Foreign and Domestic Read online

  “I’ve accepted that he’s dead. No question in my mind. But I paid you to find his body! To give me the name of the people involved in his death! Instead, you find me nothing!”

  Heminton whimpered something inaudible because his speech was muffled by blood and broken teeth.

  “What? What da hell did you say?”

  Heminton whimpered and said, “Reacher.”

  “I know that name already. I’m taking care of him. Without your help.”

  Heminton said, “Pleee… Please.”

  John turned to Grant, looked at his watch, and said, “We’ve got to catch that flight.” He began to weave his way through boxes and shelves back toward the basement stairs, and then he stopped. Without turning back, he said, “Kill him. No gunfire.”

  Guns were especially hard to get in London, but Grant had lived in England most of his life. He knew the right people. Knew the right places. But he didn’t need a gun.

  John said, “Ten minutes. No more.”

  Grant pulled Heminton’s chin up and stared into his jumbled face. Then he beat into it with the brass knuckles until his arm was weak and Heminton was dead.

  Chapter 20

  FIVE TIME ZONES AWAY and eight hours and twenty minutes later, John was getting off of a Boeing 787 Dreamliner Jet, one of Virgin Atlantic’s newest luxury planes. He had sat in first class with his associate, Grant, who went by his real name only to John. No need for him to be known by a code name because Grant didn’t ever speak to Jekyll.

  Jekyll was in a position where code names were necessary to protect his mission. But the truth was that John didn’t care about the mission, not anymore. The mission was only a thing of money. A way for someone somewhere to turn a major profit or change the politics of the American landscape or corner the financial markets of the world or make a regime change or simply wake Americans up to the demands of some foreign power.

  Whatever the intentions behind the mission were, they were only the intentions of John’s employer. He had sold his time and skills and the time and skills of his mercenaries to his employer. He had to prove that he could make it happen, that he could pull it off, that he could make a son kill his father, the president—and he had succeeded in his demonstration.

  West Ganbola was only a show of talent. An audition and nothing more.

  John’s employer was satisfied. The very next day, after John’s demonstration, a major transfer of funds was sent across back channels and through intermediary banks in less than trustworthy countries. Paper and electronic trails were erased by trusted bank employees, and the money was finally deposited into John’s bank account in a country far from the prying eyes of the United States and its allies.

  The money was only half of an even larger sum of money. Half now. Half upon completion. But the money didn’t matter to John, not anymore. It mattered to his guys and to Jekyll, but not to John.

  The only thing that mattered to him was destroying this Reacher guy—or his son instead, whichever—and, if he was lucky, finding out the truth about his brother. But for sure he would kill this Reacher guy’s son—and he would do it the hard way.

  For ten years, John blamed himself for his little brother’s most certain death because for the last ten years, John had been in prison. He served a sentence in a prison in Africa for a crime he hadn’t been alone in committing. To him, it hadn’t been a crime at all. It wasn’t that it was so long ago that he couldn’t recall the act, but he had forgotten it by choice. He chose not to think about it. But it was always there, eating away at him. So instead of focusing on the betrayal that had sent him to an African prison, he spent nearly the whole ten years thinking about his missing brother. After he’d dug into it, he came to the conclusion that his brother was dead.

  There were only three witnesses that he knew of who knew what had happened to his brother. Three guys who were also mercs. His brother had a mercenary outfit that worked in the god-awful places the Pentagon didn’t want to be associated with. John’s brother had made a small fortune while his older brother rotted away in prison.

  The three guys who were a part of his outfit told Grant that they had gone to London to find the man who betrayed them. They gave John one name as the man responsible for his brother’s fate—Reacher.

  In prison, John had two things, two items to look at. He’d had to curry favor with the prison staff to keep them, but no one saw the items as harmless. They were two short pieces of newspaper, the same newspaper. Plastered on his wall, were two New York Times articles—one from the main section and one from the Metro section. Both were from about ten years ago, and both were from the same day, same issue.

  The first was about the three surviving guys who worked for John’s brother. The article was about their untimely deaths. Groom, Burke, and Kowalski had died when a landmine exploded under their vehicle in Baghdad.

  A real shame, John thought.

  What the New York Times article didn’t mention—because no one at the newspaper knew— was that John’s most trusted employee was also in Baghdad at that time. An SRR man named Grant. And one thing that Grant was good at was killing people. Especially killing three guys who didn’t seem to know any more about John’s brother than a single name. These three guys acted more afraid of Grant than they were of John, which, in John’s opinion, was a gross miscalculation on their parts. So Grant surveyed them, did the thing he did best, which was recon, and then he killed them with a landmine.

  With American combatants dying left and right in a war due to landmines and IEDs, no one looked twice at the deaths. The men appeared to be normal casualties of war.

  The second article that John had pinned to his cell wall for ten years was an article that almost hurt him more than knowing that his brother had been killed by this Reacher guy. The piece from the Metro section told the unbelievable story of an apartment in the famous Dakota building in New York. The apartment was deemed abandoned by its tenant after twelve consecutive months of unpaid maintenance fees. More than nine million dollars had been discovered in a locked closet in that apartment.

