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  FINISH THE FIGHT (JACK REACHER’S SPECIAL INVESTIGATORS #6)

  JACK REACHER’S SPECIAL INVESTIGATORS

  DAN AMES

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  PRAISE FOR DAN AMES

  "Packed to the gills with hard-hitting action and a non-stop plot." –Jacksonville News

  “A fast-paced, unpredictable mystery with an engaging narrator and a rich cast of original supporting characters.” –New York Times bestselling author Thomas Perry

  "Dan Ames writes fast-paced, gripping tales that capture you from Page One and hold you enthralled till the last word. He brings a strong, clear voice to whichever genre he chooses. This guy is one hell of a storyteller. Watch for him." -Amazon Review

  Dan Ames' writing reminds me of the great thriller writers -- lean, mean, no nonsense prose that gets straight to the point and keeps you turning those pages.” –Robert Gregory Browne

  These Jack Reacher stories are packed with action and unforgettable twists and turns. Great reads! -B & N Review

  “Cuts like a knife." -Savannah Morning News

  “Grabs you early on and doesn't let go." -Tom Schreck

  “From its opening lines, Daniel S. Ames and his private eye novel DEAD WOOD recall early James Ellroy: a fresh attitude and voice and the heady rush of boundless yearning and ambition. Ames delivers a vivid evocation of time and place in a way that few debut authors achieve, nailing the essence of his chosen corner of high-tone Michigan. He also deftly dodges the pitfalls that make so much contemporary private detective fiction a mixed bag and nostalgia-freighted misfire. Ames’ detective has family; he’s steady. He’s not another burned-out, booze-hound hanging on teeth and toenails to the world and smugly wallowing in his own ennui. This is the first new private eye novel in a long time that just swept me along for the ride. Ames is definitely one to watch.” — Craig McDonald, Edgar-nominated author

  “Dan Ames pulls off a very difficult thing: he re-imagines what a hardboiled mystery can be, and does it with style, thrills and humor. This is the kind of book mystery readers are clamoring for, a fast-paced story with great heart and not a cliché to be found.” -- Jon A. Jackson, author of Badger Games

  “Dan Ames is a sensation among readers who love fast-paced thrillers.” – Mystery Tribune

  “A smart detective story stuffed with sharp prose and great action.” –Indie Reader

  CONTENTS

  FINISH THE FIGHT

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part II

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part III

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part IV

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About the Author

  Also by Dan Ames

  FINISH THE FIGHT

  Jack Reacher’s Special Investigators #6

  by

  Dan Ames

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  First you take a drink, then the drink takes you.

  It was a phrase she’d heard before, many times. Mostly back when she was drinking too much, before she’d turned to cocaine and heroin and if desperate enough, crack.

  Right now, it was a dirty martini and cocaine. A beautiful combination. The coke to kickstart your engine and keep it buzzing, the booze to take the edge off.

  She stood on the balcony overlooking the bright lights of downtown Chicago. The Miracle Mile. In the distance, she could see the huge blackness of Lake Michigan at night. It was at once ominous and welcoming. She wanted to go there, out into the darkness, away from everyone and everything.

  You have to get lost before you can be found.

  That was another one. Maybe a song lyric from somewhere.

  Her long blonde hair swirled around her shoulders as a cool breeze from the big lake swept over her. She breathed in deeply, then drained the rest of her martini in one gulp. She bent down, snorted the last line of cocaine. It burned her nostril a bit, and then she felt the rush, almost immediately.

  She was in trouble. In so many ways. Her mind was going fast and her body was right on its heels. Even the little black cocktail dress she had on right now was supposed to be skin-tight but it was actually loose because of all the weight she’d lost in the last few months. She tried to remember the last meal she’d had: maybe a turkey croissant sandwich that had nearly made her gag. Half of the damn thing had been all she could choke down.

  How long ago had that been? A day? Two days?

  It was all a blur. She glanced back into the apartment. The bottle of vodka was still on the kitchen counter, surrounded by all of the typical cocktail accoutrements: a small bottle of olive juice, blue cheese-stuffed olives, lemons, limes, bitters, crushed ice, martini glasses, whiskey glasses, shakers and stirrers. The vodka bottle wasn’t alone. Behind it, in a row, were bottles of whiskey, bourbon, scotch, gin, flavored vodkas, rum, tequila, vermouth and grenadine. In an ice bucket was a chilled bottle of champagne. Dom Perignon, of course. It hadn’t been opened.

