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  The Man With No Mercy

  The Jack Reacher Cases #5

  Dan Ames

  Copyright © 2018 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.

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  Contents

  THE JACK REACHER CASES

  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

  Also by Dan Ames

  About the Author

  THE JACK REACHER CASES

  THE MAN WITH NO MERCY

  * * *

  The Jack Reacher Cases #5

  * * *

  by

  * * *

  Dan Ames

  “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

  -Shakespeare

  1

  You know that rage is elastic.

  It pulses and surges like a living thing. You can feel it winding inside of you, contracting like a snake preparing to strike. Sometimes it unleashes as sudden as a lightning strike; other times, it unspools with a smooth and unrelenting momentum, like the first onrush of water before a tsunami’s tidal wave lays waste to everything in its path.

  Even elasticity has its breaking point, though. You always knew that. The moment when it’s either wound too tightly, or unleashed too quickly. Once the red-hot fury is off the chain, there’s no reining it back in.

  It’s like a live wire, still connected to its power source, but dancing in its own shower of fiery sparks.

  You know when it happened.

  What broke everything loose and turned the occasional overflow into a raging, murderous river.

  But you’re not going back.

  You spent way too much time there already.

  Reliving the nightmare over and over again. You even went away for awhile. Into a dark place where the rage began to turn in on itself. A black hole that was soon devouring everything it faced and then began to feed on itself. Growing and mutating in the dim recesses of homicidal madness.

  It was only with the help of the other one that stemmed the tide of darkness.

  Eventually, you saw a light. Not the light.

  A light.

  And it wasn’t a white, gauzy glow of benevolence.

  It was a glittery galaxy of razor blades and smoke, blood and broken bones, brimstone and death.

  You were reborn.

  A new soul with an age-old desire.

  To punish evil.

  An eye for an eye.

  As you see it, there are two kinds of human beings. Those who wreak havoc. And those who stand by and do nothing.

  You will have to deal with both.

  And deliver justice as you see fit.

  Nothing will be rushed. Improvisation is another enemy. Your primary concern isn’t being caught in the traditional sense. Yes, you have made some serious calculations to avoid the more common perception of guilt.

  Nothing matters anymore.

  There is no fear.

  The only reason you don’t want to be arrested, killed or imprisoned is it would mean the end of retribution.

  Because while there is a specific end game in mind, you don’t want it to be the end. You don’t want there to be an end, period.

  Who’s to say some other egregious act of cruelty and utter contempt for life won’t occur?

  No, you’re going to play this thing right. Which means following the very careful plan you’ve put into place.

  The inspiration for that type of planning is obvious. What happened before was done with a prodigious amount of meticulous strategizing. All angles had been concerned and reviewed until they were molded into some sort of utilitarian purpose, or eliminated completely.

  And your plan starts now.

  With the first one.

  You remember that time years ago, you caught a shark off the Florida keys. You had a shrimp on a hook and watched the dorsal fin approach, slowly circling. Each time the predator circled, it was tighter and tighter until it attacked.

  That’s what this woman was.

  The outer circle.

  The beginning.

  You smile.

  She’s not the prize.

  She’s just going to be the first to die.

  2

  Lauren Pauling opened her eyes, momentarily forgetting where she was, until she felt Michael Tallon’s heavy arm draped across her body. He was snoring softly next to her.

  She lay still for a moment, enjoying the snapshot in time. Tallon’s bedroom was large, with a rustic wooden ceiling and a fireplace flanked by red tile. It matched the rest of the Spanish-style adobe house.

  As gently as possible, she slid out from underneath Tallon’s grasp and pulled on a silk bathrobe, grabbed her cell phone from the night table, and padded out to the kitchen.

  There was fresh coffee and she poured herself a cup. Through the window over the sink, she could see the mountains in the distance. Tallon had chosen the perfect place for himself, it suited him to a tee. Rugged. Isolated. With a hint of danger.

  Pauling took her coffee and sat in one of the brown leather chairs in Tallon’s living room. She smiled. The décor of Tallon’s place was 100 percent male. All of the furniture was leather and wood. No throw blankets. Or accent pillows. Even the window treatments were wooden shutters.

