Murphy's Borough, Arkansas—a small town less than an hour from Hot Springs, home to the one place where every dreamer hoping to strike it rich longed to visit: Crater of Diamonds State Park.
Just a few months ago, Jack and his friends had passed through here, making a detour to neighboring Jessieville County to dig up a pile of natural quartz crystals. He hadn't expected to return so soon.
Watching the towering man in the distance pounding someone into the pavement, Jack shook his head in exasperation and opted to remain a spectator.
Jack Reacher strode up to a Buick sedan, wrapped his right fist in his jacket, and smashed the driver's side window with a single punch. The unsuspecting Hispanic man inside barely had time to curse before Reacher yanked him forward and slammed his head against the steering wheel.
Before the man could recover, his right wrist—still clutching a handgun—was wrenched out through the shattered window and forcefully twisted against the side mirror.
A sickening snap accompanied the man's agonized scream as his wrist broke. The gun was now in Reacher's possession. He casually placed it on the car roof before yanking the door open and delivering a series of brutal punches.
Finally, Reacher used the car door to pin the man's leg and stomped down hard.
The Buick's door caved inward. The man's shin shattered with a gruesome crunch. He passed out instantly.
Reacher looked up to see a pair of handcuffs suddenly appear in front of him. He blinked in surprise.
Jack casually held up the cuffs with one hand while using the other to open the back door of the Buick. Inside, a terrified little boy was sobbing uncontrollably. Jack scooped him up and handed him over to his panicked mother.
"It's okay now, sweetheart…"
The bruised woman clutched her five- or six-year-old son tightly and broke down in tears. "It's okay, baby. Mommy's here."
"What happened?" Jack asked, raising an eyebrow at Reacher. "Kidnapping? Carjacking?"
"Carjacking." Reacher snapped the cuffs onto the unconscious man's wrists, removed the magazine from the gun, and tossed it into the car. He nodded toward an ATM behind them. "She was withdrawing cash ahead of me. This piece of scum grabbed her kid and forced her into the car."
Jack glanced at the stack of twenties in the woman's trembling hands and sighed. "Do you have any idea how much it costs to fix a car window and door in a small town like this?"
Reacher hesitated, his confident smirk faltering. The woman's cash looked like a decent wad, but since it was all twenties, it probably amounted to no more than 500 bucks.
"The window alone will cost at least $200. Window tinting? Another $150. And the door repair? Even more expensive."
Reacher's expression stiffened. His jaw slackened in disbelief as he watched Jack pull out a checkbook.
"Sorry about my friend's… enthusiasm," Jack told the stunned mother. "I'm not sure if insurance will cover this. If this isn't enough, please contact me."
He handed her a $500 check along with his business card, patted Reacher's shoulder, and turned to leave.
"Wait! Are you guys FBI?" the woman asked, still holding her crying son. She glanced uncertainly at the unconscious carjacker on the ground.
"Something like that. But this isn't a federal case, so it's not really our jurisdiction. You can tell the local cops my name—there should still be a few people who remember it at the Forrest County courthouse."
Jack waved dismissively, leaving the handcuffs behind.
—
"How'd you find me?" Reacher asked as he withdrew $60 from the ATM before leading Jack across the street into a secondhand clothing store.
"I'm FBI. Finding you is hardly difficult."
Jack watched as Reacher bought another secondhand jacket—his old one was now soaked in the carjacker's blood. Once Reacher had changed, they grabbed a seat at a nearby fast-food joint.
"You remember a guy named Calvin Franz?" Jack asked.
Reacher, mid-bite into his sandwich, froze slightly. He squinted at Jack, then swallowed. "He's dead?"
"Disappeared about ten days ago after leaving his house. Three days ago, some hikers found his body in the woods of Kaaterskill Mountain. CSI suspects he was tortured before he died."
Jack slid a burner phone across the table. "Stella Bonasera, the CSI director handling the case, did some digging and found that Franz was once part of the 110th Special Investigations Unit you led. I contacted your brother Joey, and he said the last time you called, the area code was from Arkansas."
"Also, do me a favor—turn your phone on at least once a week. You know how many people I had to mobilize just to track down Greyhound bus security footage?"
Reacher grabbed a napkin and borrowed a pen from the waitress. He scribbled a string of numbers on the paper.
"This is my pension account number. If there's an emergency, transfer exactly $1.10 into it. I can't guarantee I'll keep the same phone for long."
Jack rolled his eyes but pocketed the napkin. Checking the time, he nudged Reacher. "Hurry up. The plane won't wait forever."
Reacher raised an eyebrow. "The FBI can hold a flight for you?"
Jack smirked. "Not a commercial one. A private jet."
—
An hour later, Reacher stretched his long legs comfortably aboard a Gulfstream jet. "Two years without seeing you, and it looks like you're doing pretty damn well in the FBI."
Jack poured him a glass of whiskey—judging by the label, it was probably Rossi's stash.
"The plane's on loan from the BAU team. They're currently handling a case in New York. But yeah, I have my own team now. Soon, I'll have my own jet too."
This wasn't bragging. Reacher couldn't care less about status or wealth. Jack was simply letting him know that, as a friend, he had the resources to help—if needed.
"I want to hear about the case first." Reacher's expression darkened.
"All the details are in that file," Jack said, gesturing to the folder beside him. "I know how you operate, but I still have to ask—are you planning to investigate this on your own?"
Reacher flipped through the files. Without looking up, he muttered, "When the 110th Special Investigations Unit was formed, Franz was one of the guys I personally recruited. We had a saying: 'Don't mess with the Special Investigators.'"
"Got it." Jack shrugged. He pulled a small box from his pocket and popped it open, revealing two clear retainer-like inserts submerged in saline.
He took them out and placed them over his molars. His jaw instantly widened, giving him a square, rugged chin.
Then, to Reacher's surprise, he started attaching a fake mustache.
______
(≧◡≦) ♡ Support me and read 20 chapters ahead – patreon.com/Mutter
For every 50 Power Stones, one extra chapter will be released on Saturday.