Fugitive

by Jude Hardin

  About FUGITIVE

  Jack Reacher…

  Former army major, military police, the 110th Special Investigations Unit. Now a penniless drifter and a trouble magnet. Could he be involved in a plot to overthrow the United States government?

  Nicholas Colt…

  Former world-class guitarist and private investigator. Now an operative for a super-secret federal agency called The Circle. Suddenly on the run for a crime he didn’t commit.

  A ticking clock…

  Three hundred feet beneath the capitol building in Washington, DC, there’s an armored complex that only a handful of people know about.

  Annex 1.

  Built to eliminate any threat of cyber theft, it’s where the nation’s most sensitive files are kept.

  It’s where the Jack Reacher files are kept.

  Targeted now by his own organization, Colt must somehow penetrate the vault and retrieve the incriminating documents on Reacher.

  Or die trying.

  The fate of his family— and his country—might just depend on it.

  THE JACK REACHER FILES

  FUGITIVE

  JUDE HARDIN

  Copyright © 2015 Jude Hardin

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  June 2015

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  About FUGITIVE

  PROLOGUE

  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

  PROLOGUE

  JR answered the prepaid cell phone and listened to the recorded message, a message from Mr. S himself:

  Tomorrow at 10:30 p.m.

  That was it. Much shorter than usual, but based on the previous messages, JR understood it completely. He was to drive the old van to the predetermined location and meet with two men. The men would be armed, and they would be wearing ski masks. They would give JR instructions on where to take them.

  Five thousand dollars just for driving. Easy money. JR poured himself a cup of coffee and smiled, happy that he was finally making some decent money doing the kind of work he enjoyed.

  1

  The chrome letters tacked to the wall over the service counter said Mac’s Diner.

  Mac’s.

  Original.

  United States Deputy Marshal Clete L. Garrison was dragging a French fry through the ketchup on his plate when a pair of armed robbers walked in and told everyone to get on the floor.

  Jeans, leather jackets, ski masks. Walking clichés, every meth head’s vision of what a menacing thug should look like. One of them had red eyebrows and a revolver, the other a very skinny body and a sawed-off shotgun. Garrison slid out of the booth and eased himself to a facedown position, lying head-to-head with Felisa Cayenne, the young lady who’d been sitting across from him at the table.

  “Do something,” Felisa said. “You’re supposed to be protecting me.”

  “Trust me. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “You’re a federal law enforcement officer. You can’t just lie here and do nothing.”

  “Watch me.”

  The robbers were amateurs. You could tell by the way they dressed and the weapons they carried. The grips on the handgun were secured with electrical tape, and the barrel on the twelve-gauge appeared to have been filed with a chunk of concrete. Addicts in need of a fix, most likely. All they wanted was money.

  “Look,” Shotgun Slim said. “Guy in the sports coat. There’s a bulge under his left armpit.”

  Revolver Red advanced toward Deputy Marshal Garrison.

  “You a cop?” he said.

  “Just take what you want and get out of here.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I think I did.”

  “Pull the gun out and toss it over here. Try anything and I’ll kill you.”

  Garrison reached into his jacket, unsnapped the safety strap on his shoulder holster, gripped the butt of his semi-automatic pistol with two fingers, eased it out and tossed it toward Revolver Red’s feet.

  Shotgun Slim had herded the kitchen staff and the waitresses into one corner, and all the other customers were curled up on the floor beside their tables. One of the women was praying softly.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Garrison said. “You got a third guy waiting in a car outside. He probably never wanted to do this in the first place. That’s why he’s out there, and you’re in here. He’s probably getting a little antsy right now, because this was only supposed to take a couple of minutes. He’s getting nervous. Sweating bullets. Another sixty seconds and he’ll be smoking the tires out of the parking lot. What then? You going to hitchhike home with your loot?”

  “Shut up,” Revolver Red said. He grabbed the semi-automatic and jammed it into his waistband, leaned over and started patting Garrison’s pockets. He extracted a set of keys and a leather wallet.

  “There’s about two hundred dollars in there,” Garrison said. “You can have it. Just leave everything else.”

  “Clete L. Garrison,” Revolver Red said. “United States Deputy Marshal. What’s the L stand for? Loser?”

  “It stands for none of your business.”

  Revolver Red laughed. “You’re a real tough guy, aren’t you? Let’s see how tough you are with your brains splattered all over the—”

  “Wait,” Shotgun Slim said. “He’s a U.S. Marshal? Who’s the chick with him?”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  “Get her ID.”

  Revolver Red tapped Felisa’s leg with the toe of his leather work boot.

  “Turn over,” he said.

  Felisa turned over.

