Jack in the Green

by Diane Capri

  JACK IN THE GREEN

  BY

  DIANE CAPRI

  Presented By:

  AugustBooks

  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

  Also by DIANE CAPRI

  (Click each title to buy or download a sample)

  The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series:

  Jack in the Green

  Get Back Jack

  Don’t Know Jack

  Jack in a Box

  Jack and Kill

  The Hunt for Justice Series:

  Fatal Distraction

  Fatal Enemy

  Due Justice

  Twisted Justice

  Secret Justice

  Wasted Justice

  Raw Justice

  Mistaken Justice

  Jack in the Green 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.

  Copyright © 2014 Diane Capri, LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by: AugustBooks

  Visit the author website:

  DianeCapri.com

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Publisher’s Note:

  The publisher and author do not have any control over and do not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission from the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Published by: AugustBooks

  http://www.AugustBooks.com

  Visit the author website:

  http://www.DianeCapri.com

  eISBN:

  978-1-940768-02-1

  Original cover design by: Cory Clubb

  DEDICATION

  Thank you to some of the best readers in the world: Natalie Chernow, Angie Shaw (Noah Daniel), Dan Chillman (Danimal), Lynette Bartos (Derek Bartos), Teresa Burgess (Trista Blanke) for participating in our character naming giveaways which make this book a bit more personal and fun for all of us.

  Perpetually, to Lee Child, with unrelenting gratitude.

  CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS

  Kim L. Otto

  Carlos M. Gaspar

  Thomas Weston

  Samantha Weston

  Steven Kent

  Jessica Kimball

  Jennifer Lane

  Willa Carson

  Charles Cooper

  Jacqueline Roscoe

  and

  Jack Reacher

  The Killing Floor

  by Lee Child

  1997

  I thought: should I be worried? I was under arrest. In a town where I’d never been before. Apparently for murder. But I knew two things. First, they couldn’t prove something had happened if it hadn’t happened. And second, I hadn’t killed anybody.

  Not in their town, and not for a long time, anyway.

  * * *

  “So let’s talk about the last twenty-four hours, [Reacher],” he said.

  I sighed. Now I was heading for trouble.

  “I came up on the Greyhound bus,” I said.

  “Where did you get on the bus?” he asked me.

  “In Tampa,” I said. “Left at midnight last night.”

  “Tampa in Florida?” he asked.

  I nodded. He rattled open another drawer. Pulled out a Greyhound schedule. Riffed it open and ran a long brown finger down a page. This was a very thorough guy.

  JACK IN THE GREEN

  BY

  DIANE CAPRI

  Presented By:

  AugustBooks

  1

  FBI Special Agent Carlos Gaspar lounged back in the driver’s seat of the rental sedan to stretch his bad right leg, but all senses remained fully alert. The last time he’d been on MacDill Air Force Base, Gaspar’s partner had been wounded and a man had died resisting routine arrest. It was his sixth sense that rankled. He had a bad feeling about the place. He couldn’t shake it.

  He’d chosen the center lane and pulled into place behind a line passing steadily through the guard stations. One SUV ahead now, sporting a patriotic car magnet.

  Veteran, probably.

  Once upon a time, a veteran could be trusted to follow protocol. Veterans knew the rules. Knew they couldn’t bring personal weapons on the base or enter restricted areas. They didn’t need to be watched. But increasingly, veterans and even active military seemed to be going off the rails now and then.

  Sometimes for good cause.

  Reacher was a veteran. Gaspar never allowed himself to forget that.

  He preferred the smaller Bayshore Gate entrance. Closer to their destination. Less traffic. Only one lane. Only one sentry. Ruled out for just that reason: Because that sentry had fewer vehicles to inspect, she’d be more likely to ask thorough questions Gaspar would not answer. Which would probably land him in the brig and he didn’t have time for that today.

  The main gate entrance to Tampa’s MacDill Air Force Base was less treacherous because he could get lucky. Three traffic lanes fed into the main gate. Each lane supported two security stations configured to more closely resemble drive-through windows at a prosperous suburban bank than a military checkpoint.

  Except bank tellers don’t wear BDUs and side arms.

  Base security handled 20,000 people passing through every day as a matter of routine. Today was not routine. Which meant security would be relaxed, maybe.