  That had to change.

  She went back into the apartment through the open French doors, plucked the champagne bottle from the bucket, and popped the cork. There was a neat row of champagne glasses, but she ignored them.

  Instead, she carried the bottle back out to the balcony and took a long drink.

  “Sweet Home Chicago,” she said with a laugh. She was playing music softly via her phone which was connected to the apartment’s impressive sound system. She set the bottle of champagne down on the high table’s marble top and scrolled through her playlist until she found the song, the true original, by Robert Johnson. Soon, the old blues player’s high voice was serenading her through the speakers.

  She raised the bottle of champagne and drank deeply, turned the volume of the music up and sang along: “…boy she trick you one time she sure gonna do it again.”

  This made her laugh and she bobbed her head to the chorus: Baby, don’t you want to go? Back to the land of California, to my sweet home Chicago.

  She’d always loved that part; the idea that Chicago was in California. She’d read there were several theories on why the legendary bluesman had written the song that way. Her personal belief was that he had planned a long trip, first to California and then winding up in Chicago.

  It had always been a dream of hers to go to California. The sunshine, the ocean, the warm air. But it had never happened.

  It’s
why she loved the song so much: Chicago was her home, and California was her dream.

  One that she had to admit, as she felt the urge for more cocaine, was possibly going to come true.

  Hope, in her life, had always been a more damaging poison than narcotics. But in the last few days, an opportunity had arisen. One that might change her life forever. It was a dangerous move but she had made it and so far the coast looked clear.

  If only she didn’t screw things up.

  She hoisted the champagne bottle and slurped loudly. Combined with the final verse of the song played at full volume, she didn’t hear the door to the apartment open and close. Nor did she hear the man quickly approach her from behind.

  A cloth was clamped over her mouth and she smelled a strong chemical odor and then her mind faded. For the next several hours she was in and out of consciousness. She realized horrible things were being done to her, intense pain. She was slapped, punched and violated repeatedly while someone laughed and grunted and called her names she’d certainly heard before.

  She faded out and then a strong smell went into her nostrils and she was awake and conscious.

  The lights of Chicago were still in front of her. She was at the railing, naked. Had she imagined it all?

  Like a dream, she was suddenly raised into the air and for a brief moment she thought it was the booze and the drugs until her body was sent flying over the railing. And, too late, she’d realized the strength of the man’s hands and arms around her.

  And then she was falling, spinning and the lights were a vertical blur.

  Finally, she was lost in the blackness she had always known would come sooner than later.

  CHAPTER TWO

  He knew his friend was dead, but John Heller never left one of his own behind.

  Until the body was recovered, he had a job to do. Visibility was good, although not like back in the Gulf of Mexico, where Heller lived and worked. No, this was Lake Michigan, and he had never gone on a dive in the Great Lake. In fact, he was mildly surprised at how good the visibility actually was. He’d heard someone talking about zebra mussels and how they had improved water clarity by feasting on algae.

  Heller wasn’t a marine biologist, but he knew diving, and right now, all he was looking for was his friend.

  The call had come a day earlier: a former friend and fellow diver in the military had gone missing, diving a shipwreck in the waters of Lake Michigan, just off of Chicago. The caller was also a friend of Heller’s and without having to ask, Heller told him he was on his way. He’d closed up his dive operation near Venice, Florida, and booked the first flight out.

  Now, he checked his dive watch, a Blancpain Fifty Fathoms, and saw that he needed to surface soon. He swam around the wreck, always a dangerous proposition. So many divers had died exploring shipwrecks Heller figured they should have termed it hazard duty, rather than a hobby.

  This particular ship had sunk in 1924 and had carried a load of brand-new automobiles. Heller spotted the chassis of a car and gave it a wide berth. The dive team had been brought in to supplement the authorities, who were focusing on the area where most likely his friend had perished.

  Heller turned and began to make his way back toward the dive boat. Something in his periphery made him look off to his right. It was a triangular shape, totally out of place on the bottom of the lake. It wasn’t a rock, and it wasn’t a natural formation. He was about to ignore it, but then figured if he’d been tempted to look, maybe his missing friend had, too.

  He checked the Fifty Fathoms again. There were barely ten minutes left for him to surface. He would have to be quick.

