The Jack Reacher Cases (The Man Whose Aim Is True) Read online

  The Jack Reacher Cases (The Man Whose Aim Is True)

  Dan Ames

  Slogan Books, New York, NY

  A USA TODAY BESTSELLING BOOK

  Book One in The JACK REACHER Cases

  CLICK HERE TO BUY NOW

  Contents

  THE MAN WHOSE AIM IS TRUE

  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

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  THE MAN WHOSE AIM IS TRUE

  The Jack Reacher Cases #15

  by

  Dan Ames

  But from each crime are born bullets that one

  day seek out in you where the heart lies.

  -Pablo Neruda

  Chapter One

  Moments before his head was blown apart by a sniper’s perfectly placed bullet, the older man opened the gate to the dog park.

  He was probably in his early sixties, wearing dark brown corduroy pants, a heavy sweater and a black jacket, unzipped. Although his shoulders were stooped, he had a keen, clear gaze and moved with a quiet confidence.

  The dog park was a tiny square of green bordered on all sides by rows of neat and highly desirable Brooklyn brownstones. At one end was a set of picnic tables and a second, fenced-in area for larger dogs. At several locations were cylindrical waste baskets and plastic bags designed to deal with by-products from man’s best friend.

  The sky was baby blue tinged with mile-high borders of cirrus streaks, and a faint breeze blew the few remaining strands of white hair lazily above the old man’s ears. It was cool, but not cold and the sounds of several dogs barking punctuated the otherwise serene-like setting.

  The Schipperke Terrier on the end of the old man’s leash was happy to see his old friend, an Italian Greyhound named Sal who was about his same size. He strained against his leash, eager to get inside the fence and start the best part of his day.

  When the bullet hit – a custom round larger and more powerful than its nearest relative, the .300 Winchester Magnum, traveling at nearly 2,800 feet per second – the little dog both felt and heard the impact. The Schipperke’s name was Churchy, named after the old man’s idol Winston Churchill. Churchy had never heard that particular sound before and suddenly the firmness on the other end of the leash was gone.

  The smell of blood reached the dog’s nose and something primal triggered his fear. He darted back to his owner who was now on the ground. Churchy barked, but it was as if no one could hear him.

  He kept barking but the man he viewed as the leader of their pack, remained still. The smell was something unique to Churchy.

  A high-pitched scream startled the dog, and soon, there were more screams and shouts and then a high-pitched wailing followed by flashing red lights.

  Churchy had a feeling he wouldn’t be playing with his friend today, after all.

  Chapter Two

  War criminal.

  Lauren Pauling stared at the words on her computer screen. She sat in her home office, in her loft on Barrow Street in New York City. Her hair was pulled back and she hadn’t changed out of her workout clothes: yoga pants and a sports bra.

  Pauling had been going through her email, which to her surprise, hadn’t slowed down even after the sale of her security firm. As often as she unsubscribed from junk email, it seemed there were new ones ready to replace them.

  Once she discarded all of the trash messages, she finally opened the one email she actually wanted to read. It was from an old friend at her former place of employment: the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  Pauling hadn’t been with the FBI for years now; in fact, she’d started, built and sold her firm in the intervening time period. But she still kept in touch with some of her colleagues. A few, actually, as in very few.

  But Deborah Haskins had been one of her best friends. Pauling had been her senior and she’d mentored Haskins and the two had grown very close. Haskins was probably nearing the end of her career with the Bureau, something Pauling knew her friend was viewing with mixed feelings.

  Pauling read the email and sat back in her chair, stunned.

  She read it a second time.

  There were two words and a name that had shocked her.

  The words were war criminal.

  They certainly weren’t new to Pauling. She’d targeted, arrested and helped put away more than a few war criminals in her lifetime.

  No, those two words weren’t what had given her a shock, enough to drain the blood from her face.

  It was the name that followed.

  Jack Reacher.

  Chapter Three

  Within moments of verifying through his rifle scope that the old man’s head had indeed been blown into many different directions, the sniper calmly disassembled his one-of-a-kind rifle and placed it in a very generic-looking backpack.

  This was not the sort of throwaway weapon one left at the scene to avoid being tied to the crime by authorities.

  Not considering how much time, money and effort had been put into designing and customizing the rifle.

  The cool, detached demeanor required to make the shot was beginning to dissolve in the shooter’s mind. This kill hadn’t been an anonymous Taliban fighter in the mountains of Afghanistan.

