A Man Built For Justice: The Jack Reacher Cases #12 Read online

  A USA TODAY BESTSELLING BOOK

  Book One in The JACK REACHER Cases

  CLICK HERE TO BUY NOW

  A Man Built For Justice

  The Jack Reacher Cases #12

  Dan Ames

  Slogan Books, New York, NY

  Free Books And More

  Would you like a FREE copy

  of my story BULLET RIVER and the chance

  to win a free Kindle?

  Then sign up for the DAN AMES BOOK CLUB:

  For special offers and new releases, sign up here

  Contents

  The Jack Reacher Cases

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Also by Dan Ames

  About the Author

  The Jack Reacher Cases

  A MAN BUILT FOR JUSTICE

  by

  Dan Ames

  Chapter 1

  Belize

  The eastern coast of Belize is a beauty to behold. One of the longest coral reefs in the world, it provides a natural seawall of sorts for the small country while also providing some of the best snorkeling on earth.

  The water is clear and crystalline tinged with fragments of brilliant blue in all shades.

  A Central American country, Belize’s primary language is English, thanks to its history as a colony. This has helped the tiny nation become a mecca for expats from the US, Canada and parts of Europe.

  A few miles from shore in water that sparkled with a stunning purity reserved for priceless diamonds, the young man swam with a natural grace. He was large for his age, with broad shoulders and long arms. His skin was tanned a deep brown. He was outfitted with flippers, a weight belt and a spear gun.

  He was neither a tourist nor a native. He was simply known as a local to everyone but the true original populace.

  None of that mattered to his quarry. The young man was seeking lionfish – an invasive species that had become the scourge of the Caribbean and beyond. The monstrous species had already done great damage to the coral reef and if not stopped, would most certainly destroy it completely.

  The young man had made it a personal mission to destroy the lionfish. He speared dozens every day, bagged them and turned them over to the locals. Often, he would bag a lobster or grouper as well to have for lunch or dinner with his mother and grandmother.

  He surfaced, took a deep breath and stocked his lungs with fresh oxygen, then dove. He swam past a coral outcropping and spotted his target species. The lionfish was a hideous-looking creature; the body of a fish with protective armor resembling that of a porcupine.

  The young spear fisherman extended his spear gun, held his body steady and fired. The spear penetrated the lionfish in the center of its body. A perfect shot.

  The hunter began retrieving his line when he sensed a shadow in his periphery.

  A shark? he wondered.

  He turned and saw a scuba diver less than twenty feet away. Odd, he thought. He hadn’t seen another boat on the surface. So where had this diver come from? The young man noted that the scuba diver also had a spear gun. It was pointed directly at him.

  The young man waved and pointed at the lionfish, as if to say, I already got him.

  The scuba diver fired.

  The young man’s instinct was to move, to try to evade the shot, but there was no time. Simultaneously, the young man realized the other diver wasn’t hunting lionfish.

  As the spear pierced the boy’s heart, he had registered who was the hunter and who was the hunted.

  This knowledge came much too late.

  Chapter 2

  Lauren Pauling wrote the last of her checks.

  Since the sale of her security firm, she had become a very wealthy woman. Yet, she had simple needs. Maybe if she’d made a fortune when she was in her twenties she would have flown to Monaco and blown it all on yachts, penthouses and parties. But at this point, she preferred to live a low-key kind of life.

  Hence, the checks.

  She insisted all of the donations she made be listed as anonymous and so far she’d helped support cancer research, children’s hospitals, environmental organizations and finally, a national group dedicated to honoring members of the law enforcement community who’d died in the line of duty.

  Pauling had served in the FBI and was proud of the work she’d done. She’d worked with a lot of courageous, selfless individuals who had put their lives on the line for others. It made her feel good to still be helping alongside them, even if it wasn’t in the field with a gun but rather in her co-op with a pen and a checkbook.

  Satisfied with her choices, Pauling put away her financial paperwork, filed everything, and went into the kitchen. She had taken up intermittent fasting, which basically meant skipping breakfast and so far, it had been easy. But it left her pretty hungry at lunchtime.

  Now, she scanned the contents of her fridge. She was about to pull out a plastic dish with some leftover quinoa and grilled chicken with asparagus when her doorbell rang.

  She went to the video monitor by her door and saw an older man dressed in a light gray suit. He had on a hat and carried a cane and briefcase. Pauling pressed the intercom button.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Lauren Pauling?”

