Bad Luck and Trouble (Jack Reacher, #11)

by Lee Child

You do not mess with the special investigators. It had been repeated endlessly, as a promise, and a warning. Deadpan, and deadly serious.

“What’s our ultimate aim here?” “Seek and destroy. Is that good enough for you?”

By the time he finished the coffee and tossed the empty cup he had a faint glimmer of new hope, and the outline of a new plan. Odds of success, about fifty-fifty. Better than roulette.

They found a burger bar on a busy street and sat at a table for four, two opposite two, shoulder to shoulder in their new gray denims. A uniform, of sorts. Nobody admitted it but Reacher knew they all felt good. Focused, energized, in motion, up against high stakes. They talked about the past. Escapades, capers, scandals, outrages. Years fell away and Reacher’s mind’s eye swapped the gray for green and Pasadena for Heidelberg or Manila or Seoul. The old unit, back together.

“I’m going to kill you.” “Plenty of folks have tried,” Reacher said. “I’m still here. They aren’t.”

“Hope for the best.” “But plan for the worst.”