  This kill had meant something.

  Emotion, which was something snipers were trained to keep locked down under all circumstances, was beginning to show.

  He walked calmly from the rooftop to the access door, then descended the stairs that led to the rear of the building.

  As he pushed open the metal door he heard the first of the sirens. This was New York, after all. A man’s head getting blown off in a crowded dog park would not go unnoticed for long. The man walked calmly down the alley and turned to his right along the street, away from the kill site.

  He had on a black baseball cap, blue jeans, black steel-toed boots and a three-quarters length olive green jacket. He’d slipped on a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. His beard was neatly trimmed. He was tall, but not strikingly so, and solidly built, but not overly muscular. To the untrained eye, he simply looked like a well-built, athletic man dressed in a fairly nondescript way.

  The rental car was parked on a side street devoid of any bank or store cameras pointed at the street. He’d made sure to put enough time on the meter to avoid being flagged by a traffic cop for a parking ticket and leaving any trace of his presence.

  The shooter unlocked the driver’s side door and placed the backpack in the passenger seat. He could’ve put it in the trunk, but he preferred to keep it close to him. Old habits died hard and if need be, he wanted to be able to grab his pack and go, not fumble with the trunk fob.

  The sniper was known as Rider, although that was a nickname bestowed upon him in his youth, due to a local legend about a ghost that haunted a legendary, remote road far from the small town in which he grew up. The ghost was rumored to be able to change shape and appearance at will, and was blamed for several strange deaths that had occurred in the town over the years.

  No one knew the origin of the name, but the prevailing rumor was that it was the name of a young man who’d been murdered in the 1800s and now haunted the area.

  Rider had chosen the name as his sniper handle in the military, although most didn’t know its origin.

  That was fine with him.

  Anonymity was key.

  As he drove the rental car away from the scene, he felt a surge of satisfaction, and a blood thirst.

  It was a thirst that would soon be quenched again.

  Because Rider was just getting started.

  Chapter Four

  After an exchange of emails with her former colleague at the Bureau, Pauling arranged a meeting over a cup of coffee to discuss the ridiculous story that Jack Reacher may have committed a war crime.

  The place was called Perk Avenue and was only a few blocks from Pauling’s loft. It was a neighborhood joint with a few tables on the sidewalk, and a half-dozen inside. Pauling chose the table at the back of the restaurant out of habit. She rarely felt comfortable dining outside, unless it was a courtyard-type setting or perhaps a café in a small town. There was someth
ing about the combination of being somewhat compromised when dining and also sitting so close to the busy streets of New York that didn’t mesh well with Pauling.

  When she was discussing matters that could possibly land herself or a current employee of the FBI into murky waters, she definitely chose the most private option available.

  Special Agent Deborah Haskins entered the coffee shop, ordered an espresso and joined Pauling at the table.

  “Pauling,” Haskins said.

  “Hey,” Pauling said. Her friend was a tall, willowy brunette with a lean face and a sharp nose. There were touches of gray in her hair and Pauling couldn’t help but think about the deadly combination of sexism and ageism that sometimes occurred at the Bureau. It was much better now, but early in Pauling’s career, it had been rampant.

  Haskins had survived this long and Pauling knew the woman was bright, assertive and ambitious. She was also principled which sometimes caused issues in the short term but Pauling was optimistic enough to believe in the long run, it was the only way to go.

  “You look good. Retirement suits you,” Haskins said. Pauling had kept her friend up to date with her post-Bureau life; the firm she’d sold and now, a sort of limbo that technically was retirement. In Pauling’s mind, she would never actually retire. She was simply waiting for something to steer her to her next passion.

  Her mind naturally went to Michael Tallon, her current significant other, who was presently at his small ranch near Death Valley.

  “Thanks, idle hands, as they say,” Pauling smiled.

  They each sipped the drink – Pauling had opted for a latte.

  “How are things at the office?” Pauling asked. She wasn’t particularly interested in the usual shenanigans and politics associated with life in the FBI, but she didn’t want to dive right into the real reason for the meeting just yet.

  Haskins filled her in on her current case: a shady hedge fund manager who was most likely laundering money for a Russian oligarch.

  “How about you?” Haskins asked after she’d given Pauling all of the sordid details of the case, including a private jet filled with underage Russian girls.

  “I’ve had a few interesting things come up but lately it’s been quiet. The calm before the storm, maybe, based on your message.”