  John walked to baggage claim with Grant, and they waited by the revolving carousel for their bags. They traveled light, but each had brought with them a camo green duffle bags. The next mission would put them in the United States for at least forty-eight hours. Depending on several factors, they could be there longer—maybe a lot longer. If they got away with their plans, then there’d be no heat on them at all and plenty of time to deal with the son of his enemy—Jack Cameron.

  Chapter 21

  JACK CAMERON WOKE UP EARLY THAT MORNING in a groggy state. It was five hours behind London time, and he was in an unfamiliar bed. He rolled over and saw the most beautiful woman he’d seen in a long time. It took a while for his brain to register her identity.

  Cameron had been dreaming, and his dreams were vivid lately. He was still sleepy enough to recall one detail. He’d heard his father speak to him. It made him wonder what his father would sound like when he found him. If he found him.

  Li slept in. She looked comfortable, one leg bent at the knee and a smile on her face. He wondered what the hell she was dreaming about.

  Cameron slid out of bed as quietly as he could. He went to the bathroom mirror and sink, turned on the water to cold, and doused his face with it. Then he went back into the room to find his cargo pants. They were bunched up on the floor with Li’s clothes. After sifting through his pockets to locate his foldable toothbrush, he took it to the bathroom and used some of Li’s toothpaste to brush his teeth. He didn’t run the water until he needed it.

  Afterward, he went to the kitchen and started to search for the one thing he had to have—coffee. He couldn’t find any—not even a coffee pot or a coffee machine. He frowned. Now he knew Li’s flaw. She wasn’t a coffee drinker. She was not the perfect woman he had thought her to be only five minutes earlier.

  He got dressed and left the apartment, locking the bottom lock behind him, then walked through the lob
by and left the building in search of the drug that fed his addiction. He went to the street and looked around. No coffee shops but a little diner across the street at a diagonal from where he stood. It was next to a bank and an office building shrouded in black glass.

  Cameron smiled and went in. He figured that by the time he got a coffee to go, he’d return and she’d be awake. If not, he could wait in the lobby for her.

  He ordered a black coffee, paid for it, and returned to Li’s apartment. It was eight-fifteen am, and he figured that if she wasn’t awake by now, she’d be up soon enough. Otherwise, missing the test for Secret Service Special Agent was the least of the reasons why she wouldn’t make the cut.

  Cameron didn’t know a lot about the secretive organization other than it protected the president, it investigated financial crimes, and his dead uncle had worked there.

  In the lobby, there was an empty counter that must be used as a post for a receptionist or doorman. Off to the east, there was a set of matching furniture set up like a living room and a television with the FOX channel playing the muted news on a TV mounted on the wall. The sofas were gray and modern-looking, and they had a matching coffee table with gray legs, gray trim, and a glass top. Flowers were arranged in a vase on top of the table, and old coffee cup rings were visible in two places.

  Cameron glanced at the television and saw a beautiful, blonde pundit who didn’t quite fit the traditional anchor description. As she spoke on mute, the headline at the bottom of the screen announced, “Assassination by Son!” Cameron wondered what they were talking about but didn’t bother to unmute the TV. Next, he saw a digital map of Africa appear on-screen. It zoomed in on a small country on the north end of the Gulf of Guinea.

  Cameron’s initial observation was that it was a little unusual for African events to make the news. It was simply a reality that African politics and events weren’t covered by American media. Not in fair comparison to other parts of the world. Not that he had anything against Africa, but he wondered why this particular story was being given so much coverage on an American news channel.

  And then he realized why. It was because the assassination had been recorded on live TV.

  FOX news first ran a warning label. All in red. It said, “Images are graphic and disturbing.” After, they ran a clip on air that showed a politician Cameron didn’t recognize. The man was onstage speaking in front of a crowd that seemed ecstatic he was speaking to them. It was like he was their religious leader or something. And then the man turned to another man walking up behind him onstage. They looked similar—maybe family. The second man raised what looked like an M1911 and aimed it at the politician. The M1911 was a serious handgun in Cameron’s opinion—serious, but everyone knew about it. Therefore, seeing one wasn’t anything new. Normal people wouldn’t react to an M1911 they’d seen on TV the same way that they might react to say a Smith and Wesson Model 686 Competitor, which was a gigantic, menacing thing that held six or seven rounds and fired .357 Magnum cartridges.

  Next, there were multiple muzzle flashes, and that familiar red mist burst out from the first man’s chest. On the screen, some of the area around his chest was purposely pixilated by the news channel in a trifling attempt to blur out the gore.

  The whole thing made him think about the Secret Service. Perhaps that was the reason Li had said they were on high alert. He imagined that any assassination on the planet, no matter how far away, was reason to elevate the Secret Service’s alertness. Related or not, it made sense.

  Cameron looked over to the corner of the room. There was a little nook with a computer available for use. He went over to it and placed his coffee down and hit some keys, figuring he could kill some time by looking at the Secret Service website.

