"If there's anything else I can help with, just say the word." As they walked out of the police station, Finlay extended a hand toward Reacher.
Reacher, who had spent most of his time in New York with a grim face, finally smiled—seeing an old friend again dulled the grief and rage that had haunted him these past few days.
"You already helped plenty. Just make sure you stay safe."
Reacher's gaze drifted to Finlay's left hand, and his smile grew wider. "I see you're still wearing your wedding ring."
"It's just a habit," Finlay said, offering a peaceful smile. "I still think about the past sometimes, but I've mostly come to terms with it."
This veteran Black detective had ended up in Margrave after his wife's death from a serious illness—he blamed himself for years of neglecting their family, and in his guilt, chose a kind of self-imposed exile.
"I'm into fitness now. No more all-vegan diet. And I actually went back to Margrave recently. Place has changed a lot. Roscoe gave me a dog, believe it or not."
Reacher and Jack both sensed something ominous from the sly grin on his face. "You actually kept the dog?"
What was it he'd said back in Margrave…?
"Yup. I named him Jack. Eats as much as the two of you put together," Finlay said, grinning ear to ear.
——
They didn't linger with Finlay too long—everyone had work to do. Before leaving, Jack gave him an address. Boston wasn't far from New York. He invited Finlay to swing by for a weekend sometime.
"Can we please stop at some roadside motel for the night?" groaned Neagley. "If I don't get out of this outfit, I'm going to lose my mind."
Reacher, who was just as uncomfortable in formal wear, nodded. "We'll stay in New Haven tonight. Tomorrow morning, you and Dixon will assist the FBI in locating Marlo Burns and her daughter. Jack, O'Donnell, and I will head to DC."
O'Donnell looked confused. "Why are we going to DC?"
"To make an appearance at DHS. So Senator Lavoie can track us down. And to relocate your family—we can't risk them becoming collateral if someone gets desperate." Before Jack could finish, his phone rang. It was Danny Reagan.
Their call didn't last long. After hanging up, Jack glanced at Reacher curiously. "You still carrying the burner phone we took off that assassin?"
"Yeah. Just in case someone tried to reach me. Why?"
Jack grinned. "As you hoped—someone's trying to track you. A former NYPD deputy chief used one of our monitored contacts to triangulate that number's location. I told them we're heading west on I-90. Shouldn't be long before someone shows up."
"Can't wait," Reacher said, baring his teeth. "I'm starving. Let's eat before I break somebody's face."
An hour later, the Porsche Cayenne and Firebird pulled into the parking lot of a roadside steakhouse. Neagley leapt out first.
"Restroom. First. Me. I swear I'm gonna claw this outfit off my skin."
"You're not gonna toss it in the trash like a certain antisocial minimalist, are you?" O'Donnell said, opening the trunk and handing her a few garment bags.
"What, you want it?" Neagley shot back.
O'Donnell patted his backside. "Hey, with my ass, I might just look better in it than you."
Jack was still pondering something. No suspicious vehicles had tailed them. So how exactly was their enemy planning to make a move?
First time in Atlantic City, it was a hired assassin and some local goons. Second time, it was professional shooters at the funeral. Now what? He half-expected tanks by this point.
For the record, he had packed a rifle in the Firebird's trunk—just in case he needed revenge for his ruined Hellcat.
Suddenly—vroom vroom—the roar of motorcycle engines cut through the quiet. Seven or eight Harleys pulled into the lot, surrounding the crew just as they got out of their cars.
Seriously? Jack's eyebrows shot up. He glanced at the others. Reacher and the three special agents wore similar expressions.
So that's why no one was tailing us—they came on motorcycles. And here I thought those Harleys earlier were just regular bikers.
True, they didn't expect anything too big in the New York area. But hiring a biker gang? That was just cheap. At least the last guys had proper AR-15s.
"I hate crashing a nice night out, but someone paid us real good—so why don't y'all hand over your guns?" the biker leader said, removing his helmet and aiming a comically tiny revolver at them.
"Why would you think we're carrying guns?" Reacher asked, looking half annoyed, half bored.
"Someone told me you would. Reacher, right?" The leader gestured, and a few of his crew raised pistols as well.