  From behind aviator sunglasses, Gaspar watched the security process unfold predictably around him. But the whole setup of the event felt wrong. Too much lead time since the target’s attendance was announced, for one thing. Too public. Too many people. An unpredictable target with too many enemies and too many secrets.

  And the usual dearth of good Intel about everything.

  It was a bad combination and he didn’t like
it, even without factoring Reacher into the equation.

  Not that it mattered to the Boss what Gaspar liked or didn’t like.

  The flashing sign outside the security checkpoint declared Force Protection Condition Alpha, meaning only slightly elevated security in place. Probably bumped up a notch because of expected increased civilian attendance at the annual memorial service honoring deceased members of military families, he figured. He took that as a good omen. The base commander couldn’t feel as uneasy as Gaspar did or security would be tighter.

  He palmed his plastic VA card and flipped it through his fingers like a Las Vegas card shark, then tapped it rapidly on the steering wheel as if that would encourage the security personnel to speedier service. The Boss said Gaspar’s VA card would serve as required military ID to enter the base because of the hundreds of people expected at the memorial ceremony. Gaspar figured the Boss had greased the wheels to make it so, as he usually did.

  Gaspar glanced over at his current partner to confirm that she wasn’t freaking out any more than usual. “How late are we?”

  He’d bought the aviators months ago to block the blinding glare of Miami sunlight. Now, they also served to shield him from her penetrating evaluation of his every move.

  His shades weren’t needed at the moment, as it happened. “Twenty-five minutes,” FBI Special Agent Kim Otto replied, without lifting her gaze from her smart phone’s screen.

  He’d found Otto’s nuanced perception almost telepathic in the weeks since the Boss had paired them up for reasons unknown. They worked well together. He liked her. She seemed to like him well enough. The partnership was improving.

  But he was still wary.

  Otto’s self-preservation instincts never relaxed. Not for half a moment. Ever.

  He had a family to support. And twenty years to go. And this was the only field assignment he’d been offered since his disabling injury. Playing second on the team to a woman ten years greener added to the insult. Yet he felt grateful to have the work, mainly because it was the only option he had.

  But the Reacher job was more dangerous than they’d been told. Much more. As a result, Otto was jumpier than a mosquito on steroids. She would replace him in a hot second if she became the slightest bit concerned about his reliability.

  And she’d be smart to cut him out. He’d do the same to her if their roles were reversed. Maybe even as their roles were now.

  So he had to be careful. Safer that way.

  Which meant he needed as much distance as he could summon inside the sedan before she sensed any danger.

  Why was it so hot in here? He flipped up the fan speed on the air conditioning.

  The security staffer took three steps back from the SUV in front of them and the vehicle passed through. Gaspar raised his foot off the brake and allowed the sedan to roll forward until his window was even with the security officer.

  Gaspar’s window remained closed, following the Boss’s explicit instructions.

  He held up his photo VA card between his left index and middle fingers, almost like a salute. The card had a bar code on it. If the security guard followed procedure, she’d scan the card. He waited. She did, and waved him through without hassle. The scan was routine. The data should get lost in the mountain of data collected every day. As long as Gaspar did nothing to draw attention to himself, his presence here today should remain undiscovered by the wrong people. He hoped.

  He let the sedan roll on through the checkpoint, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. If they’d been required to offer FBI badges or answer questions, or if security had searched the sedan, everything would have become a lot more complicated. His life was already complicated enough.

  As much as they relied upon the Boss’s promise of lax security in their case, he felt Otto’s disapproval emitting like sonar waves. How many other VA cards had been waved through today? Was Reacher’s one of them? And who checked the civilians required only to show their drivers’ licenses for this special event?

  But they’d passed the first hurdle. They were on base. Unidentified. So far, so good.

  2

  The Boss had said their movements would be unrestricted inside the gate. Except for certain areas where armed guards were posted. It would be easy enough to avoid those.

  “Notice anything worrisome since you were here last?” Otto asked.

  He glanced her way. She had her head turned to look out her window, scanning for threats, probably. Especially from behind, she looked like a tiny Asian doll. The top of her deceptively fragile-looking shoulder rested well below the bottom edge of the big sedan’s window. If she hadn’t put that alligator clamp on her seatbelt at the retractor, it could have sliced her head off her neck in an accident.