  Heller covered the ground quickly and soon was close enough to touch the triangle. He studied it and suddenly, understood what he was seeing. It wasn’t a triangle at all. It was an airplane propeller so covered with years of algae and mussels that its original shape was nearly hidden. Heller looked beyond, and saw more shapes.

  The fuselage, he knew. Against his better judgment, he swam in closer and saw the body of the airplane. Heller knew Lake Michigan had been home to aircraft training, including flying and landing on aircraft carriers. Dozens of planes had crashed into the lake during those years. He guessed this was a WWII-era plane.

  Heller swam up the body of the fuselage, saw the cockpit. The dials were still clear, nearly everything else was coated with algae.

  Twenty feet away at the edge of his vision, Heller spotted a section of wing, with a machine gun barrel protruding.

  Near the machine gun was another shape.

  It was his friend.

  Instantly, Heller knew what had happened.

  His friend had been curious and probably tried to lift the piece of metal. It had shifted, most likely trapping him.

  Heller swam closer, pulled an emergency float from his dive belt, attached it to his friend’s dive belt, and pulled the cord. The float, attached to nearly two hundred feet of line, shot toward the surface.

  Knowing he had no time to spare, Heller turned back toward the dive boat.

  He was very careful.

  When he made it to the surface and breathed in the fresh, cool air, Heller finally let the emotion hit him.

  Another friend, another ex-soldier dead, he thought.

  As always, he wondered if he would be next.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The subject line read: It wasn’t suicide.

  Frances Neagley narrowed her eyes at the computer screen. She moved the cursor to the delete button and let it hover. Slowly, she removed her hand from the computer mouse.

  It wasn’t suicide.

  She was sure it would be spam. Some kind of click bait headline leading to a message for a television show or some obnoxious author tricking people into reading a sales pitch.

  Then again, what if it wasn’t?

  Neagley still hesitated. Ever since she’d donated her dog, Reacher, to a friend for police training, her schedule had been fairly light. A case involving a weapons system had taken her to New York and back, but that had been resolved for several weeks.

  She’d come into her office in downtown Chicago simply because she was somewhat bored. After checking in with her colleagues and chatting with one of her fellow partners, she’d retreated to her office to go through her email. She was very disciplined with her messages, unsubscribing instantly from any spam and deleting and blocking senders she didn’t know. Neagley was all about efficiency and she knew email could be a huge time suck if you weren’t careful.

  As one of the top and most highly paid security professionals in Chicago, she often received job offers and invitations to either help with an existing case or even speak to other investigators at various conferences around the world.

  If this message wasn’t spam, it would probably be a disguised invitation to some professional event for which she held no interest.

  Neagley’s initial instinct with this email was to delete it and block the sender.

  For some reason, she didn’t.

  It was okay to open email but it was a huge no-no to click on any links. That’s where the computer viruses came from.

  In other words, it couldn’t hurt to look.

  Neagley clicked on the email and the message opened up. It read:

  Dear Ms. Neagley,

  You don’t know me, but a young woman named Cassie Reinhold died last week. The police have ruled it a suicide and closed the case.

  It was not suicide.

  She was murdered.

  Attached are some photos and what information I have about Cassie. I want to remain anonymous, for reasons that are personal. But I have a little money to pay for your services. I know you are a good investigator and probably expensive to hire.

  Can you at least look at what I’ve sent and maybe look into her death? Cassie had her issues, but she was not suicidal. In fact, she was excited about turning her life around. Said she had found a way out, whatever that meant.

  She could never have killed herself.

&nbs
p; I want her killer caught and made to pay the price. The ultimate price.

  Please, please help me.

  Most of all, please help Cassie.

  Neagley looked at the email address: [email protected].

  The email meant nothing to her, nor did the name Cassie Reinhold. She’d never heard that name before in her life. Yet, there was a ring of sincerity in the tone of the email. It sounded like an older person, maybe a woman.

  Neagley, against her better judgement, opened the attachments.

  The first was a photo of a strikingly beautiful young woman: light hair, dark eyes, skin the color of coffee and cream. Neagley looked at the face. Nothing about it seemed familiar in any way.

  The other items attached were a photo of a return address torn from an envelope, and a phone number.

  She assumed the address was Cassie’s last known, and the phone number was probably hers, too. Most likely a cell phone.