Diane Capri
Don't Know Jack
The Hunt For Reacher Series #1, 2012
For Robert
CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS
Kim L. Otto
Carlos M. Gaspar
Charles Cooper
Lamont Finlay
Beverly Roscoe
Jacqueline Roscoe
Sylvia Black
Harry Black
Michael Hale
Marion Wallace
Archie Leach
Jim Leach
and
Jack Reacher
CHAPTER ONE
Just the facts. And not many of them, either. Jack Reacher's file was too stale and too thin to be credible. No human could be as invisible as Reacher appeared to be, whether he was currently above the ground or under it. Either the file had been sanitized, or Reacher was the most off-the-grid paranoid Kim Otto had ever heard of.
What had she missed?
At four in the morning the untraceable cell phone had vibrated on her bedside table. She had slept barely a hundred minutes. She cleared her throat, grabbed the phone, flipped it open, swung her legs out of bed, and said, “FBI Special Agent Kim Otto.”
The man said, “I’m sorry to call you so early, Otto.”
She recognized the voice, even though she hadn’t heard it for many years. He was still polite. Still undemanding. He didn’t need to be demanding. His every request was always granted. No one thwarted him in any way for any reason. Ever.
She said, “I was awake.” She was lying, and she knew he knew it, and she knew he didn’t care. He was the boss. And she owed him.
She walked across the bedroom and flipped on the bathroom light. It was harsh. She grimaced at herself in the mirror and splashed cold water on her face. She felt like she’d tossed back a dozen tequila shots last night, and she was glad that she hadn’t.
The voice asked, “Can you be at the airport for the 5:30 flight to Atlanta?”
“Of course.” Kim answered automatically, and set her mind to making it happen.
Showered, dressed, and seated on a plane in ninety minutes? Easy. Her apartment stood ten blocks from the FBI’s Detroit Field Office, where a helicopter waited, ever ready. She picked up her personal cell and began texting the duty pilot to meet her at the helipad in twenty. From the pad to the airport was a quick fifteen. She’d have time to spare.
But as if he could hear her clicking the silent keys, he said, “No helicopter. Keep this under the radar. Until we know what we’re dealing with, that is.”
The direct order surprised her. Too blunt. No wiggle room. Uncharacteristic. Coming from anyone lower down the food chain, the order might have been illegal, too.
“Of course,” Kim said again. “I understand. Under the radar. No problem.” She hit the delete button on the half-finished text. He hadn't said undercover.
The FBI operated in the glare of every possible spotlight. Keeping something under the radar added layers of complication. Under the radar meant no official recognition. No help, either. Off the books. She didn't have to hide, but she'd need to be careful what she revealed and to whom. Agents died during operations under the radar. Careers were killed there, too. So Otto heeded her internal warning system and placed herself on security alert, level red. She didn’t ask to whom she’d report because she already knew. He wouldn’t have called her directly if he intended her to report through normal channels. Instead, she turned her mind to solving the problem at hand.
How could she possibly make a commercial flight scheduled to depart – she glanced at the bedside clock – in eighty-nine minutes? There was no reliable subway or other public transportation in the Motor City. A car was the only option, through traffic and construction. Most days it took ninety minutes door to door, just to reach the airport.
She now had eighty-eight.
And she was still standing naked in her bathroom.
Only one solution. There was a filthy hot sheets motel three blocks away specializing in hourly racks for prostitutes and drug dealers. Her office handled surveillance of terrorists who stopped there after crossing the Canadian border from Windsor. Gunfire was a nightly occurrence. But a line of cabs always stood outside, engines running, because tips there were good. One of those cabs might get her to the flight on time. She shivered.
“Agent Otto?” His tone was calm. “Can you make it? Or do we need to hold the plane?”
She heard her mother’s voice deep in her reptile brain:
“I’ll be out the door in ten minutes,” she told him, staring down her anxiety in the mirror.
“Then I’ll call you back in eleven.”
She waited for dead air. When it came, she grabbed her toothbrush and stepped into shower water pumped directly out of the icy Detroit River. The cold spray warmed her frigid skin.
Seven minutes later, out of breath, heart pounding, she was belted into the back seat of a filthy taxi. The driver was an Arab. She told him she’d pay double if they reached the Delta terminal in under an hour.
“Yes, of course, miss,” he replied, as if the request was standard for his enterprise, which it probably was.
