Jack didn't linger in the lobby. Even though he wore a balaclava, stayed out of sight of security cameras, and had thick-soled custom shoes to alter his gait, he didn't want to draw too much attention.
But they weren't trying to disable the surveillance system—in fact, they wanted to be seen. The plan was to deliberately expose themselves, just enough for the puppet masters behind New Era Technologies to take the bait.
How do you make it look like you're not revealing your identity, while still doing exactly that? Easy—bring along a man built like a walking tank: Reacher. Even with his face covered, anyone paying attention would recognize that mountain of a man in an instant. Everyone else was just playing support.
After dropping two more guards with beanbag rounds, Jack sprinted out of the New Era Technologies building. They had left the Hyundai SUV behind as a planted clue, but their real getaway vehicle was two kilometers away.
Even the SUV's rental had been staged—booked under a fake ID that, if properly investigated, would point back to the detective agency where Dixon now worked. And since they'd found similar dossiers in the car of that assassin, Trevor Saropian, Jack and Reacher were betting that the real enemy wouldn't need long to put two and two together.
The actual escape ride was Nigeli's black Range Rover. Jack jumped into the driver's seat and kept an eye on the time.
Minute 11: O'Donnell arrived first, lugging a big duffel.
Minute 15: Nigeli and Dixon stumbled in, out of breath and hauling two huge bags full of hard drives.
"Where's the big guy?" Jack glanced in the rearview mirror, but didn't see Reacher.
"No idea," Dixon said, still grinning like she'd just won a Black Friday doorbuster instead of robbing a defense contractor.
"But he told us not to wait for him," she added.
"We have to go," O'Donnell urged.
Jack shot a skeptical look at all three. "You sure?"
"I don't want to leave him either," Nigeli said. "But he was dead serious. It was an order, and I'm not about to ignore an order from the Major. He said go. We go."
Man, these retired soldiers were seriously rigid. Jack had planned everything to the minute—if they ran a little late, NYPD wasn't exactly going to show up guns blazing.
But then the faint sound of sirens tickled the air, and Jack sighed as he released the handbrake. He pressed the gas. The Range Rover shot forward—
They barely got 20 meters down the road before something like a bear crashed through a fence and charged onto the pavement.
Reacher.
Jack hit the brakes hard, the SUV screeched to a halt with long skid marks.
Reacher yanked open the passenger door, dripping sweat. "I cannot believe you were going to leave me behind."
Jack opened his mouth, then looked at the other three in the back, all snickering.
He shook his head. "Bunch of drama queens."
—
Near the Brooklyn Industrial District, nestled in a stretch of rolling hills, stood the historic Green-Wood Cemetery—a 478-acre landmark dating back nearly 200 years.
Now it was morning.
The group had changed into solemn black formalwear. In front of them stood a casket draped in an American flag.
Beside the Virgin Mary statue, a stand displayed a framed photo of Calvin Franz in uniform, standing proudly before the Stars and Stripes. Wreaths surrounded it.
Angela Franz stood with a red rose in hand, eyes brimming with grief as she gazed at the casket. Beside her stood their young son, Mickey, who clung tightly to her coat, clearly not fully understanding what was happening.
Six Army soldiers in dress uniform flanked the casket. A priest began to speak:
"We commit Calvin Franz to the earth. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. May the departed find peace, and may the living find solace. Amen."
Some family members crossed themselves at the final word.
The priest stepped back. A commanding officer approached the casket and saluted.
Simultaneously, Reacher and the rest of the former Special Investigations Group stood tall and raised their hands in salute.
The soldiers by the casket bent down to remove the flag and pulled it taut.
"Firing party, attention!"
"Ready…"
"Aim!"
Seven soldiers in the distance raised their M1 carbines toward the sky.
"Fire!"
A volley cracked the air—blanks, ceremonial, but loud enough to startle a flock of crows.
"Ready…"
"Aim!"
They would fire three volleys total—21 shots in all.
Jack, not being military, didn't salute. He stood with his head bowed in silence.
And that's when he felt it—a gut-deep surge of anxiety.
He looked up.
At the edge of the cemetery road, a Suburban was parked. Inside were JJ and Hannah, assigned to watch over Franz's widow and son.
Suddenly the Suburban's doors flew open.
JJ and Hannah jumped out, Noveske N4 rifles in hand, and trained them on the far end of the cemetery.
Jack's stomach dropped. He followed their line of sight.
A bush near the edge of the cemetery rustled—no wind.
"Down!"
He shoved Reacher hard.
The big man barely flinched, but used the momentum to dive toward Angela and Mickey, shielding them.
CRACK.
A bullet zipped through the air and shattered the glass frame of Franz's memorial photo.
JJ and Hannah returned fire immediately, their N4s spitting short, controlled bursts. They weren't trying to kill, just suppress.
Gunfire erupted. The sharp pop of suppressed 5.56 rounds mixed with the louder cracks from the enemy's rifles.
It was clear this was more than a lone shooter.
JJ and Hannah were quickly pinned down behind their SUV.
The memorial service had become a war zone.
Fortunately, their quick reaction meant the enemy had only managed to get off one shot before being forced to shift targets. No casualties—yet.
About forty mourners had attended, including several retired veterans.
The honor guard soldiers, though disciplined, were unarmed. Their ceremonial M1s were loaded with blanks.
Still, having military personnel present helped.
The crowd didn't panic.
They moved—organized and fast.
Jack shepherded Angela and Mickey behind a massive oak tree. A soldier and a family friend ran over to help.
"Get them out of here!" Jack barked, handing over his sidearm.
He drew his FK BRNO 7.5 pistol and attached a custom folding stock from his belt.
It had been a long time since he'd used that piece of kit. The last time was during a fight against literal monsters—those inhuman "cannibals."
But today, his enemies weren't monsters.
They were worse.
They were men.
______
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