  “Speaking.”

  “My name is Randall Naughton of the law firm Naughton, Mahoney and Peskar. I’ve come to speak with you about a very urgent matter.”

  “Am I being sued?” Pauling asked, half joking, half serious.

  “No, this is about possibly retaining you for your services.”

  “I’m retired,” Pauling said.

  “I understand that, but my law firm has been tasked with helping in a highly delicate matter for which you may have some personal insight.”

  “What firm are you with again?”

  “Naughton, Mahoney and Peskar.”

  Pauling had heard of the firm–a blue-chip group here in Manhattan catering to a fairly elite clientele.

  “Okay, come on up,” she said, and pressed the button that would allow the man entrance.

  She shut the refrigerator door, went into her bedroom and clipped a holster with a small automatic to the back of her slacks, under her shirt.

  Pauling was fairly sure the man was who he claimed to be, but she didn’t believe in taking chances, either.

  There was a soft knock on her door and Pauling opened it to reveal Naughton.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said.

  Up close, he was even older than she’d first thought. He was a small man with rounded shoulders and a face sporting red splotches. His suit was tailored, expensive and she spotted a Patek Philippe on his wrist.

  “Come in,” she said.

  He entered and she caught the scent of coffee and subtle cologne.
>
  “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

  “No thank you,” he replied. “Is there a place–”

  “Yes, right in here.”

  Pauling’s co-op was a loft-style space with a living room area that faced tall windows overlooking Manhattan proper. A small dining nook, which she rarely used, was off the kitchen. That’s where Naughton set his briefcase.

  Pauling took the seat across from him. The table was made of dark wood, an African mahogany, and the chairs were matching, with brown leather cushions.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Naughton?”

  He sighed as if he were about to deliver some extremely bad news.

  “A young child is missing and may have been murdered in Belize.”

  Pauling waited. She didn’t know anyone who lived in Belize. Her only relative was her sister, who lived in Portland and Pauling knew they were home in Oregon. Nowhere near Belize.

  “That is not the official explanation,” he continued.

  “What is the official version?”

  “Simply that he is missing. They suspect a possible drowning but until they find the body, no one knows.”

  “I see.”

  She waited.

  “The local authorities are searching for the body but in the meantime, we have been hired to investigate the matter. Obviously, our client feels there is more to the story.”

  “And how does this involve me?”

  Another sigh, this time as if he were entering personal, sensitive territory. Pauling almost told him to just spit it out.

  “The child was, or is, a young man who may have been the son of someone close to you.”

  Pauling’s puzzled expression caused him to finish the thought.

  “A man named Jack Reacher.”

  Chapter 3

  His passport was British and he’d applied for it via an embassy in Stockholm. It was fake. He wasn’t British, nor was he from Sweden.

  However, when the authorities began their investigation of the missing young man in Belize, they would no doubt begin by looking at recent arrivals in the country.

  It simply wouldn’t do to have his real name appear on that list.

  Now, he sat back in his seat on the plane and watched the waters of the Caribbean fall away below. His flight would take him to Rio de Janeiro where he would confirm the second half of the money had officially landed in his account.

  Once that was established, he would partake in Rio’s legendary nightlife for a few days before boarding a flight back to the US. He’d probably come into the country in New York and from there, take a rental car to Boston for his next assignment.

  Unless, of course, he received instructions directing him elsewhere.

  The plane reached cruising altitude and leveled off. The flight attendant began serving drinks in first class. He ordered himself a Bloody Mary.

  This was going to be a very lucrative project, he thought to himself.

  And the best part? It was only just beginning.

  Chapter 4

  “That’s impossible,” Pauling said.

  Randall Naughton, the attorney who’d just dropped a bombshell on Pauling’s dining room table held his hands up in defense.

  “Maybe. Like I said, we need more information.”

  “What do you know about Jack Reacher?” Pauling asked.

  “Me, personally?”

  “Yes.”

  “Other than his connection to you, not one single thing.”

  “I see,” Pauling said. “The idea Jack Reacher has a son is highly improbable. He does not live the kind of lifestyle suited for parenthood.”

  Naughton waited for her to continue.

  “I also believe he is the kind of man who if he did bring a child into this world, he would most certainly be involved as a parent,” Pauling continued. “He takes his responsibilities very seriously.”

  “As I said, more research is required, which is why I am here.”