  “My purse is in the car,” she said. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you, baby. What’s your name?”

  “Seriously?”

  Shotgun Slim walked over from the other side of the room. The sides of his sneakers were stained with some sort of red dirt. He was holding a brown paper carryout bag filled with money from the cash register.

  “I know who you are,” he said to Felisa. “My daughter has all your songs on her iPhone.”

  “Who is she?” Revolver Red said.

  “Felisa Cayenne. She’s a sin
ger. She has a TV show.”

  “I thought I smelled money.”

  “Yeah, and she has a United States Marshal with her. We need to go.”

  “You’re kidding, right? This could be the best score ever.”

  “You want to kidnap Felisa Cayenne?”

  “Why not? We could be millionaires.”

  There was a long pause. Shotgun Slim was thinking it over.

  “No,” he said. “Let’s just take what we have and bounce.”

  “I don’t think so.” Revolver Red aimed his gun at Felisa’s face. “Get up, baby. We’re going for a ride.”

  “Please,” Felisa said. “My earrings are real diamonds. They’re worth—”

  Revolver Red kicked her in the ribs. Hard.

  “Get up!” he shouted.

  “Leave her alone,” Shotgun Slim said.

  While Revolver Red and Shotgun Slim were staring each other down, bickering about whether or not to take their little caper to the next level, Garrison took the opportunity to reach for the backup pistol strapped to his left ankle.

  Unfortunately, Revolver Red witnessed the movement from the corner of his eye.

  Before Garrison could clear leather, Revolver Red aimed and fired twice.

  While all this was going on, there was a man sitting in a corner booth on the other side of the restaurant, calmly sipping on a cup of coffee.

  It was very good coffee.

  Hot.

  Black.

  Just the way he liked it.

  The driver’s license in the man’s wallet identified him as Derek Ray Green, but that wasn’t his real name.

  His real name was Nicholas Colt.

  And he was taking notes.

  2

  The man portraying the role of Clete L. Garrison was not a professional actor. Like the other players in this cheesy little dramatic recreation of the Felisa Cayenne abduction, he worked for The Circle, a secret government agency that specialized in monitoring and eliminating homegrown terrorists and assassins. Unlike the other players on the set, he was the lead operative on the project, and he was Nicholas Colt’s immediate supervisor.

  His name was Kurt Valinger.

  He rose from the floor, brushed himself off, walked over to Colt’s table carrying a large envelope.

  “What did you think?” Valinger said.

  “I thought the coffee was very good.”

  “About the training exercise.”

  “Not very good.”

  Valinger slid into the booth. He was younger than Colt, mid-thirties probably, but most of his hair had abandoned ship, and what was left had started graying at the temples. Brown eyes, flabby chin, acne scars. He didn’t look anything like the secret agents you see in the movies.

  “What was your problem with it?” he said.

  “For one thing, the whole troop could use some acting lessons.”

  “But you got the gist, right?”

  “Yeah. I got the gist. How accurate is it?”

  “Well, there weren’t any security cameras inside the restaurant, so we had to cobble it all together from eyewitness reports. You know how that goes. But I think it’s pretty close to what actually went down.”

  “Why is The Circle involved in a kidnapping case?” Colt said. “I thought the FBI handled that sort of thing.”

  “They do. We’re not investigating the abduction. We’re interested in the guy who drove the getaway car.”

  The getaway car.

  Okay.

  That didn’t make any more sense than the rest of it.

  Colt sipped his coffee. “Why didn’t Garrison square off against the bad guys right off the bat? He never should have gotten on the floor.”

  “He’s dead, and we’ll never know for sure, but we think his actions—or lack thereof—might have been related to his involvement in a similar incident four years ago. In that case, three innocent bystanders were hit by Garrison’s stray bullets. Two of them died. One of the ones who died was an eleven-year-old girl.”

  “He probably should have been taken off field duty at that point.”

  “Probably.”

  “Was there ever any sort of ransom demand for Felisa?”

  “No. Which is really strange. From what we gathered from the witnesses inside the restaurant that night, it seemed like these guys were totally in it for the money.”

  “One more thing,” Colt said. “Why was Felisa being escorted by a law enforcement agent?”

  “She was on her way to testify at a murder trial.”

  Colt considered that. “Seems like quite a coincidence that she got nabbed when she did. Are you sure—”

  “We’re not sure of anything at this point, but we’re thinking it was just that. A coincidence. Several witnesses at the diner said the perpetrators seemed surprised that she was there. The one guy didn’t even know who she was.”

  “Could have been an act.”

  “I don’t think so. Anyway, the FBI is handling all that.”

