen perfectly into society’s roles.”
“Not exactly,” Tallon said, pointing at Pauling’s service weapon on her hip. Ever since the murders, she’d been a little reluctant to be too far from her gun, especially when she was home alone. It was odd as she’d lived a long time in New York and never felt that way.
Tallon understood, and let it drop.
She never tired of looking at him. Tall, broad shoulders, narrow waist and a ruggedly handsome face. He was a selfless and enthusiastic lover. They fit together perfectly, both anatomically and personality-wise.
“I thought guys never remembered anniversaries,” Pauling said, neatly slicing the stems of the roses and dropping them into a silver vase.
Tallon stepped up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. “Most guys probably don’t,” he said. “Then again, most guys don’t have you.”
They kissed, made their way to the bedroom and made love. Afterward, Pauling went to the backyard and checked on the ribs while Tallon poured himself another beer, and uncorked a bottle of wine for Pauling.
He joined her outside.
She was putting the last of the barbecue sauce on the ribs, just a hint as she’d applied a homemade rub and didn’t want to overpower it, when her cell phone rang.
Tallon took the sauce and the basting brush from her so she could answer.
“Hello?” she said.
Pauling sipped from her glass of wine and listened.
No, she thought.
Pauling looked up and saw Tallon watching her, his eyes wide with concern for her.
She continued to listen numbly as the news bounced around inside her consciousness.
Her old boss at the FBI in New York, a man named Edward Giles was dead.
He’d been murdered.
3
The first to arrive at the Giles residence was a Long Island cop. He’d been on the force for ten years and had seen less than five murders in his time with the department.
Nothing prepared him for what he saw at the home of the Giles residence.
All of that Hollywood crap about cops being tough, and putting menthol above their upper lip to counteract the smell of people butchered?
It didn’t work.
Officer Lampkin took one look at the carnage on display, a man and a woman literally nailed to the wall, sliced in a million places, the man’s genitalia cut off, and he ran for the door.
He barely made it back outside where he thoroughly regurgitated his lunch of a Reuben sandwich from the D’Monico deli that he ate at least once a week.
Now, he knew he would probably never touch it again.
Lampkin called for backup and made sure his vomit hadn’t disturbed the crime scene. In fact, he grabbed an orange cone and placed it over the pile of his former lunch.
His stomach was still roiling and he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d seen.
It had started so innocently. An anonymous call had come into dispatch complaining that fireworks had been heard near the Giles home, and Lampkin had been the nearest officer. He’d parked, walked around the home and then seen that the side door was open.
Inside, he thought he saw blood on the floor so he’d made the mistake of entering the house.
Now, he waited for backup and wondered what in the hell he’d just seen.
He closed his eyes and saw the dead bodies.
But there had been something else, written in blood on the wall.
Two words.
Lampkin squeezed his eyes closed and tried to remember what they’d said.
His stomach was still gurgling and he felt unsteady on his feet.
And then it came to him.
The two words.
For Reacher.
4
The first FBI agent to arrive at the Giles household was a man named Arnie Steele. He’d been with the Bureau for over twenty years and was the highest-ranking special agent on duty when the call came in.
The New York office’s director was now being informed of the situation and would no doubt be on his way shortly.
For now, Steele was in charge.
He entered the house and instantly remembered the layout. He’d been here several times. Once for a poker night several years back, the other just a friendly gathering of Bureau friends. They were the kind of casual summer get-togethers that used to happen regularly in the good old days, but that now hardly ever took place.
Steele remembered that Giles had been an amateur pit master and enjoyed making heaps of barbecue for guests. Cold beer, and lots of laughs, is how Steele remembered the place.
Now, he stood in no small amount of shock at the sight of his friend and colleague nailed to the home’s living room wall. Giles had clearly been mutilated, as had been Giles’ wife, Nancy. Steele remembered her as being the extrovert of the two, always ready with a laugh or a quip.
Steele knew that Giles was about to retire, and that his caseload had basically been wound down to nothing. His first thought was that the murders had nothing do with Giles’ job, because none of his fellow agents’ recent cases had indicated violence of this nature.
Maybe it was a home invasion. Or a robbery.
The entire New York FBI office would work on this case, and find out who was responsible.
The forensic team had also arrived and now Steele stepped aside, letting them take their photographs, measurements and notes.
Steele had been through the rest of the house and had already spotted the writing on the wall.
For Reacher.
It had been written in blood.
Steele had no idea what or who a Reacher was, but he was going to find out.
And then he was going to find the people who had murdered his friends, and make them pay for what they’d done.
5
“Bad news?” Tallon asked.
He had seen Pauling’s reaction as she listened on the phone, and he even noticed her body jolt, as if someone had sucker punched her in the solar plexus.
“Yeah,” she said.
Pauling told him that an agent from the FBI’s New York office had just told her that a man she’d worked with off and on for many years was dead.
“He was murdered,” she said.
Tallon went to her and put his arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Was he on the job?”
“I don’t have all the details yet, but it sounds like he was killed in his home.”
“Maybe a domestic issue?” Tallon asked.
Pauling shrugged her shoulders. It was a helluva thing, she thought. It was how life often worked. Here she was, relaxed, fresh from making love, cooking a celebratory meal with a man who she was clearly in love with, and boom. Out of the blue, death.
The news notwithstanding, Pauling and Tallon brought the ribs inside, and ate their meal.
“This is incredible,” Tallon said, after he’d polished off yet another rib.
“Thank you,” she said.
He looked at her, saw the resignation in her eyes.
“You’re going back,” he said.
Pauling nodded.
“I have to.”
“Yes, of course,” Tallon said.
They cleared their plates, loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, and Tallon poured
them each a finger of whiskey.
Tallon sat on the leather couch in the living room, the late evening’s shadows reaching into the room. The desert was outside, full of things that came to life in the night, avoiding the day’s heat.
Pauling sat next to him, curled up against him. Felt his warmth.
“We just can’t catch a break, can we?” she asked. “First, the ordeal with the rogue soldiers, now, a murder back in New York.”
“It kind of goes with the territory, right?” he said. “In our line of work, this is what happens. Investment bankers? They get emergency calls about currency devaluation and everything goes to hell.”
She leaned back and looked at him.
“Currency devaluation? Listen to you.”
“I have no idea what it means,” he said with a grin. “It just sounded like something investment bankers would deal with.”
She nodded. “I don’t think I’ll be gone too long. The funeral will probably be in a couple of days, and then I may hang around for a little longer just to find out what’s going on.”