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Reacher opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. It was 6:47 a.m. Exactly the time he had told himself to wake up. He liked to challenge himself by choosing odd wakeup times, usually prime numbers. He frowned for a moment, trying to remember: how many people had he killed the day before? Seventeen? He wasn’t sure. Still, they were evil, so it didn’t matter.
He rolled over and looked around. His motel room was minimally furnished but the bed was comfortable. He’d gotten into town late the night before and checked into the first motel he could find. Reacher never worried about bedbugs. They were afraid of him.
He got up. After showering he pulled his clothes out from under the mattress and put them on. They looked like clothes that had spent the night under a mattress. He looked in the mirror. He saw a tall man who hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, combed his hair with his fingers and wore work clothes that he put under his mattress at night. But for some reason the ladies loved him.
He headed out of the motel and down the block to a diner on the corner he had noticed the night before. They looked like they would serve a good breakfast. As he walked in a table full of bikers glared at him. The waitress looked at him lustfully.
“We don’t take kindly to strangers around here,” one of the bikers snarled. Reacher was pretty sure they ran a secret meth cooking empire. Or maybe they were smuggling narcotics. Or they were running a prostitution ring. It was always one of those.
“Wanna fight?” asked Reacher. He walked outside and was followed by four of the big lugs. Reacher headbutted one of them, broke another’s elbow and snapped the third guy’s neck. The fourth guy screamed like a little girl and ran away.
Reacher walked back in and glanced at the coffee pot on the warmer.
“Is that fresh coffee?” he asked the waitress.
“Sure is.”
Reacher drained the entire pot into his mouth, threw a ten-dollar bill on the counter and walked out.
His next stop was the sheriff’s office. He walked in and asked the woman at the front desk, “What do you know about the biker gang that hangs out at the diner?”
“They’re bad. Real bad. They kick dogs and push people out of helicopters.”
“You don’t say. How come they’re still operating?”
“They have good lawyers and nobody will testify against them. They run the town. Our sheriff hasn’t been able to do anything about them. Some people say the gang’s paying him off. But then again some others say he’s honest but ineffective. He’s hampered by the rule of law.”
“Screw the rule of law. I’m Jack Reacher. Former military police and I want to talk to the sheriff.”
“Uh, go right in,” the woman stammered.
The sheriff’s office had a battered desk, stained linoleum and a couple of wooden chairs. It looked like every sheriff’s office in every town Reacher had ever been in. Why did they all look alike? he wondered for a second, but then he realized the sheriff was glaring at him.
“Get out of my county,” snarled the sheriff.
“Is that motorcycle gang paying you off? I need to know so I’ll know if I have to snap your neck or not.”
“No, they’re not paying me off. Those guys are too damn organized and smart. I don’t have the budget or the manpower to get the dirt on them. What makes you think you can put them out of commission?”
“I’m Jack Reacher. I do this sort of thing all the time. I’m ex-Army, former military police and I’m here to solve all your problems.”
The sheriff started to turn purple. Just then a slick looking guy walked in.
“What’s going on in here, sheriff?”
“Nothing, Mr. Mayor. I was just explaining to Mr. Reacher the rules of our fair town.” The sheriff looked back at Reacher. “This is Mayor Hickenlooper. He owns the car dealership in town and the pawnshop too. Richest man in town.”
It was all Reacher needed to hear. He was sure the mayor was working with the motorcycle gang. He decided to drop by the pawnshop and look for clues. He got directions to the pawnshop from the woman at the front desk and headed across town. As he walked he got the impression that the town was doing pretty well. He passed an aquarium supply store with a shark on the sign. Reacher wondered why anybody selling tropical fish would advertise with a shark. You’d think it would be bad for business. Mentally he put this on the list of things to ponder the next time he was riding a bus.
As Reacher walked he also paid attention to the address numbers. The pawnshop was located at 1728 Elm Street. The cube root of 1728 was 12. Reacher liked to play with numbers and he had the first 20 cube numbers memorized for some reason.
He walked into the pawnshop and looked around. There was a tired looking middle-aged guy behind the counter.
“Hey, did you know your address number is twelve cubed?”
“Huh?”
Reacher decided the guy didn’t like numbers. “Never mind. I hear the mayor owns this place. Is that right?”
“He sure does.”
“What’s he like?”