  Valinger opened the envelope and pulled out a black and white photograph, what appeared to be an enlarged still from a security camera. At the center of the composition there was a Caucasian male leaning against an older model Ford Econoline van. Missing bumper, no hubcaps, dented fenders. The image was grainy and blurry, but Colt could see the outline of the man well enough.

  “You’d think an NFL linebacker could afford a nicer vehicle,” he said. “Who is this guy?”

  Valinger pulled out another photograph, a portrait of an army officer in his dress uniform. Ribbons, medals, the works. There was an American flag in the background and a gold leaf pinned to each shoulder board.

  “We’re pretty sure this officer is a younger version of the guy standing by the van,” Valinger said. “His name is Jack Reacher. He was a major in the United States Army. Military Police, One Hundred and Tenth Special Investigations Unit. He was a good guy, once upon a time. A bit of a rogue, but good. Now he’s a drifter. No home address, no source of steady income.”

  Colt studied the photos side by side.

  “Could be the same man, but it’s hard to tell. The resolution on this one is—”

  “We know Reacher was in the area at the time, and our height and weight estimates from the security footage match up. He’s a very large man. Six feet five inches tall, two hundred thirty pounds. Your comparison to an NFL linebacker wasn’t far from the mark. He’s ripped like someone who works out at the gym eight hours a day, yet supposedly he never exercises. According to our intel on him, it’s all natural. Genetic. Like some kind of animal. Six-pack abs, pecs like slabs of granite, biceps like bowling balls. It’s in his DNA, along with some very unusual patterns of aggression. But you’re right about the picture. It’s hard to tell. We’re not a hundred percent certain that Jack Reacher is the man leaning against the Ford van. That’s where you come in.”

  Colt didn’t want anything to do with any of it, but he didn’t have much of a choice. On his last assignment with The Circle, in a charming little place in Indiana called Sycamore Bluff, he’d managed to become the target of a South American drug kingpin named Sergio Del Chivo.

  And since Colt was a target, so were Juliet and Brittney, his wife and adopted daughter.

  The Circle had whisked Colt away to a secure location and had altered his appearance with plastic surgery and hair dye and contact lenses, and supposedly Juliet and Brittney were getting the same treatment. Not that Colt would know. He hadn’t seen them or talked to them in months, despite assurances from Valinger and others that the separation was only temporary. Try to be patient, they’d said. These things take time.

  Colt had been cooperative and polite about the whole thing, but his patience was starting to wear thin.

  “So what is it about this Reacher guy?” he said. “Why are you looking for him?”

  “We’re not looking for him. We know where he is. The general vicinity, anyway. We just need to monitor his activity and find out for sure if he was the driver in the
picture.”

  “Why? Why is it so important to identify the driver?”

  “Because three days later, that same van was found packed with explosives.”

  “Found where?”

  “DC. Along one of the president’s routes to Andrews, where Air Force One takes off and lands. We have to assume—”

  “Okay,” Colt said. “I get it now.”

  Any other government agency would have brought Reacher in for questioning. But The Circle didn’t work that way. Once they determined that a threat was imminent, they stamped it out right away. They nipped it in the bud. No hesitation, no questions asked.

  “We’ve been keeping an eye on Reacher,” Valinger said. “Now we need to watch him closer. Once the evidence reaches the tipping point, we’ll take him out.”

  “You want me to kill him?”

  “No. If necessary, the L and E will be assigned to another operative.”

  L and E.

  Locate and eliminate.

  “So you want me to make friends with the guy or what?” Colt said.

  “You’re not to engage with him at any time. In fact, you’ll probably never even see him. Your involvement will be on the periphery. We want you to get inside Reacher’s world. Blend in with the people he’s had contact with. Gather information, send daily reports directly to me. That sort of thing. The code name for the operation is Blaze Two. You’ll be fully briefed tomorrow morning.”

  “Sounds easy enough.”

  “Yeah. Except that Jack Reacher seems to attract trouble like a magnet. You’ll need to be on guard twenty-four-seven. Complacency kills, Mr. Colt. Remember that, and you’ll probably come back here in one piece.”

  “Before I do anything, I want to see my wife and daughter,” Colt said. “Or at least talk to them.”

  “You’ll get to talk to them when The Director says you can talk to them. I thought we were clear on that.”

  “We’re clear on it. But how long do I have to wait?”

  “I don’t know. It could be tomorrow. It could be five years from now. Best to just put all that out of your mind for the time being.”

  An unexpected surge of fury washed over Colt like a wave. He loved Juliet and Brittney more than life itself. He needed to know that they were okay. He stood and grabbed his coffee mug and hurled it overhand like a baseball. It shattered, splattering the front wall of the set with a violent brown stain. Shards of ceramic shrapnel flew in all directions.