Near noon, the doorbell of the Manhunt Task Force's small office building rang—a sound almost never heard since its installation.
Normally, Jack and his team drove straight into the underground parking garage, where a facial recognition security system monitored all arrivals.
If anyone stepped into range—authorized or not—everyone in the task force would get a phone alert, along with a real-time image of the visitor.
The front door had a similar system, and after Jack confirmed the visitor's identity, the door unlocked.
A black Range Rover smoothly pulled into the driveway.
Jack opened the house door and nodded slightly at the woman stepping out—a mixed-race Black and white woman in her thirties.
"Frances Neagley?"
The woman smirked, a sharp gleam in her eyes.
"The big guy said your name's Jack too? Good thing we always just call him Reacher."
She was tall, her frame lean and muscular, giving off the poised energy of a predatory cat—always ready to strike.
"Yeah, I prefer being called by my actual name." Jack led her inside, straight toward the backyard.
Neagley glanced around the house with amused curiosity, her sharp gaze sweeping over the details.
"What is this place? A federal black site? I counted at least twenty cameras outside."
Jack smirked. "You're close. Let's just say we're in the same line of work—finding people, solving cases."
—
Neagley didn't know Jack.
But Jack knew her.
In the original timeline, if Jack hadn't intervened and saved Joey, then Neagley would've been the one Reacher called for help in Margrave.
She had been a Sergeant in the Army before joining Reacher's 110th Special Investigations Unit.
After leaving the military, she had become a highly successful private investigator.
—
In the backyard garden, Reacher was crouched near a pumpkin vine, studying it intently.
Neagley stopped in her tracks.
"Major?"
Her voice wavered with emotion, eyes glistening.
Reacher stood up and turned to face her, his expression calm.
"Neagley. Long time no see."
"I came the moment I got your message." She hesitated, glancing at Jack.
Reacher's jaw twitched before he forced a half-smile.
"Jack is one of us. If he'd enlisted, I would've recruited him for the 110th."
Jack grinned. "Flattered. But at the time, I wasn't even seventeen."
Neagley's eyes widened.
Jack looked young, but so did she—her mixed-race features and smooth skin hid her real age well.
She was over thirty, yet this guy was even younger?
—
Back inside, Jack brewed a pot of tea and poured a cup for each of them.
Neagley let out a deep breath, her voice dropping slightly.
"Sorry—I was busy with a case. I didn't check my email until yesterday… and that's when I saw Franz's messages.
He sent them weeks ago, asking me for information."
She clenched her jaw, eyes shining with something between guilt and anger.
"I think he couldn't reach me… so he went to Sanchez and Orozco instead. They ran a PI firm in Atlantic City."
Reacher's voice tightened. "This isn't your fault."
"I know. I know."
Both of them had military discipline.
Neither cried nor ranted.
Their grief was hidden beneath stone-faced control.
Neagley exhaled.
"What's the next step? You're gonna leave this case to the cops?"
She flicked a glance at Jack, eyes filled with challenge.
It was obvious now—this place was FBI territory.
Logos, badges, even the laptop on the table… everything screamed federal office.
And then there was the blackboard—covered not in recipes, but in mugshots of criminals, each one crossed out in red.
Reacher spoke first.
"Jack isn't just some random cop. He's FBI.
And he's my friend.
Two years ago, he saved Joey's life.
Probably saved mine too."
That was the highest praise Reacher had ever given someone.
Jack simply accepted it with a satisfied smirk.
Neagley's interest in him grew.
"Huh. I thought maybe you were assigned to keep an eye on him."
Jack shrugged. "Not entirely wrong. If I don't watch him, his picture might end up on that wall."
Neagley's lips curled slightly. "Depends on who we're up against."
She turned back to Reacher.
"I tried calling David O'Donnell and Carla Dixon. Both went to voicemail. Left messages, no response.
As for Tony Swan… I don't have his number.
But I know he lives in Queens.
O'Donnell was closest to him, so he'd have his address."
—
O'Donnell. Dixon. Swan.
Three more members of Reacher's old team.
With Franz, Sanchez, and Orozco dead, and Larry dead two years ago, that made nine in total—with Reacher as their former Major.
Reacher's eyes darkened, an undeniable flicker of rage flashing through them.
"So besides you… we can't reach anyone?"
Jack's stomach twisted.
This wasn't right.
A coordinated hit? A grudge from the past?
"Do you want me to send people to find and protect them?"
Reacher shook his head. "No… something's off.
These guys aren't idiots. If they knew they were in danger, they'd find a way to contact us.
Not just sit there and get picked off one by one."
His voice dropped. "O'Donnell and Dixon should be okay.
But we need to find Swan."
Jack nodded and made a quick call.
Within minutes, NYPD sent over Tony Swan's home address.
—
Jack quickly disguised himself again, joining Reacher and Neagley in her black Range Rover.
They drove toward Queens.
Compared to Manhattan, Queens was less congested, with middle-class residential areas—the kind of neighborhoods where people knew their neighbors.
Swan's house was a modest townhome in one such suburban row.
More comfortable than a high-rise apartment, yet still close to the city.
The Range Rover pulled up to the curb.
Jack and Reacher exchanged a glance.
Something felt off.
Jack adjusted the silencer on his pistol.
"We go in quiet. No knocking."
Reacher flexed his fingers.
Neagley reached for a combat knife strapped under her jacket.
Without another word—
They moved in.
______
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