  Pauling kept her frustration in check. She hadn’t planned on something like this. The trip back to New York from Tallon’s place had only occurred because of a conference she had wished to attend. The plan was for her to only be in the city for a few days before rejoining Tallon out west.

  “What makes your client think this child is Reacher’s?”

  “I don’t have an answer to that question.”

  “Why isn’t your client satisfied with the local authorities? Won’t they get to the bottom of this?”

  “Again, I can’t speak to my client’s mindset. I’m only delivering a message.”

  With that, Naughton withdrew a file folder from his briefcase and slid it across the table.

  “There is a check inside. It should be enough to cover at least a month of your work, plus travel and expenses.”

  “A month?” Pauling figured this would take a few days, tops. She glanced at the check. It was, in fact, triple what she would normally have charged if she were still running her business. The airline ticket also showed her destination: Belize.

  “Have we reached an agreement?” Naughton asked.

  After a moment, Pauling answered. “I’ll let you know.”

  Chapter 5

  Tallon’s first thought on seeing the three men approach his casita was a disappointing one.

  I’m going to have to move.

  He had spent the better part of the day hunting in the canyons near his home on the border of Death Valley. The occasional mule deer could still be found in higher altitudes but he had no interest in them. Or any animal for that matter.

  He did it mostly to stay in shape and to occasionally target shoot his rifle. It was a military-grade sniper rifle and he enjoyed its heft, the workout it provided hauling the heavy weapon up and down rough terrain was something he enjoyed. He’d done it many times in his life when he was hunting men.

  Now, he had slowly descended from the ridge behind his home. He’d moved here years ago and created a compound that delivered on all his needs; privacy, security and quiet.

  After a long time as a soldier, mostly in Special Ops, and then as a private contractor working in some of the most dangerous areas in the world, Tallon had decided to slow down a bit. The casita was his favorite place in the world.

  And now, a few locals had shown up.

  They were old pals of his, in the sense that he’d beaten the hell out of two of them at a bar in town when they’d treated a female bartender rudely. Each fight had been a separate incident. The second time, the first one had brought reinforcements.

  Now, as he watched the idiots surround his small home, Tallon counted three of them.

  If ever there was a case of subtraction by addition, this was it. The more of them there were, the dumber they got.

  Tallon weighed his options. He could shoot all of them right now and call it a day. Bury the bodies in the desert.

  He could have a little fun with them. Shoot one of them in the foot. Maybe one of the others in the arm. Tallon had spotted their 4x4 parked a few hundred yards from the house. He could put a few rounds into the engine block.

  No, he didn’t like any of those options.

  Tallon preferred the direct approach.

  He walked across the stretch of blood-red sand as the evening sun set. The three of them were trying to peek in his windows. Tallon could see one of them had a handgun stuck in the back of their jeans. The others were unarmed.

  The sand made no sound as his feet took him across the stretch of ground and soon he was within ten feet of the trio. He brought his sniper rifle to his shoulder and put the crosshairs directly on center mass of the guy with the gun.

  “Drop the gun,” he said.

  All three of them turned to look at him. Huey, Dewey and Screwy.

  The guy with the gun looked at his buddies for advice. They didn’t have any to offer so he dropped the gun on Tallon’s porch.

  “Kick it away,” Tallon said.

  The man complied.

  “Okay, get
off my porch and come over here.”

  They walked closer to him and Tallon raised the barrel of his rifle.

  “I’m getting real tired of this,” he said. “Why can’t you just leave me in peace?”

  The bigger of the two, the first one who’d gotten his ass beat back at the bar spoke for the others.

  “You laid your hands on us. We ain’t gonna let that go.”

  “You started it by slapping that bartender’s ass, remember that?” Tallon countered. “I believe you even threw the first punch. You seem to have a highly selective memory.”

  “Don’t make no difference,” the grammarian said.

  “Well, what do I have to do to make sure I never see you boys again?” Tallon said.

  All three of them stood in silence.

  “Well?”

  The leader finally spoke. “Put down the gun and we’ll finish this right now.”

  Tallon sighed, set the rifle on the ground next to him and walked closer to them.

  “I just don’t see the need for this.”

  He walked in as if he was going to start arguing with the leader but instead, he threw a right cross that whistled past the head of the guy in the middle and crashed into the jaw of the man who’d had the gun. Tallon had wanted to make sure he wouldn’t make a run for the weapon.