The pawnshop employee shrugged. “He’s owned this place for fifteen years. Does pretty well. He’s a sharp operator. But lately there’s been folks hanging out here that –ˮ
The pawnshop filled with the thunder of motorcycle engines. Reacher spun around and saw three bikers in black leather. They’d ridden their motorcycles right into the shop. The pawnshop guy looked really scared and ducked down behind the counter.
“That’s kind of rude,” Reacher commented.
The first biker slid off and walked toward Reacher. “You snapped our friend’s neck. We aren’t going to let that pass. Get ready to die.”
Reacher walked forward, gauging how tough his opponent would be. He dodged, ducked, spun, did the splits, threw an elbow and did a Three Stooges eye poke. Now two guys were down and the third one was staring at him and muttering “what the hell?”
Instead of headbutting the third biker, Reacher buttheaded him. Just for variety. It made a change. Plus the guy would be smelling Eau de Reacher for days. He dusted his hands and leaned over the counter to the pawnshop employee, still on the floor.
“You were saying?”
It had been a busy morning. The pawnshop guy had told Reacher everything he knew, but Reacher still had no proof that the mayor was working with the motorcycle gang. He headed back to his motel to chill out for a bit. He opened the door to his room and saw the waitress spread invitingly across his bed. She was blonde and hot. Reacher shrugged and threw his clothes onto the floor.
They had nonspecific sex. Reacher never worried about STDs. Microorganisms were afraid of him. After they were done, Reacher asked her about the motorcycle gang.
“They’re terrible tippers,” she replied.
They headed back to the diner so Reacher could get something to eat. The waitress comped him a dessert. It was a dish of ice cream. Rocky Road. Reacher thought about the name and the combination of ingredients. Who first thought to put marshmallows in ice cream? He added this to his bus-pondering list.
As he finished the ice cream, he looked up to see the sheriff in front of him with a drawn gun.
“I’ve had enough of you, Reacher. You’ve seduced our waitress and disabled all my men. I’ve got narcotics waiting for customers and no one to deliver them. You’re putting me out of business! Nice plan, but it isn’t going to work.”
The sheriff had fooled him! Reacher had been after the wrong man all along. Before he could make a move, the sheriff grabbed the waitress and held the gun to her head. At that moment Mayor Hickenlooper walked in.
“What the heck’s going on in here? Sheriff, put that gun down – okay, please don’t point it at me and remember, we’ve only got one waitress and we can’t afford to lose her.”
“Get on the other side of the room, Hickenlooper. I don’t need you distracting me right now.”
“I just wanted a cup of coffee,” the mayor whimpered, but he did as he was told.
The sheriff tightened his arm around the waitress’s neck and sneered at Reacher. Reacher swiftly reviewed his options and decided on the classic opener:
“Your shoe’s untied!”
As the sheriff glanced down Reacher slapped the gun away, grabbed the waitress and tossed her across the room. She landed in the mayor’s arms. The mayor looked as if Santa had brought him an early Christmas present.
Reacher caught the gun and double-tapped the sheriff. Blood flew everywhere. The waitress shrieked and hugged the mayor even tighter.
“Mr. Reacher, we can’t thank you enough,” the mayor managed. “Is there anything we can do to reward you?”
“Would you mind if I helped myself to what’s in the till? I’m gonna need some walking-around money.”
“Go ahead.” Reacher opened the till and looked at it critically.
“Uh, and whatever’s in your wallet? Bus fare is getting expensive these days.”
The mayor looked as if he was about to object, caught Reacher’s eye and sighed. “Sure.” He dug in his pocket and held out a wad of bills. “Here you go.”
Sometimes Reacher wondered: why keep moving on? Why couldn’t he settle down with some nice woman who was good in the sack and would bring him sandwiches and coffee while he sat in a recliner and did cube roots in his head? But he knew the answer. There was injustice in the world and he had to pursue it.
There were wrongs to be righted.
Necks to be snapped.
Reacher remembered an old TV show he had seen where the protagonist traveled around in time, doing good deeds and saving lives. At the end of every episode he disappeared in a cloud of special effects before moving on to solve the next problem.
Reacher made a mental note to look into the special effects thing. It would look good. But for now all he had was a bus ticket and a pocketful of cash. He got on the bus and waited for the next adventure to happen.