"…That's about the gist of it. I need you to help push Senator Lavoie into the spotlight. I want to know how deep he's involved—and ideally, find something damning enough to force his resignation."
Jack laid out the preliminary plan he'd hastily discussed with Zoey and Rossi. Normally, accepting bribes wasn't enough to instantly ruin a U.S. Senator. But if a senator had aggressively championed a funding bill—one that directly benefited a defense contractor now tied to terrorism—that changed everything.
And with the powerful Anderson family waiting in the wings to pounce, Lavoie's political downfall would be swift.
There were still three years until the next Senate election in California. If one of the two seats became vacant before then, it didn't go to a public vote—it would be filled by gubernatorial appointment. That meant Zoey could legally be appointed to replace him.
Once in office, backed by the Anderson family's influence, Zoey would be difficult to unseat. Reelection three years later would almost be a formality. She would also be able to act as a political shield for "Shangri-La."
Jack wasn't under any illusions—it wouldn't be easy. But the opportunity had come to them. All they had to do was seize it.
So the reason Reacher and O'Donnell were now wearing tailored suits wasn't to attend some orchestral performance. It was to impersonate FBI agents.
Ironically, Jack—an actual FBI agent—couldn't be present, because Reacher and O'Donnell's fake identities were meant to be discovered. Only if Senator Lavoie found out Reacher's true background would he feel confident enough to make his move—be it a bribe or a hit.
Any such reaction would mean he'd walked straight into the trap that the FBI and the Anderson family had carefully prepared for him.
Symphony performances rarely ran longer than two hours, usually with a fifteen-minute intermission. Jack had looked that up online.
He'd never actually sat through a classical concert. His knowledge of European classical music was limited to a few universally known pieces—Blue Danube, Für Elise, Symphony No. 5. Still, he had a hunch that behind closed doors, the so-called elites weren't quite as obsessed with "high art" as they pretended to be.
Sure enough, the three men hadn't been sipping coffee across the street for even forty minutes before they got a text from Neagley.
"They're coming out. Intermission. Someone's clearly in a hurry."
Jack slid his phone away and looked across the street.
"There they are. And damn, from this angle, Dixon looks incredible in that dress. Your girl's got amazing taste, man," O'Donnell muttered, impressed.
Reacher squinted at Jack, silently mouthing a name—"Hanna."
Back in New York, before they'd left, Jack's affectionate goodbye to JJ had led O'Donnell to assume she was his girlfriend. Understandable. But Reacher remembered Hanna from Margrave—and knew full well the bond between her and Jack.
"Roscoe," Jack mouthed back smugly. They had no business judging each other—after all, Reacher's romantic history wasn't exactly spotless either.
"Okay, let's see how convincing Lieutenant Finlay is. If this all goes smoothly, we're up next." O'Donnell stood, smoothed out his jacket, and straightened his tie.
Across the street, Dixon was already leading a clearly smitten Daniel Boyd out of the performance hall and around to a side alley. She ushered him into her red Porsche Cayenne.
Once inside, as Boyd practically panted with anticipation, Dixon pulled out a packet of white powder and suggested a little "party favor." Right on cue, Boyd fell for it.
He expertly cut lines on Dixon's compact mirror with a card and bent over to snort a long rail—only for a wrinkled, dark-skinned face to appear ghost-like at the car window.
"That wasn't my coke." Inside the police station's interrogation room, Daniel Boyd—now cuffed to the table—looked a lot more sober. As soon as he saw Finlay's scowl, he launched into protest.
"What coke?" Finlay asked coolly, hands in his coat pockets, eyes glinting under the harsh lights. "You mean the stuff on the mirror? Or the stuff still on your nose?"
"Use your brain—why would I have a compact mirror? That's hers! All of it's hers!"
Boyd's voice jumped an octave. He didn't realize Finlay himself was part of the honey trap, and took the detective's disinterested look as a sign of disdain—or maybe greed.
To be fair, without the double favor from Jack and Reacher, Finlay would've never agreed to take part in framing a senator's aide.
But he'd seen firsthand in Margrave what Jack could do—how, as a rookie LAPD officer, the guy had managed to pull strings on the IRS, FBI, and Secret Service like a master puppeteer. Now that Jack was a seasoned FBI profiler, Finlay was smart enough to go along with whatever plan he cooked up.
And with Reacher involved? That alone was reason enough to cooperate. Setting Boyd up might just be saving the idiot's life.
If not, tomorrow Finlay might've had to deal with an unsolvable murder.
The thought made him scowl harder. "The lady says otherwise. And from what I saw, she didn't have any powder on her. In fact, she asked to be tested right away. You want to take a blood and urine test too?"
Boyd hesitated. He was a spoiled brat and a screw-up, sure—but not a total moron. If he hadn't realized he'd been played before, he sure as hell did now.
But instead of panicking, he smirked. In his mind, this black cop in a wool coat was probably just another crooked badge looking for a payout.
"You know who I am, don't you?" Boyd asked smoothly.
"Of course I do," Finlay said with an eye roll. "Mr. Boyd. And I also know that the woman in the car was not Mrs. Boyd. I hate guys who can't respect the sanctity of marriage."
Boyd's smirk vanished.
Finlay continued coldly, "I also know you work for Senator Lavoie."
And just like that, Daniel Boyd realized—he was neck-deep in something much more dangerous than a coke charge. And this cop wasn't after a bribe. Not a small one, anyway.
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