When Jack returned to the fugitive task force's small office building in Long Island, Danny had already brought Reacher and the others back. Aside from being a little dusty, they looked completely fine—not even a scratch.
The hitman had been blown to bits. Reacher's group had been monitoring from outside, planning to nab whoever showed up to make the payment after the hit. But the other side had clearly come prepared to kill their own, using an IED to destroy the evidence—and the body.
Danny hung up a call and greeted Jack with a wave. "The fire's out. Bomb squad found remnants of a tripwire-triggered IED. Only one charred, unidentifiable corpse."
"Using Swann's name to hire killers, then eliminating the middleman in such a flashy way—yeah, that's textbook framing," said Neagley with an eye roll. She still seemed irritated about her earlier suspicion of Swann.
"But now we're out of leads again. Any good news from the FBI side?" Dixon had just opened the fridge, trying to find something to eat, only to be overwhelmed by Jack's oddly abundant and foreign-looking food stash.
Jack grabbed two salted duck eggs, cracked them onto the table, and motioned to Reacher, who was gnawing dry bread, to eat them together. Then he retrieved a food box, a mango, and a handful of strawberries.
He started by explaining the odd email exchanges between Swann and Marlo Burns. The special investigators immediately wore expressions that could only be described as bewildered.
"Swann hates Jimi Hendrix. Anything with a lead electric guitar, really," O'Donnell said, brows practically hitting his hairline.
Dixon, now curiously watching Jack prep at the kitchen counter, nodded. "Swann played guitar, but never played Skynyrd, Zeppelin, Hendrix, or The Who. It was like a code of honor."
"The FBI didn't know that, but our smart analyst picked up on the code and connected it to the 'Little Wing' project," Jack said while skillfully peeling and dicing the mango. He halved the strawberries, poured in milk and osmanthus syrup, then opened the food box and added black jelly cubes. Finally, he handed a bowl each to Dixon and Neagley.
"Too bad we got there late. Marlo Burns and her daughter are missing—but the good news is, it looks like they fled on their own, not abducted or killed like the others.
What's more interesting is the memo mentioning that Senator Malcolm Lavoie personally guaranteed the 'Little Wing' project would pass Congress. His exact words: 'He firmly believes in the importance of this project and will do everything in his power to support us.'"
Dixon took a bite of the fruit mix while deep in thought. "So unless we find Marlo Burns, the only person who knows the full story of the project is this senator?"
"Getting to a U.S. senator isn't exactly easy," Neagley said, now eyeing the mysterious black jelly floating in her bowl.
"What is this black jelly?" she asked, poking it with her spoon.
"That's guilinggao, a traditional Chinese herbal jelly. Good for the skin, evens complexion, and reduces wrinkles," Danny chimed in from the side before Jack could answer. His wife was now a fan of it too.
Real guilinggao is made from turtle shell, but since the Chinese softshell turtle isn't native to North America, Jack substituted with alligator snapping turtle—its distant, rather aggressive cousin.
He and Danny had recently gotten into fishing. After Jack returned from France, Danny convinced him to get a New York State lifetime combo hunting and fishing license for $765. Jack figured it'd save hassle in the future.
Unfortunately, the two of them didn't catch a single sunfish on their first freshwater trip to Hempstead Lake. But they did spot a hefty, twenty-pound snapping turtle in the reeds.
Back in China, snapping turtles were invasive species and often eaten. Here, no one paid much attention to them. So Jack, ever resourceful, took it home, slow-cooked it with pork feet, and made a big batch of turtle jelly for his girls.
Though autumn wasn't the typical season for guilinggao, the girls loved it once they heard it could help their skin. Even Danny snuck some home to keep his wife happy.
Hearing this, the girls' initial hesitation over the bitter taste instantly vanished. They began digging in happily.
"Malcolm Lavoie—the 'Paper Bag' of D.C.," O'Donnell sneered. "Looks like New Dawn poured a lot of cash into this project."
"You've heard of him?" Jack asked, surprised. He knew the special investigators stuck mostly to their lane. Politics wasn't usually their turf.