  Pauling was referring to Haskins’ message that someone had claimed Jack Reacher was a war criminal.

  “Very strange, that one,” Haskins said. “So here’s what happened: I’d flagged a whole bunch of stuff related to the Russian oligarch I’m investigating. He had ties to Afghanistan, including some reputed bounties placed on both US and UK soldiers.”

  Haskins sipped her espresso and leveled her gaze at Pauling.

  “One of my alerts tripped a communiqué in Russian that seemed to imply an American soldier was guilty, or at least accused of, war crimes,” Haskins explained. “He was in the Army. An MP. And his name was Jack Reacher.”

  Pauling shook her head. “Impossible, but tell me what else you learned.”

  “Honestly, not much,” Haskins said. “It seems that someone at some point was investigating war crimes committed by Army soldiers, most likely in Afghanistan, although that wasn’t totally clear. What those actual crimes were, if they were even actually committed, wasn’t included. Nothing else really was.”

  “It seems much more likely to me that Reacher was the one investigating the crimes. After all, that’s what he did in the Army,” Pauling pointed out. “He was for all intents and purposes a homicide investigator. And besides, I know him and there was no way he would be involved in that kind of thing as a participant. An investigator sure, but a participant, no.”

  Haskins pulled a slip of paper from her purse. “I transposed this by hand because I didn’t want to send it to the printer.”

  Pauling knew what she meant: printing something at the FBI meant it was permanently in the record. If the document ever became an issue, it could be traced straight back to the computer that had sent it to the printer.

  “Obviously, I know about your history with Reacher so that’s why I contacted you,” Haskins said. “I also did a quick check of Reacher’s record – there’s no sign of any active investigation. In fact, his file has been totally inactive for years now.”

  Pauling nodded. She had told Haskins about Reacher, an indication of how close they’d been. The bond was still there, thankfully.

  Pauling slid the note into her pocket.

  “Thank you, Deb,” Pauling said. “I appreciate it.”

  Haskins smiled and polished off her espresso. She got to her feet. “No problem. I figure if anyone can get to the bottom of it, you can.”

  Pauling smiled back.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  Chapter Five

  NYPD homicide detective Claire Brewster studied the crime scene and shook her head. She was one of the most consistent cops on the homicide squad when it came to keeping up on the range. She knew her weapons, her ballistics and the many calculations required to estimate the type of kill she was looking at.

  As she studied the crime scene at the dog park, where an older man had clearly been shot in the head by a very powerful weapon, she considered the evidence.

  It was the power of the weapon that surprised her. A ten-year veteran of the homicide squad, Claire was no stranger to violent crime. She’d been a cop all her life, raised by two Irish parents who believed in law and order. Her ex-husband could testify to Claire’s passion for the job. It was her absence around the house that, according to him, had triggered his departure. Although Claire figured it was the new secretary at his firm that had been the icing on the cake.

  “What the hell was this guy using, an elephant gun?” she asked the crime scene tech, a slim Asian man named Kev. She didn’t know if that was short for something, or a nickname or maybe she was mispronouncing it, but she didn’t care enough to ask. Plus, these days everyone was offended by anything related to one’s nationality, so Claire left it alone.

  “All I can tell you is that it wasn’t a .50 cal. I’ve seen a couple of those and there would be nothing left,” Kev said. His voice was high and raspy, like a female lounge singer from the Fifties.

  “It couldn’t have been that much smaller,” Claire said. “This is more damage than I think I’ve ever seen.”

  “Not even close for me,” Kev said. “One time, a guy went to Home Depot and brought back a wood chipper to get rid of his roommate. They lived together in a studio apartment. Talk about avant-garde decorating.”

  The crime scene tech giggled and Claire ignored him.

  “How soon will we have ballistics?”

  “Considering the situation, I expect this case will be pushed to the top.”

  Claire knew what he meant; an old man shot down in a dog park, probably by a man with a rifle, was certain to make news. Public scrutiny brought a certain motivation to the political machinery of the NYPD.

  Kev finished processing the scene and soon the body was hauled away. Claire worked the witnesses again, and did some door to door. A woman with a Standard Poodle said she’d been walking toward the old man because he was notorious for not picking up his dog’s poop. She had intended to confront the issue when the man’s head had literally disintegrated in a shower of blood, flesh and bone. Obviously, the woman explained, she felt no need to be concerned after that.