The temperature in New York had already dipped below 10 degrees Celsius in the late autumn chill. The faint morning sunlight had finally managed to dispel the thin mist lingering in the woods, but offered little warmth to anyone standing beneath it.
The three remaining gunmen hiding behind tombstones and shrubs felt a different kind of chill—one that surged from their heels straight to their scalps.
They were professional killers with decent marksmanship, but none of them had served in the military. So they couldn't understand how, just a minute ago, everything seemed to be going their way—about to take down a few fools daring to charge forward—yet now they found themselves surrounded, outmaneuvered, and overwhelmed.
Even without Jack, these assassins wouldn't have lasted much longer. They came to assassinate, not to fight a war. Each brought only one spare magazine. Within minutes, Reacher's squad had drawn enough fire to nearly empty all of them.
Jack's shot had a bit of luck to it. The FK BRNO 7.5 he used claimed an effective range of 100 meters, and his folding stock did help reduce recoil. But he had just sprinted almost 300 meters through uneven terrain. He fired almost immediately after stopping—barely holding his breath—and nearly passed out from lack of air.
After landing the hit, Jack leaned against a decayed tree stump, catching his breath while dirt and shredded leaves scattered around him. He didn't even bother to peek out—his job was done.
As the three surviving gunmen turned and sprayed wildly in his direction, Hannah and JJ were already lined up and taking aim.
Unlike the gunmen, they weren't worried about ammunition. Their short, controlled bursts forced the enemy back into cover. Meanwhile, Reacher and the others had pushed in closer—now within fifty meters.
Sensing the shift in momentum, panic spread among the attackers. One man mouthed the word "run," and they bolted toward their gray BMW parked in the woods.
Hannah dropped one mid-sprint with a tight burst. JJ focused on the car—emptying a full mag into the hood, puncturing the radiator.
Steam billowed from the engine, followed by a loud hiss as the front end sagged and two tires went flat. Seeing their escape route toast, the remaining two tried veering in another direction—right toward Jack.
Bang!
One was hit in the leg, screamed, and tumbled down the slope, writhing in agony.
The last one froze mid-step, wide-eyed, and flung his rifle aside.
"Don't shoot! I surrender, okay? Don't do anything crazy—I'm surrendering!"
Jack stood casually, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the FK7.5 pointed at the man's forehead. His stance was relaxed, as if he were watching target practice at the Olympics. His half-smile and clean-shaven face gave off the calm of someone completely in control.
The gunman had seen his partner drop from a single shot. Now, with that odd-looking pistol aimed at his skull, his legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees.
Reacher came crashing through the trees, out of breath but moving fast. He slammed into the gunman, tackling him face-first into the dirt.
"Who sent you? Talk!"
Reacher shoved his Glock 20 into the man's temple and reached for the pistol on his waistband, stuffing it into his own jacket pocket.
"I want a lawyer!" the gunman gasped, glancing desperately toward his companion who was still howling with a shattered leg—now being pummeled mercilessly by O'Donnell's fists, each knuckle strike emphasized by a brass knuckle and a roar of fury.
"There are no cops here," Jack said flatly, not even blinking.
Reacher's massive hand clamped around the man's throat and hoisted him clean off the ground. "My friend is venting because you fired on women and children… at a funeral… of our friend."
His fingers tightened. The man's face darkened to a sickly purple.
"Tell us everything. I don't have time for an interrogation. One of you lives, one of you dies. Which do you want to be?"
The man Jack shot in the shoulder was still alive, just barely, but not for long. He lay in a spreading pool of blood, struggling to breathe.
"If you keep choking him like that, I don't think he's going to tell us anything," Jack said, removing the folding stock from his FK7.5. He was in a good mood—maybe because of that lucky shot—and even started whistling as he walked over.
"Is that the Grenadiers March?" Nigeli asked, glancing up from where she was inspecting the body of the gunman Hannah had killed. She frowned—something about the melody sounded familiar but off.
"Close enough," Jack replied vaguely. He was actually whistling the "Guerrilla Song" from his past life—the line about "every shot, one enemy"—which happened to share a similar rhythm.
"If you've got something to say before you die, blink twice," Reacher growled, his massive forearm still bulging with pressure.
Jack walked up to the attackers' previous position and looked toward the road. His good mood vanished immediately.
His beloved Hellcat looked like it had been chewed up and spit out by a chainsaw. There were more than a dozen bullet holes across the chassis. The bulletproof windows didn't shatter, but the web of cracks was heartbreaking.
And then he saw Hannah walking toward him with a long scratch across her cheek.
His blood boiled.
He didn't know it was just glass. In his mind, a bullet had grazed her—and that meant he'd nearly lost someone he cared about.
BANG! BANG!
The sudden twin cracks of gunfire made everyone flinch. Even Reacher instinctively let go of the man he was choking.
Jack fired twice into the air, stormed forward, and jammed the still-hot barrel into the captive's mouth, making him gag and sputter.
"You wrecked my car. You hurt my girl. I'm in a very, very bad mood. Don't worry—I won't kill you. But I can promise you this: in prison, your ass will never be the same again."
"Okay! I'll talk! I'll talk! The plan was to hit the team during the 21-gun salute. Whoever hired us said you were part of some 'Special Investigations Unit'—that's what it said on the dark web contract."
Jack narrowed his eyes. "Tell me something I don't know. Who hired you? He probably only gave you a deposit, right? Where's the rest of the payment coming from?"
The gunman squirmed, legs pressed together like he was about to pee. "There's a drop in an abandoned building in a trashy part of Queens. I can take you. I don't know who he is—he only used the name 'Swann.'"
———
"Swann's probably dead," Reacher muttered grimly. He'd already braced himself for the worst, but it still hit him hard.
"Yeah. He wouldn't be dumb enough to use his real name to hire assassins," Nigeli said quietly, her voice tinged with guilt. Not long ago, she had doubted Swann herself.
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