  “Well?” she said, more insistent this time, scanning through the front windshield now. When he still didn’t reply, she glanced his way.

  He shrugged, combed his hair with splayed fingers, turned his head and made a show of looking around.

  MacDill Air Force Base was both a country club for military families and a war zone. A strange combination of all-inclusive resort and weaponized death star. It boasted a beach and golf course and a full-featured campground for veterans dubbed “Famcamp,” where his last trip here had ended in disaster. Inside the buildings you’d find standard Government Issue everything.

  Then there were the heavily armed guards protecting the strategic commands that earned the base its lofty importance to national defense and control over state-of-the-art killing machines around the world.

  Before his injury, Gaspar brought his kids to the annual MacDill AirFest. He’d been here on special assignments while he was in the army, and once or twice since he’d been assigned to the FBI’s Miami Field Office. He hoped today’s arrest would go more smoothly than his last one here.

  “It’s a simple question, Chico,” Otto said, continuing her recon.

  “Wish I had a simple answer.” He took in the view through the glass again—right, left, front and in the rear view mirror—seeking any unfamiliar additions to the geography.

  The base consumed every inch of the small peninsula jutting out into Tampa Bay. The last time he’d been here it was to attend a retirement dinner in the officers’ club, which had since been demolished. Nothing abnormal in that. When new facilities were required, it generally meant old stuff was demolished and replaced.

  Today’s event was a perfect example. Hundreds of civilians were expected at a temporary outdoor stage like it had always been there. The chosen site was close to the Strategic Operations Command Memorial Wall honoring the fallen. Nearby, multiple command centers for war. Death and life combined in paradise, to jarring effect.

  “What time is Weston scheduled to be arrested?” he asked.

  “After the service,” she said, checking her Seiko. “Maybe three hours from now. Plenty of time to get what we came for and get out before the arresting agents move.”

  “Plenty of time for all sorts of things to happen.” He shrugged as if unconcerned, but figured she knew better.

  Building a current file on Jack Reacher—filling in the blanks after he’d left the Army’s 110th Special Investigations Unit—had seemed routine initially. Until they read the background file, which was thin. Too thin. Since, they’d been pulling the scabs off old wounds Reacher had caused. It meant infiltrating enemy territory every time. Both Gaspar and Otto had fresh scars to prove it.

  No reason to believe Weston would be an easier interview subject than the others had been. In fact, from what they’d learned about the man, there was every reason to believe he’d be worse.

  They’d been warned to watch out for Reacher, who came, destroyed and departed like a liger. Neither he nor Otto needed to be reminded to watch for him, but Gaspar wanted to believe it unlikely Reacher would try to get Weston today. Their feud was sixteen years old and surely even Reacher might have lost track of Weston in all that time.

  “Weston has stayed out of Reache
r’s way all this time,” Otto said. “So why is Weston sticking his neck out by attending this particular memorial ceremony? He could have come any time. The base holds these generic memorials for military family members to pay their respects every year. Weston contacted them a month ago and said he wanted to attend this particular service. It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

  “Not to me,” Gaspar replied. “So we do what we do.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning we stay alert. We’re missing something important, Sunshine.”

  Her tone was hard in reply. “So what else is new?”

  Gaspar parked the sedan an assured clear distance from civilian traffic around the memorial site, which seemed to have a disproportionate number of handicapped parking spaces, and they stepped out into the warm November sunshine.

  Gaspar stretched like a lizard. After the past few weeks in frigid cold, he’d forgotten how good Florida sunshine could feel a few days before Thanksgiving.

  Otto watched him from just over the hood of the sedan, but said nothing.

  When he stepped around the car, they began walking toward the memorial site, keeping a few yards’ distance from other early arrivals. Some were in wheelchairs. Some moved jerkily on new prosthetic limbs. One mystery solved: the excess of handicapped spaces. The memorial service was an annual event to honor fallen members of military families. Many attendees were wounded veterans themselves.

  Gaspar’s limp was pronounced at first, but eased with exercise, as it usually did.

  “I know you’re running through it again in your head,” Gaspar said with a grin to distract her from his limping. “Just verbalize for me while you’re at it. Another run-through never hurts.”