Finlay was already eager to get out of the room. This whole scene felt like a bad joke to him. Due to time constraints, Jack hadn't explained the details of the case. All Finlay knew was that Reacher had lost several old friends, the case was tied to Senator Lavoie, and they needed his aide to spill some intel.
So he quickly got to the point.
"When I entered your name into the system," Finlay said, "the local FBI office immediately gave me a call. They're sending two special agents over. They said they want to speak to you directly."
"Goddammit." Seeing things spiraling even further out of his control, Boyd buried his face in his hands.
Now he was sure—these people weren't after money. But the worst part was, this wasn't just a matter of throwing money at a problem anymore.
Finlay opened the door, and in walked a towering man with a firm handshake.
"Special Agent Jack MacGrave," Reacher said, extending his hand.
He stepped aside to reveal a relatively "petite" man behind him.
"This is Special Agent Blake."
Finlay, struggling to keep a straight face, shook his hand. "Superintendent Oscar Finlay. I'll leave this to you."
He exited the interrogation room and entered the adjacent observation room.
Jack was standing by the one-way glass, a clipped cigar in his mouth—unlit—and when he saw Finlay enter, he flipped a cigar toward him.
"I've quit smoking," Finlay muttered.
"That doesn't mean you can't have one every now and then," Jack replied. "Trust me, once you hear what this guy says, you'll need it."
Inside the interrogation room, O'Donnell had already gotten to work. With a few choice words, he made Boyd abandon any thought of calling a lawyer. But when Reacher brought up the "Little Wings" project, Boyd clammed up again.
That was, until O'Donnell picked up his phone and began dialing Boyd's wife.
"Okay, okay!" Boyd relented. "I don't see what the big deal is. 'Little Wings' is just a code name. It refers to a new algorithm currently under development. A guidance software for surface-to-air missiles. The kind of stuff that delivers jaw-dropping performance."
"Surface-to-air missiles?" Reacher frowned. That didn't make much sense. What would terrorists want with SAMs?
The word "missile" sounded advanced, but if precision wasn't a concern, even consumer electronics could be cobbled together into a workable improvised rocket. Something fast, maybe even guided. Enough to hit a civilian ship in a narrow strait.
But once the words "surface-to-air" were added, the complexity increased exponentially. Only a handful of countries could produce effective SAMs through their own industrial capabilities.
And the missile wasn't even the complicated part—the real tech was in the targeting systems. Surveillance, detection, target acquisition, tracking, launch control—all of it had to be integrated into a single system.
Sure, $65 million could buy a few SAM units. But why would terrorists want that? To guard their goat herds?
Besides, this wasn't something you could quietly set up on U.S. soil. If federal agencies allowed a full SAM system to be deployed under their noses, this country was done.
Even if you had the tech, maintenance would require a whole logistics team, spare parts, and constant calibration. Otherwise, you'd end up with a million-dollar pile of scrap in two years.
Then Reacher had a thought.
"You're saying this tech can be used in man-portable SAMs?"
"Yes. Exactly." Boyd nodded. "New Era Tech's R&D team simplified the algorithm and shrunk it down to a single chip. It fits inside shoulder-fired SAMs."
"The software enables a specially designed missile to bypass all known countermeasures. It hits every time. Without fail."
O'Donnell looked like he'd just heard a sci-fi pitch. As a former soldier—even if only Army—he understood how many tools modern military aircraft had for evading missiles.
MANPADS (Man-Portable Air Defense Systems) had extremely limited range, essentially like point-defense cannons on warships. They were a last-ditch tool—ambush weapons for helicopters or low-flying attack jets. At best, they were used in suicidal scenarios where a unit wanted to take an enemy down with them.
And even truck-mounted radar-guided SAMs with full electronic suites didn't have a 100% success rate. How could a tiny shoulder-fired missile pull that off?
"Ask the nerds in the lab coats," Boyd replied. "All I know is that when they showed us the demo, the missile reacquired the target after the drone dumped every flare it had. It made a full turn mid-flight and struck the drone square on."
Boyd leaned back smugly—then remembered his wrists were cuffed to the table and awkwardly sat up again.
"They fired ten of them. Ten for ten. Like death rising from the ground—completely unavoidable."
Reacher stayed silent. O'Donnell continued.
"So what was Senator Lavoie's role?"
Boyd gave him a condescending look, like he was talking to a child. "The MANPAD was just a demo. The real goal is adapting this tech to other missiles—like anti-ship weapons. That takes money. A lot of it."
"New Era Tech needed a budget bill. But do you have any idea how long it takes to pass one? There are endless bureaucratic hoops. So many legal limits on applying new tech. But Senator Lavoie understood how important Little Wings was for our future military advantage."
"You remember those videos online from a few years ago?" Boyd's eyes narrowed. "The ones showing those Chinese missiles doing 90-degree turns mid-air, dancing around decoys?"
"You mean those test footage clips from the Eastern Command?" O'Donnell asked.
"Exactly. Wake up, man. That red dragon over there has surpassed us in almost every field. If the good senator sat around waiting for funding to be approved through normal channels, we'd already be finished."
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