Jack was a little disappointed. Usually, when someone blurted out a pathetic line like "I have kids to feed!", they weren't an important player. He patted the thug down, confirming he only had a knife—not even a gun—and sighed in frustration.
He twisted his wrist and brought the bent end of the rebar down precisely on the guy's temple, sending him straight into dreamland.
Meanwhile, Reacher finished searching Scarface's corpse and held up a set of car keys. "No wallet, no ID. Let's check this bastard's car."
"What about these guys?" Nigeli gestured toward the moaning thugs sprawled on the ground. Apart from the two Jack had knocked out, the rest were all sporting broken limbs—brutal but not fatal.
The worst off wasn't even the one Reacher had crippled but the poor soul who fought O'Donnell. Two stab wounds—one to the liver, one to the left lung. He was already suffering from hemothorax.
Jack wasn't interested in saving them. If the paramedics didn't arrive in time, two might die, but he had already prepared himself for seven corpses.
He pulled out his phone, sent a quick message, then waved his hand. "New Jersey's field office will handle the cleanup. These guys won't be talking to anyone until we're done with this case."
—
"Looks like someone did their homework." O'Donnell rummaged through the glove compartment and pulled out a stack of files. Inside were photos and basic info on their group.
The data was sparse—just physical descriptions and brief summaries of their military backgrounds. Clearly, whoever compiled it didn't have high-level clearance. It only mentioned that they were all former MPs from the same Special Investigations Unit.
"Phone." Reacher pulled a cell from the center console and scowled. "Burner."
It wasn't even locked. He opened the call log—every number was listed as unknown. Just as he was about to shut it off and pass it to Jack, the phone started ringing.
Reacher glanced at the others, then answered on speaker.
"Is it done?" An older man's voice came through.
"It's done. Just… not how you expected," Reacher replied.
The line went silent for a moment. Then, the caller spoke again, this time using Reacher's name.
"You fucked with the wrong people, Reacher. You'll soon find out what happens next."
"You sound more scared than I do," Reacher shot back. The line immediately went dead.
"Can we trace it?" Nigeli asked, having already figured out Jack wasn't just an FBI agent. She didn't know his exact rank, but she knew he had access to serious resources.
Jack thought for a moment. "Not yet. That was another burner. But if he calls back, we might be able to track him."
"So we just keep pissing him off and hope he loses his temper enough to dial this number again?" Reacher asked.
"Pretty much."
"Maybe I can help with that." Dixon reached between the seats and pulled out a parking pass.
"New Era Technologies? And it was stamped yesterday morning?"
Reacher frowned. He was sure that the SUV that had been watching Franz's house—and later tailing him and Jack—was this one.
So what was the connection between Scarface and this New Era Technologies? And why did they go there the morning after their botched surveillance?
"Alright, time to move. We've got more work to do." Nigeli pointed toward the flashing blue-and-white lights in the distance. The sound of sirens was growing closer.
O'Donnell grabbed the beer bottles they had left on the curb before climbing the fence earlier. "Huh. Still cold. We can keep drinking."
"You actually remember which one is whose?" Nigeli wrinkled her nose, unimpressed.
"Mine's unopened," Jack said cheerfully, grabbing the fullest bottle.
They strolled away like a group of casual tourists out for a late-night walk, beers in hand. Nigeli pulled up her phone's GPS and led them toward Sanchez and Orozco's office.
—
Jack picked the lock with practiced ease. Once inside, O'Donnell flicked on the lights—revealing yet another ransacked office.
"Just like Franz's place." Reacher bent down and picked up a brass Zippo lighter. His expression darkened as he handed it to Nigeli.
Her face immediately turned grim. "Have you ever seen Orozco leave home without his lighter?"
O'Donnell and Dixon, both fellow members of the 110th Special Investigations Unit, visibly tensed. It meant Sanchez and Orozco had probably been taken from this very office before being executed.
Dixon mulled it over. "Franz's place was trashed. So was this one. But Swan's house had no signs of forced entry. There's got to be a reason for that."
"Maybe," Reacher muttered, picking up a fallen chair and moving toward the bookshelf.
"Good times." O'Donnell held up a picture frame from the floor, his expression nostalgic.
Jack glanced at it—same group photo as the one they had found in Franz's office. The nine members of the 110th, all smiling—including Reacher.
"So I'm the only one who doesn't have this picture?" Reacher asked, annoyed.
"I have one."
"I have one," O'Donnell and Dixon both chimed in.
"Mine's on my bookshelf," Nigeli added.
Everyone turned to Reacher.
Jack stated the obvious. "First, you need a home before you can have a wall to hang a picture on."
Reacher scowled and focused on the bookshelf.
"We're wasting our time. There's nothing left here," O'Donnell kicked at the scattered papers and shattered glass on the floor.
"Agreed," Dixon said. "If there was anything important, it's long gone."
"We thought the same thing at Franz's place," Jack reminded them, recounting the fax machine discovery.
"So what, we dismantle the printer here too?" O'Donnell snorted.
"No. We go to a bar."
Reacher pulled a large frame from the bottom of the shelf. Its glass was shattered, but the pictures inside were intact.
"Sanchez looks real cozy with this bartender."
Four photos, all featuring Sanchez and a young Latina woman. In one, she was wearing a Lucky Bar T-shirt—clearly a staff uniform.
"Lucky Bar?" Nigeli looked it up on her phone. "It's on the other end of the commercial district."
______
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