  There wasn’t a feminine touch in the place. Pauling had to admit that a part of her liked that.

  Pauling looked at her phone, a touch chagrined as she saw the three dozen or so emails that had come in since she’d last checked. It should have come as no surprise to her as everything in business these days seemed to be conducted electronically. Still, the sheer speed and scale at which email poured in was astounding and something she could never get used to. If she had the kind of personality that didn’t mind a stockpile of unanswered emails, with the big red number showing how far behind she was, it probably wouldn’t matter. But that wasn’t her style. She liked things squared away.

  After she and Tallon had finished their l
ast case in North Carolina, she had come back to Tallon’s place at his invitation and spent a couple of days together, mostly in his bedroom. It had been a rare break for her and as much as she both needed and deserved the time off, she felt a touch guilty. Owning your own company tended to have that effect.

  As wonderful as her time with Tallon had been, she needed to get back to her business. As a former FBI agent and current private investigator, there was no shortage of people looking to work with her. And while the passion between herself and Tallon was very real, so was her desire for work. As a woman past what most of society would call the child-bearing and marrying age, she was mostly happy with her current place in the world.

  Except for one minor detail.

  Seeing Jack Reacher now and then would be nice. And she didn’t even mean it in a romantic way. She legitimately missed him, but it just wasn’t in the cards. Reacher was a wanderer. A vagabond. Still, she secretly hoped their paths would cross again. And she felt no conflict over that emotion with regard to the past two days she’d spent with Tallon. Tallon was something different to her. More real. Reacher was a ghost from her past. Nostalgia at best.

  Pauling put the thought of Reacher from her mind. It was a practiced move.

  Now, she quickly worked her magic and booked a flight back to New York City. The seat was first class and she had plenty of time to get to the airport.

  That done, she turned her attention back to email. Like a mako shark going through a school of tuna, she systematically answered, deleted and archived her messages. When she was done, her coffee cup was empty and Michael Tallon had appeared.

  Pauling marveled at his physical appearance. Tall, wide shoulders, deep chest, and brown hair, slightly curly at the edges. A few scars here and there she vowed to one day get the story regarding their acquisition.

  “Morning,” he said, giving her a kiss.

  “Hey,” she said. He collected her cup, shuffled into the kitchen and poured her a refill, as well as filling his own.

  When he returned, he handed her the fresh cup and sat down in the chair across from her, a small smile on his face.

  “Did I see an airline’s logo on your phone?” he asked.

  “Aren’t you the nosy one,” she said, sipping her coffee, savoring the rich dark roast. “But yes, I’m heading back today, Michael. Too much going on back in the office to spend another day here. Even though I would love to.”

  He nodded.

  “You know, we make a pretty good team,” he said, taking a long drink from his coffee cup and peering at her over the rim like he’d just fired a salvo and was taking cover from the response.

  “We do.”

  Pauling wondered where he was going with this.

  “I was just thinking that maybe we should consider joining forces, on a more long-term basis.”

  Was he blushing?

  “Spoken like a true lifelong member of the military,” Pauling said. She set her cup down, crossed the room and sat on his lap.

  “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. I’m flattered.”

  “But the answer’s no,” she said, smiling back at him. He kissed her bare shoulder.

  She ran her hand through his hair. Massaged his scalp. “For now. Down the road, who knows? We both travel so much, having a shared home base wouldn’t even necessarily mean we would see more of each other.”

  “Only if we stopped working,” he countered. “You know, settled down.”

  “Ah, we’re both way too young for that.”

  She bent down and kissed him on the lips. He slid his arms underneath her, lifted her and stood, then carried her into the bedroom.

  As they both settled onto the still-warm sheets, Tallon spoke.

  “What time is your flight?”

  3

  She is the most dangerous one.

  You know that.

  They are all women to be reckoned with, you understand that. Each of them, in their own way, have the ability and skills to make your task problematic.

  But this one in particular has given you concern.