Even Jack, as an FBI agent, didn't know much about congressional inner workings. The only reason he'd heard of Lavoie at all was because Zoe—his handler—once jokingly referred to the senator as Jack's 'romantic rival' (back in Chapter 927).
"Of course I've heard of him. That guy could make Satan sound like a saint for the right price. Everyone in D.C. knows he's a weather vane. Spins whichever way the wind (and money) blows," O'Donnell said with smug satisfaction, as if daring the others to ask for more juicy details.
At that moment, Reacher, who had been quietly enjoying his bread and salted egg, finally wiped the crumbs from his mouth and thoughtfully added:
"So Lavoie's the mouthpiece for New Dawn in Congress. If he's taking bribes, he won't want any ties to terrorism. That's leverage we can use."
Neagley rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but even with Jack flashing his badge, it's near impossible to get a sit-down with a senator. And if DHS or your brother tries to lean on him, he'll just lawyer up and deny everything."
O'Donnell looked slightly deflated that no one was asking him for advice. Still, he stepped forward anyway.
"We don't need the senator himself. These guys never actually read the thousand-page bills they vote on. They don't even write them. They just know which way to vote. But their legislative directors? They know everything—and they don't have bodyguards."
"What's the difference?" Neagley asked dryly. "Those aides are just as loyal. Why would they tell us anything?"
"That's where my expertise comes in," O'Donnell grinned. "I know how to get people like that to spill everything."
Neagley gave him a look. "Sounds like your PI work involved some... interesting circles in D.C. Care to elaborate?"
His grin faltered slightly, then turned sheepish. "Let's just say I used to deal with a lot of powerful people—and the little secrets they don't want getting out.
Most of it wasn't criminal, just embarrassing. My job was to make sure it stayed buried."
"So you were blackmailing them," Reacher cut to the chase.
"I prefer 'motivational consulting,'" O'Donnell replied, not entirely joking.
Dixon covered her face, laughing. "That sounds incredibly unethical, O'Donnell."
He waved her off, growing more confident. "Trust me, compared to the dirtbags I worked with, I'm a saint. Besides, I've got two kids in private school. Tuition's no joke."
Reacher shook his head. "I always thought your cause of death would be an angry ex stabbing you in your sleep. I never imagined you'd trade a whole forest for a white picket fence. Still, I'm glad you stepped up to take care of your family. That's no small thing."
"We're all changing," O'Donnell shrugged. "I thought you'd be holed up in some remote cabin with five dogs by now."
"With five or six dogs," the others echoed in unison, and the room erupted in laughter.
"Alright, give me ten minutes. I'll find out the name of Lavoie's legislative director—and whatever skeletons are in his closet." O'Donnell pulled out his phone and stepped aside.
"Daniel Boyd. That's his name. Here's his file," Jack suddenly said from the kitchen, waving his phone. Grease stains dotted the screen. "Got it from Zoe."
She'd sent over everything—Lavoie's background, plus files on several key staffers, including Boyd.
Their late lunch of steak and noodles felt a bit mismatched—not to mention poorly timed. It was already 3:00 p.m., and technically tea time. Still, the team slurped noodles while reviewing Boyd's file.
"This guy looks like a spoiled brat. Probably never lifted anything heavier than a wine bottle," O'Donnell scoffed, finishing the broth in his bowl.
"C+ GPA, UVA undergrad, Georgetown Law. Typical frat boy garbage. Two DUIs that mysteriously disappeared. Got busted by an undercover female cop in his second year—charges vanished. GPA 2.3 and still got a top law firm job.
Now this guy helps draft the laws we all have to live by. No wonder Massachusetts just made it illegal to call moms 'moms.'"
He referred to a new state law replacing the word mother with birthing parent on birth certificates. Father was replaced with other parent.
"Incredible," Reacher muttered. "So what's your plan to... motivate him?"
O'Donnell grinned mischievously at Dixon and Neagley. "Ladies, when was the last time either of you wore a sexy cocktail dress?"
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