leave early even before the classified envelope arrived containing nothing but a copy of Major Jack (none) Reacher’s formal headshot; on the back, a time and place for a meeting.
Had Reacher planned the meet? Or was it someone else who wanted Otto and Gaspar present? Either way, the big question was why?
Nothing traceable about the envelope or its contents. He chased down the delivery service but got no further data. The headshot was easily obtainable by any number of people. Hell, he’d been supplied one just like it when he initially received the Reacher file assignment.
The time and place for the meet was a bit out of the ordinary, but not alarming. The National Gallery of Art, East Building, on Pennsylvania Avenue. Ten o’clock tonight. It would be dark but not deserted. The building was one of those modern designs full of angles and shadows suitable for clandestine activities. But not a bad neighborhood, unless you hated politicians, and the entire town was infested with those.
He’d tried to call Otto, but her plane was already in the air and flying straight into an early winter storm. She hated flying under the best conditions; she’d be too wired by the storm and her errand to make any sense, even if he’d reached her. They’d talk tonight. In DC.
Fifty minutes before he planned to depart, his bag was packed and stowed in the Crown Vic’s trunk. He’d dressed in his Banana Republic suit. Gaspar popped another Tylenol, rested on the chaise lounge, and watched his youngest daughter from behind mirrored sunglasses that reflected little of Miami’s winter sunlight and none of its heat.
Today was Angela’s fifth birthday, meaning five giggling girls had invaded his home overnight. That was one of his wife’s rules. No sleepovers until age five, then five girls for her fifth birthday, six for the next, and so on. His eldest would be thirteen in a few months; the idea raised gooseflesh along his arms and not only because thirteen teenagers in his small house would be ear splitting.
Thirteen was a dangerous age. Rebellion. Independence. Sex. He clearly recalled himself and his buddies at thirteen. The prospect of launching his firstborn daughter into that realm terrified him, but he acted as if it didn’t. He shrugged. No way to stop the clock. It is what it is.
Gaspar felt his eyelids slide closed and shoved them up again. Yes, he was tired, but that was nothing new. Exhaustion had been a constant companion since his injury. He rarely slept more than an hour before throbbing pain in his right side awakened him. He’d become a quick nap expert to capture missing sleep, but he felt his senses dulled, his reaction times slowed. The healed scrape where a bullet seared his abdomen felt like a burning rash reminding him to stay alert, how grateful he was to have the fearless Otto as his partner, a solid assignment, and how damn lucky he was to be alive to see his daughters’ birthdays.
Cacophonous noise drowned such thinking. Five girls cavorting in the back yard pool, squeals, shouts, splashes. Surely decibel level ordinances in Miami’s residential neighborhoods were violated. He’d tried asking them to quiet down, and they did, but joy erupted again louder than ever after maybe five subdued seconds. Was impulse control equal to age? Would the quiet seconds lengthen to six and then seven? Would it be five more years before he might enjoy ten seconds of silence at home from his youngest girl?
He’d survived many life-threatening situations, but fathering frightened him more than anything. Four daughters already and his wife pregnant with a boy. Job one was keeping his family safe.
Before his injury he never considered such things, never worried that he’d fail, never gnawed the consequences. Maria had handled the girls effortlessly and he’d swooped in to count noses and grab hugs before bedtime. Confidence had oozed from Gaspar’s pores back then. Four kids hadn’t seemed overwhelming. He
Had Reacher planned the meet? Or was it someone else who wanted Otto and Gaspar present? Either way, the big question was why?
Nothing traceable about the envelope or its contents. He chased down the delivery service but got no further data. The headshot was easily obtainable by any number of people. Hell, he’d been supplied one just like it when he initially received the Reacher file assignment.
The time and place for the meet was a bit out of the ordinary, but not alarming. The National Gallery of Art, East Building, on Pennsylvania Avenue. Ten o’clock tonight. It would be dark but not deserted. The building was one of those modern designs full of angles and shadows suitable for clandestine activities. But not a bad neighborhood, unless you hated politicians, and the entire town was infested with those.
He’d tried to call Otto, but her plane was already in the air and flying straight into an early winter storm. She hated flying under the best conditions; she’d be too wired by the storm and her errand to make any sense, even if he’d reached her. They’d talk tonight. In DC.
Fifty minutes before he planned to depart, his bag was packed and stowed in the Crown Vic’s trunk. He’d dressed in his Banana Republic suit. Gaspar popped another Tylenol, rested on the chaise lounge, and watched his youngest daughter from behind mirrored sunglasses that reflected little of Miami’s winter sunlight and none of its heat.
Today was Angela’s fifth birthday, meaning five giggling girls had invaded his home overnight. That was one of his wife’s rules. No sleepovers until age five, then five girls for her fifth birthday, six for the next, and so on. His eldest would be thirteen in a few months; the idea raised gooseflesh along his arms and not only because thirteen teenagers in his small house would be ear splitting.
Thirteen was a dangerous age. Rebellion. Independence. Sex. He clearly recalled himself and his buddies at thirteen. The prospect of launching his firstborn daughter into that realm terrified him, but he acted as if it didn’t. He shrugged. No way to stop the clock. It is what it is.
Gaspar felt his eyelids slide closed and shoved them up again. Yes, he was tired, but that was nothing new. Exhaustion had been a constant companion since his injury. He rarely slept more than an hour before throbbing pain in his right side awakened him. He’d become a quick nap expert to capture missing sleep, but he felt his senses dulled, his reaction times slowed. The healed scrape where a bullet seared his abdomen felt like a burning rash reminding him to stay alert, how grateful he was to have the fearless Otto as his partner, a solid assignment, and how damn lucky he was to be alive to see his daughters’ birthdays.
Cacophonous noise drowned such thinking. Five girls cavorting in the back yard pool, squeals, shouts, splashes. Surely decibel level ordinances in Miami’s residential neighborhoods were violated. He’d tried asking them to quiet down, and they did, but joy erupted again louder than ever after maybe five subdued seconds. Was impulse control equal to age? Would the quiet seconds lengthen to six and then seven? Would it be five more years before he might enjoy ten seconds of silence at home from his youngest girl?
He’d survived many life-threatening situations, but fathering frightened him more than anything. Four daughters already and his wife pregnant with a boy. Job one was keeping his family safe.
Before his injury he never considered such things, never worried that he’d fail, never gnawed the consequences. Maria had handled the girls effortlessly and he’d swooped in to count noses and grab hugs before bedtime. Confidence had oozed from Gaspar’s pores back then. Four kids hadn’t seemed overwhelming. He
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