The inevitable showdown, on a farm outside a tiny English village, ranks as one of Child's most thrilling finales. View Full Version of PW. More By and About This Author. Buy this book. Zeebra Books. But Reacher believes in a certain kind of justice. From a helicopter high above the empty California desert, a man is sent free-falling into the night….
In Chicago, a woman learns that an elite team of ex—army investigators is being hunted down one by one And on the streets of Portland, Jack Reacher—soldier, cop, hero—is pulled out of his wandering life by a code that few other people could understand.
A decade postmilitary, Reacher has an ATM card and the clothes on his back—no phone, no ties, and no address. But now a woman from his old unit has done the impossible. From Chicago, Frances Neagley finds Reacher, using a signal only the eight members of their elite team of army investigators would know. She tells him a terrifying story—about the brutal death of a man they both served with. Soon Reacher is reuniting with the survivors of his old team, scrambling to raise the living, bury the dead, and connect the dots in a mystery that is growing darker by the day.
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- The Hard Way (Jack Reacher Series #10).
For now, Reacher can only react. To every sound. Every suspicion. Every scent and every moment. Then Reacher will trust the people he once trusted with his life—and take this thing all the way to the end. Reviews Review Policy. Published on. Flowing text, Original pages. Best For. Web, Tablet, Phone, eReader. Content Protection. Learn More. Flag as inappropriate. It syncs automatically with your account and allows you to read online or offline wherever you are.
The Hard Way: Jack Reacher Series Book 10
Please follow the detailed Help center instructions to transfer the files to supported eReaders. Continue the series. See more. Two lonely towns in Colorado: Hope and Despair. Between them, twelve miles of empty road. Jack Reacher never turns back. It's not in his nature. All he wants is a cup of coffee. What he gets is big trouble.
He was just passing through, minding his own business.
The Hard Way (Jack Reacher #10) at only Rs - available online — Bookish Santa
But within minutes of his arrival a deputy is in the hospital and Reacher is back in Hope, setting up a base of operations against Despair, where a huge, seething walled-off industrial site does something nobody is supposed to see. Now, between a town and the man who owns it, between Reacher and his conscience, something has to give.
And Reacher never gives an inch. This novel will give you whiplash as you rabidly turn pages. Two in the morning. A subway car heading uptown. Jack Reacher, plus five other passengers. Four are okay. A little. A lot. Or just enough to get him killed. A race has begun through the streets of Manhattan, a maze crowded with violent, skilled soldiers on all sides of a shadow war. For Jack Reacher, a man who trusts no one and likes it that way, the finish line comes when you finally get face-to-face and look your worst enemy in the eye. In nearby Bolton, South Dakota, one brave woman is standing up for justice in a small town threatened by sinister forces.
Because a killer is coming to Bolton, a coldly proficient assassin who never misses. The guy was medium height, not young, not old, too solid to be called wiry, too slight to be called heavy. His hair was gray at the temples and cut short and neat. He kept himself balanced on the balls of his feet. His mouth didn't move much as he talked.
But his eyes did. They flicked left and right tirelessly. The guy was about forty, Reacher guessed, and furthermore Reacher guessed he had gotten to be about forty by staying relentlessly aware of everything that was happening around him. Reacher had seen the same look in elite infantry veterans who had survived long jungle tours. Then Reacher's waiter turned suddenly and pointed straight at him. The compact man in the gray suit stared over.
Reacher stared back, over his shoulder, through the window. Eye contact was made. Without breaking it the man in the suit mouthed thank you to the waiter and started back out the way he had entered. He stepped through the door and made a right inside the low canvas screen and threaded his way down to Reacher's table. Reacher let him stand there mute for a moment while he made up his mind. Then he said "Yes," to him, like an answer, not a question. Watched the traffic. Frayed laces, like you pull on them too hard when you tie them. We're two of a kind.
We're peas in a pod. I'm the only customer here now who was also here last night. I'm certain of that. And that's what you asked the staff. Had to be. That's the only reason the waiter would have pointed me out. Parked over there. Dirty paint, scuffed tires, dinged rims, dents and scrapes on both bumpers. Then he put his hand in his pocket.
Based on observation.
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You're not American. You're British. The NYPD isn't that desperate. We're private citizens. For very good reasons. Nearly gone. He opened it up and used the same thumb to slide out a single card. He passed it across the table. It was a handsome item. Heavy linen stock, raised lettering, ink that still looked wet. At the top it said: Operational Security Consultants. Reacher smiled. I can see how that could be embarrassing. Under the name was a subscript: British Army, Retired. Then a job title: Executive Vice President. Army CID, mostly. Reacher nodded.
SAS guys usually are. And you've got the look. You can pass it on. Lane will want to hear it direct.
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Ten minutes. It's in a foam cup. He put the cup down. The Fan Letter by Lee Child They say the past is another country, and in my case it really was: provincial England at the end of the fifties and the start of the sixties, the last gasp of the post-war era, before it surrendered to the tectonic shift sparked by the Beatles. My family was neither rich nor poor, not that either condition had much meaning in a society with not much to buy and not much to lack.
We accumulated toys at the rate of two a year: one on our birthdays, and one at Christmas. We had a big table radio which we called "the wireless" in the dining room, and in the living room we had a black and white fishbowl television, full of glowing tubes, but there were only two channels, and they went off the air at ten in the evening, after playing the National Anthem, for which some families stood up, and sometimes we saw a double bill at the pictures on a Saturday morning, but apart from that we had no entertainment.
So we read books.