Jack had one card up his sleeve Zoe didn't know about. Abby Sciuto—yes, that Abby, the goth genius destined to become NCIS's forensic queen—wasn't just a name from the future. She had been his high school crush.
Back then, she'd tried everything to get under his skin—black eyeliner, spiked collars, bad-girl swagger. His former self had been too stiff, too nervous, to let her in. But what she couldn't get in romance, she won in friendship.
Now she was a student at LSU, triple-majoring in sociology, criminology, and psychology, already brilliant and hungry for more. They still traded messages online, late nights when Jack needed advice. She'd even nudged him toward those psychology books that unlocked his system skill.
Zoe, sharp as ever in her uniform and her convictions, had never thought to look outside the system for answers. When Jack suggested hackers, she frowned, weighing it. Then she caught herself staring at him differently—as if the boy she once teased and mothered had become a man, someone capable of carrying weight beside her.
Jack didn't comment. He didn't need to.
"Don't worry," he told her instead. "I'll be with Hannah when the time comes. You know I won't let anything happen to her. You've seen enough lately to know I wasn't just talking big."
Zoe's lips tightened. Something flickered in her eyes—jealousy. Irrational, maybe, but real. She'd chosen her path, forced or not, and yet the thought of Hannah stealing away the boy she'd raised into a man cut her in ways she hated to admit.
Jack caught the change instantly. He didn't press. He'd learned when silence said more than words.
Later that night, after Zoe's house and its dangerous comforts, he pulled up his messages and pinged Abby. Not about Kleiner Industries—that was too big, too soon. Instead, he gave her something smaller, something manageable: Margrave, Georgia. A police station there. He wanted eyes on their holding cells, alerts if a man named Jack Reacher showed up in custody.
The name hadn't stuck in his memory at first, but Google had filled the gaps. Blues singers. Blind men. A sleepy Georgia town. He'd pieced it together.
Reacher was the key. The counterfeit ring too big for Jack alone, too messy for a rookie cop to tackle head-on. He needed the main player, the big man who could draw the fire while Jack worked the edges. Abby's hacking would give him the signal when that man arrived.
For now, he played the waiting game.
At the Wilshire station the next morning, applause followed him and Tim into roll call. Word had spread, even if the serial killer case had been smothered by gag orders. People knew. The story had traveled locker to locker, desk to desk: how they'd buried the bodies, fought the monster, survived.
Jack caught Hannah dragging Lucy into a corner to re-enact the "wall-dong" moment he and Tim had been forced into. He groaned. "What the hell… Americans and their love for gay jokes." He regretted not spanking her when he had the chance.
Briefing today was different. Bishop was gone, transferred to the ATF, and a new officer had slid into the chair. She was sharp, small-framed, fire in her eyes. Years undercover. She could've taken her pick of assignments, but custody of her daughter meant stable patrol hours, so here she was. Old friends with Tim, apparently.
Jack ended up pushed to the middle-back row, like a college lecture hall. Hannah sat next to him, Angela two chairs over, bickering as usual. The briefing was quick, clipped. Jack almost enjoyed the normalcy of it.
But as soon as they signed out, chaos hit.
Alarms, chatter, the whole station shifting gears. Angela and Tim sprinted past, gear strapped down tight. Hannah called after them, "What's going on?"
Angela didn't slow. "Prison transport van crashed. Full load of prisoners."
Jack and Hannah shared one glance—mutual understanding—and moved. Gear slung, sidearms checked, rifles racked. They followed the others out.
This wasn't just another patrol call. The entire Wilshire division was mobilizing.
Dozens of squad cars poured out of the garage, sirens screaming against the morning sky. Overhead, three helicopters ripped through the air, rotors chopping the wind as they banked toward the mountains. The sound shook the city awake.
Jack gripped the wheel tighter. Last time the department had mobilized like this, it had been the Bronson Tower siege. He'd been the one trapped inside then, relying on others to pull him out. This time, he was on the outside, part of the wave. His pulse quickened, not with fear, but anticipation.
The crash site was carved into a winding mountain road, trees crowding the guardrails, gravel loose under tires. Jack cut the engine hard as they came around the bend.
The first sight was blood. A county deputy in khaki staggered along the roadside, his head split open, uniform drenched red. Behind him, the hulking shape of the transport van lay tilted against the embankment, steel twisted, one wheel spinning uselessly in the air.
The echoes of sirens faded under the thrum of helicopter blades. Somewhere down the slope, prisoners screamed, metal groaned, and the forest itself seemed to hold its breath.
Jack stepped out of the car, hand hovering near his Glock. Whatever was waiting beyond that ridge wasn't going to be simple.
(End of this chapter)