"Let me guess. Said his name was Swan?" Reacher glanced at Jack and subtly shook his head—don't reach for the rifle. These guys didn't look like they wanted a bloodbath.
But what orders had they been given? Capture them? Kill them? Maim them?
"You ask too many questions." The biker boss tilted his head. A tattooed woman stepped forward with a bag.
He tossed his revolver into it. "Ten on five. I'm a fair man."
Jack watched as Neagley and Dixon gleefully tore slits in their dresses. He sighed—his outfit wasn't cheap. Nearly ten grand, gone in one fight.
And this was America, wasn't it? Gunfights and car chases were tradition!
But considering his beloved Firebird was his last ride until the Hellcat got out of the shop… Jack reluctantly pulled his sidearm and tossed it in.
He didn't give up the FK 7.5 on his ankle, though. Always have a backup plan.
The bikers didn't frisk them. Once everyone tossed in their weapons, the gang ditched their guns too—pulling out chains, pipes, and knives instead.
The women kicked off their heels. Dixon kept one in hand, wielding the stiletto like a dagger.
The men loosened collars, ditched ties, and stood back-to-back in a circle. The air was thick with tension.
"They said you were smart. And a hell of a fighter," the leader said, unstrapping his studded leather jacket and wrapping it around his wrist as he squared up against Reacher.
The guy was Reacher's size—this looked like a boss battle.
Too bad Jack didn't play fair.
He flashed a smile at the knife-wielding goon in front of him—then bam, stomped on his knee, snapping it backwards with a sickening crack.
As the man screamed, the biker leader turned in surprise—
—and Reacher headbutted him straight in the nose. Game on.
Jack wrenched the knife from his stunned opponent and drove it into his gut.
O'Donnell ducked a bat, slammed his knuckles into a guy's armpit, then whipped out a switchblade and jabbed the poor bastard in the kidneys.
Neagley and Dixon showed off their military CQC skills—boxing, BJJ, Krav Maga—it was all there.
But Neagley was struggling, unarmed and outnumbered. One blow to the gut knocked the wind out of her.
Jack rushed in, grabbed a guy's neck and arm, disarmed him, and tossed the pipe to Neagley.
"Catch."
Crack—a hand chop to the throat crumpled the man like a sack of bricks.
Neagley roared back with the steel pipe, laying waste to another goon.
Dixon, now with a knife in hand, ducked a lunge and drove her stiletto heel into a man's eye socket.
Then—vroom! A Harley roared to life, heading straight for Reacher. The biker woman on the back swung a chain overhead.
Reacher caught the chain on his arm and yanked—she flew off like a rag doll.
He glared down at her—then shoved her away toward the girls. Dixon, still bloodthirsty, gave her a savage facial rearrangement.
The Harley skidded, spun around—and charged again, the driver not even caring about friendly fire.
Jack, spotting the threat, kneed a guy in the face, grabbed his belt and collar, and threw all 200 pounds of him at the oncoming bike.
The biker's terrified face vanished under a wall of flesh. He flew off his bike, which spun, sparked, and crashed into a light pole.
Silence.
Every gang member lay crumpled, unconscious or worse. Not a single moan remained.
"Everyone okay?" Reacher asked, tossing aside the biker leader like a sack of potatoes.
O'Donnell groaned, holding his back. "Nothing fatal… but damn."
Neagley was pale, Dixon had a bruise on her lip, and Jack stood there like he'd just finished stretching.
"Guess we're not eating here," Neagley said, retrieving their pistols.
"Man, that was fun," O'Donnell grinned through gritted teeth.
Dixon glanced at her bloodied shoe, wrinkled her nose, and tossed it aside. "Wore these once."
Reacher looted the leader's corpse, found a phone, and used the dead man's fingerprint to unlock it. The numbers weren't even hidden. He called one back.
Before the voice could speak, he beat them to it.
"Before you ask, yes—it's done. But it didn't go the way you hoped."
"You're causing a lot of complications, Reacher," said a hoarse, aging voice.
"A $65 million complication, Shane Langston."
The voice went quiet. Then, calmer now—even respectful—said, "Perhaps we've been approaching this wrong, Mr. Reacher. Let's make a deal. Name your price. Money, favors… what do you want?"
Reacher's voice was ice.
"I want to throw you out of a helicopter."
______
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