Bad Luck and Trouble (Jack Reacher, #11)

by Lee Child

Hence 8197. He liked 97 because it was the largest two-digit prime number, and he loved 81 because it was absolutely the only number out of all the literally infinite possibilities whose square root was also the sum of its digits. Square root of eighty-one was nine, and eight and one made nine. No other nontrivial number in the cosmos had that kind of sweet symmetry. Perfect.

And fascinating

Alaska Airlines would have been cheaper, but Reacher hated Alaska Airlines. They put a scripture card on their meal trays. Ruined his appetite.

Or you could, ya know, throw the card away if it bothers you? Don't embrace pettiness, Reacher.

Thomas Brant watched them go. He used his cell phone and called his boss, a man named Curtis Mauney. Mauney didn’t answer, so Brant left a voice mail. He said, “She just picked up the first one of them.”

Hmmm

Parked five cars behind Brant’s Crown Victoria was a dark blue Chrysler sedan containing a man in a dark blue suit. He too watched the red Mustang disappear into the haze, and he too used a cell phone. He said, “She just picked up the first one of them. I don’t know which one it is. Big guy, looks like a bum.”

Dang. Two's a crowd.

“What’s her name?” he asked. “Angela,” Neagley said. “OK.” “The kid is called Charlie. A boy.” “OK.” “Four years old.” “OK.”

So robotic lol

“I loved it. I loved everything about him. I respect honesty and openness.” “So would you mind if I was blunt?” “Go right ahead.” “I think there’s something you’re not telling us.”

Can't get nothing past him

The man called Thomas Brant watched them go. He was twenty yards from his Crown Victoria, which was parked forty yards west of Franz’s house.

Persistent dude. Who is he?

Reacher waited until they were around the corner and out of Franz’s street and said, “Did you see a tan Crown Vic back there?” “Parked,” Neagley said. “Forty yards west of the house, on the opposite curb. A base model ’02.” “I think I saw the same car outside of the Denny’s we were in.”

Niiiiice. Looks like you BOTH are on your game.

Reacher asked, “What do you know about their businesses? Is there any good reason why they should all be out of contact for days at a time?”

They're either in on it or have been taken out already

“This time they ignored Franz’s place completely,” he said. “They talked to the landlord instead. Then they were in the post office a long time. I think Franz must have been mailing the stuff to himself. That’s why we couldn’t find it. And they’ve probably got it now.”

Ugh who is this guy?

O’Donnell got out of his chair and flexed his fingers and stepped over to the laptop on the desk. Put the cursor in the box on the screen and typed seven letters. Took a breath and held it. Paused. Waited. Hit enter. The laptop screen redrew. A file directory appeared. A table of contents. Big, bold, clear and obvious. O’Donnell breathed out. He had typed: Reacher.

Damn

He used his cell and called Curtis Mauney, his boss. Said, “There are three of them now. It’s working like a charm. It’s like the gathering of the clans.”

So Franz was bait then?

And then she stopped. Because the guy was wearing a shoulder holster. An old well-used item, made of worn black leather. There was a Glock 17 in it. He was wearing a belt. The belt had a pouch for a spare magazine on it. And a pancake holder with a pair of stainless-steel handcuffs in it. Police issue.

Uh oh

“Shit,” Reacher said. “We just took down a cop.”

Dirty cop, perhaps?

“His name is Thomas Brant,” she said. “He’s an LA County deputy.”

Is he though?

“Well, that part is taken care of at least,” Dixon said. “Nobody is following us now, so this car is clean for the time being.”

Yeah...about that...someone else IS following you guys lol

“Same as ever,” he said. “We investigate, we prepare, we execute. We find them, we take them down, and then we piss on their ancestors’ graves.”

Heh so Reacher

He decided to prioritize and put the biggest targets down first. In his experience that always worked best. So, center-mass into Reacher’s back, then a small jog to the right into O’Donnell’s back, then a radical swing left to Neagley, then all the way back to Dixon. Four shots, maybe three seconds, from twenty feet, which was close enough to be sure of hitting without being so close that the deflections left and right would be extreme. Maximum traverse would be a little more than twenty degrees. Simple geometry. A simple task. No problem.

Haha that's what you think.

“Good shooting, Dave,” Dixon said. “Left-handed, too,” O’Donnell said. “I hope you noticed that.”

Lol I love O'Donnell.

O’Donnell said, “We should put him on his back. That way we need less gravel.” “You volunteering?” Reacher said. “I’ve got a good suit on. And I did all the hard work so far.”

Heh he's got a point.

The place was fairly quiet. There was no sign of Dixon or O’Donnell. Or Curtis Mauney. There was a long desk with people behind it. Not nurses. Just clerks. Reacher asked one of them for Mauney and got no response. He asked for Jorge Sanchez and got no response.

Sounds like a trap to me, dude

“That was Chicago,” she said. “Curtis Mauney was Allen Lamaison’s partner. They were together twelve years in the LAPD.”

Well now

Reacher opened his eyes and said, “We’re not going to lose another two. Not while I live and breathe.”

Then hurry up and save them

“You made a will?” she asked. “No point,” Reacher said. “Now they broke my toothbrush, I don’t own anything.” “How does that feel?” “Bad. I liked that toothbrush. It’s been with me a long time.”

Heh so Reacher

“You and Ms. Neagley come in now, we’ll hold you all for a week. Until the heat dies down. Then we’ll let you go. All four of you.”

Pfft. Sounds like another way of saying they'll be let go out of a chopper

“Lamaison was my partner,” he said, like an excuse. Reacher nodded. “Loyalty,” he said. “It’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

Hehe

He put the Glock to Mauney’s temple and pulled the trigger. Mauney’s skull exploded and Neagley and Reacher took off at full speed, like sprinters out of their blocks.

Dang

“Lots of choices,” Reacher said. Then he smiled. The pilot relaxed a little. Reacher shook his head like he was bemused by it all and leaned in and patted the guy on the cheek. Left his hand there, far side of the guy’s face, a friendly gesture. He worked his thumb up toward the guy’s eye socket, pressed his index finger on the guy’s temple, worked his other three fingers behind the guy’s ear, into his hair. Then he broke the guy’s neck, one-handed, with a single convulsive twist. Then he bounced the guy’s head around, front to back, side to side, to make sure the spinal cord was properly severed. He didn’t want the guy to wake up a paraplegic. He didn’t want the guy to wake up at all.

What an elaborate kill