  He waited while the computer came out of sleep and then opened the Internet browser, searched for the website, and read over it. What Cameron had found was a very bland website compared to what he’d imagined it would be.

  He looked over the information about the history of the service and how it had come into play. He read that it was created in 1865 and assumed it was because of Lincoln’s assassination. But the dates didn’t match up in his mind. They seemed too far apart. The creation of a protection agency should’ve been reactionary and immediate. Lincoln had died in April, but the creation of the Secret Service was in July of 1865. Three months later. Why wait so long? He Googled Lincoln and read that Lincoln literally had the legislation that would create the Secret Service on his desk as he was watching his final live event.

  He read more about how the original conception of the organization was to protect the American currency, which explained the evolution of the financial crimes side of the Secret Service. Originally, the purpose of the agency was to investigate counterfeiting. After the Civil War, counterfeiting became a real concern for the federal government. The Secret Service’s responsibilities were expanded to include hunting down people who perpetrated frauds against the federal government. This alteration of the agency led to investigations into everything from the Ku Klux Klan to smugglers to even false claims of land deeds. They were pretty much out to get anyone and everyone who defrauded the federal law.

  Cameron moved through the site, learning about as much information as was available. His drive to learn about the Secret Service was because of Li, and he wasn’t going to deny that. She was something new for him. He had met women on the road, even just two days ago, but this was different in a way that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was a taste of the normal life, and he wasn’t used to that.

  He clicked on a link that led him to read about the exam that Li had been supposed to take. Nothing very interesting there. Then he clicked on requirements to be a special agent. The age requirement was twenty-one. Must have great vision. Must be able to pass the exams. Applicants had to be able to pass a background check, and they had to be able to obtain and keep top security clearance. All things that Cameron would’ve expected to find.

  Suddenly, he felt a small hand on his right shoulder, and Li’s voice said, “What’re you doing? Playing video games?”

  Cameron turned and found her staring at him with a big smile on her face, which in turn made him smile.

  “I was checking out your website.”

  “My website? I don’t think they allow those kinds of sites to be visible down here in the lobby. This is a family friendly complex.”

  For a brief moment, the tiniest fraction of a moment, what Cameron would call a hair of a moment, his reptilian brain believed her. He didn’t feel guilty about it. He wasn’t ashamed of it. He had seen her in less than nothing, and she would’ve made a fortune on the Internet.

  Involuntarily, he thought, Lucky me.

  “I was just learning about your agency.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him like they were longtime lovers. “Learn anything interesting?” she asked.

  “Not really. Just that Lincoln had the paperwork for the Secret Service on his desk the night he was killed.”

  Li said, “Actually, he signed it that very afternoon.”

  Cameron said, “Really?”

  “That’s the way the story goes. Lincoln had received the papers creating the agency that day, signed them, and then went to his death.”

  Cameron said, “Talk about a day late and a dollar short.”

  “Yeah,” she said and let go of him.

  Cameron asked, “Something wrong?”

  “No. Just heard that one before. It’s common. People—civilians, I mean—always make Lincoln jokes. Or Kennedy ones.”

  “No McKinley jokes?”

  “What?”

  “William McKinley. He was the twenty-fifth president and was shot in 1901 by an anarchist named Leon Czolgosz.”

  “Leon who?”

  “Czolgosz.”

  “How the hell did you know that? Are you really that smart?”

  Cameron stood up from the chair and looked down at her. He said, “Of course.�
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  She paused.

  Then he let out a huge smile and said, “I just read it online. Don’t even know if I’m saying the guy’s name right.”

  Li said, “Well. You’re wrong anyway. Czolguxman—or whatever—didn’t kill McKinley.”

  “That’s what I read.”

  “It wasn’t him. McKinley died later from gangrene. It poisoned his blood. That’s how he died. Not the gunshots.”

  Cameron said, “Now who’s the smart one?”

  And he kissed her.

  At that perfect moment, her phone rang from her inside jacket pocket. She withdrew from him and reached in and pulled it out.

  The phone’s screen read Sean Cord.

  She answered. Cameron couldn’t hear the other end of the line, but it was a short conversation. A lot of Li agreeing.

  She clicked off and said, “We gotta go. Sean has a busy day and said I need to bring you to meet him. He’s out on a job.”

  Cameron followed Li out to her car and they got in.

  He said, “Where to?”

  “Springfield.”

  “In Virginia?”

  “Yeah. You been there?”

  “No.”

  “It’s about thirty minutes.”

  Cameron sat back in the seat and waited for Li to fire up the car.

  She didn’t. Instead, she cleared her throat.

  He stared at her. She was making a seatbelt gesture.

  “Right. Sorry,” he said, feeling stupid that he kept forgetting because his mom used to make him do it. Same thing. She wouldn’t move the car until he had his belt buckled.

  Chapter 22

  LI DROVE INTERSTATE 95 FOR ABOUT TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES and then took the exit and wound an interstate cloverleaf until they were driving through downtown Springfield. They drove for another twenty minutes, leaving the small town center and strip malls. They weaved through a residential area and then back onto another road lined with more strip malls and a single community college, whose campus was huge like an Army base.