  It’s not just her size, which is much more impressive than others. She is tall and long-limbed. But not skinny. In her work clothes, which are typically conservative business suits favored by women who just happen to be FBI agents, she almost looks skinny. Even weak.

  The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

  But you know that’s not the case with Harper.

  You’ve seen her in workout clothes. The long legs flex with muscle. Her thighs bulge with power and her calves snap to attention when she walks. Her arms, although long and lean, are taut with sinewy muscle. You’ve observed her lifting weights at her local gym and the amount she lifts is impressive.

  Stamina, too. You’ve watched her pound away on the treadmill for an hour or more, at a high rate of speed, her blonde ponytail swinging violently back and forth.

  Yes, Harper will be one of the most challenging.

  The most obvious strategy is to choose a time when she’s not wearing her sidearm. A woman like Harper, skilled law enforcement, will always have some sort of defense on her. Maybe it’s a can of Mace. Or a concealed carry. Harper is also skilled in martial arts – you’ve watched her train and know that her leg kicks alone can do some serious damage.

  The one advantage you have over her is the element of surprise.

  You know what’s coming and when.

  She doesn’t.

  The one thing you need is privacy. Which presents its own problem. A woman, especially a woman alone, becomes more guarded when she realizes she’s in a truly private setting. A corner of a parking garage where no one can see her. An empty hallway. A deserted stairwell.

  Agent Harper will be no exception.

  Which is why you don’t choose any of those.

  Instead, you are already inside her apartment, and know that she is about to come through the door, fresh from her latest workout. You hear the key in the door.

  The knob turns.

  In your hand, the stun gun is ready.

  How crazy is your preparation?

  You already know which way she turns when she comes in the door. You were able to watch her from the building opposite hers, through her living room window. She always comes in, swings the door shut behind her and heads left into the kitchen.

  This time is no exception.

  The stun gun is already raised and aimed at the middle of her back.

  You fire.

  It penetrates through her thin, dry-fit T-shirt and she jolts with the impact. Her body goes rigid and she drops to the floor.

  Welcome home, honey.

  4

  The prison guard’s name was Styles. He’d been working at the maximum security prison in Colorado for nearly twenty years. He was slightly out of shape, with a roll of fat that hung over his belt courtesy of the heavy, craft beers he’d been enjoying every night after work for the past few years.

  He was considered an old-timer within the prison. Most of the inmates knew him, and the administration considered him a veteran.

  It was one of the reasons she’d chosen him.

  He paused outside her cell and double-checked the time. He was right on schedule, as he’d been instructed. An inmate in the cell next to him tried to engage him in conversation, but he ignored the question. In fact, he acted as if he didn’t even hear it.

  Instead, he focused on the woman inside the cell in front of him.

  Prisoner #28971 was waiting. She was on her back on the narrow bed, watching. It was her preferred position, due to a severe, traumatic neck injury that had nearly killed her. Styles knew that when the injury occurred, she had initially been ruled dead until an emergency medical technician detected the faintest pulse. It had been all over the news at the time, but when the prisoner had been brought to this facility, word had gotten out. For a good amount of time, she was infamous within the prison’s walls for the murders she’d committed.

  Prisoner
#28971 had literally been brought back from the dead.

  Julia Lamarr, former FBI agent and convicted mass murderer, gently swung her feet from the bed and stood. It was an awkward move. When she finally stood, her shoulders were raised in an unlikely position, as if she was preparing to be struck by a heavy object. Her head was tilted to one side, and her jaw was crooked. The blow that had nearly killed her, severed her spine and broke her jaw, had done lasting, permanent damage.

  Lamarr looked around the cell one last time. She already had everything she needed carefully gathered into a pillowcase. She, too, had her instructions. If there was one thing she had proven in her previous life, she was meticulous.

  For a moment, she took a look around the tiny cell. It had been her home for nearly two years, 23 hours a day. It hadn’t been a bad experience. Her mind was where she really lived and it had always been that way. She’d been fascinated by the human brain and everything it could do, consciously or unconsciously.

  The door to her cell slid open, and the guard entered. Following protocol, he waited for Lamarr to turn her back to him and then he fashioned the restraints around her wrists, and led her from the cell.