O'Donnell's plan, once stripped of its pretense, was basically a polished version of the classic "honey trap." Daniel Boyd, Senator Lavoie's legislative director, was a known sleaze—shameless, arrogant, and a lover of big cars and flash. Cater to his tastes, and he'd be putty in their hands.
Jack was initially skeptical. Sure, the women on their team weren't runway models, but they all had their own unique charm. Still, he couldn't help noticing the fine lines on Dixon's neck and around her eyes—perhaps not ideal for this type of operation.
But when Reacher and O'Donnell both expressed confidence, Jack didn't object. He called over JJ and had her take Dixon and Neagley out for emergency shopping and salon treatments.
Meanwhile, he took Reacher and O'Donnell to a bespoke suit store. Shoes were no issue—plenty of big sizes in the States—but for suits, especially one to fit Reacher's massive frame, off-the-rack wasn't an option. They had to tailor one on the spot.
Time was tight. Daniel Boyd was attending a Boston Symphony Orchestra fundraiser that evening. For the setup to work, everyone needed to be dressed to the nines.
The women's outfits were quicker—ready-made dresses and expedited makeup jobs could work miracles. But Reacher's suit took the longest. When he finally stepped out of the fitting room in his newly tailored ensemble, O'Donnell whistled.
"Wow. Would you look at you. Now that's a respectable look."
Reacher shot him a dirty look and didn't respond. Jack, more amused than anything, glanced at the boots Reacher was carrying. "What happened to your old clothes?"
"Threw them in the trash," Reacher said casually.
"You what?" O'Donnell looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Dude, you don't even have a savings account!"
"They took up a hand. If I carry a second set of clothes, I'd need a bag. If I have a bag, I'll need a house to store it. Then I'll want a car to go with the driveway, and suddenly I'm filling out a pile of forms."
There was something oddly philosophical about Reacher's logic. Jack shook his head, chuckling, and paid the bill.
Still not done, O'Donnell pressed, "So a spare shirt and jacket is too much baggage for you? Hey, doc, would you say this man's a clinical case of antisocial behavior?"
Jack smiled. "First, I'm not a doctor—I'm a criminal psychologist. Second, in the East, people like him were called ascetics. They believed possessions interfered with inner peace."
"Okay, Mr. Ascetic," O'Donnell said slyly, "what's your take on Marlo Burns fleeing with her daughter—hardly any clothes, but left behind piles of cash?"
Reacher didn't catch the snide undertone. He paused, then said seriously, "I haven't figured that out yet."
"She did take her toothbrush," O'Donnell noted, then faked a gasp. "Oh my God. She might be your soulmate."
"Shut up," Reacher grumbled, unable to hide the twitch in his lips.
Still grinning, Jack declined the debit card Reacher tried to hand him. "If you're planning on squatting at my place for six months, I'll just build you a little shed out back. Honestly, the cost of that Gulfstream flight alone could cover your living expenses for two or three years. Besides, this case is getting messy. It's personal now, and I'll probably need your help again soon."
Before he finished, a fire-red Porsche Cayenne pulled up, followed by Jack's own Trans Am.
Out of the Cayenne stepped a long, brown-toned leg in a ten-centimeter stiletto heel—none other than Neagley, a statuesque blend of black and white heritage. She wore a sleek indigo dress that hugged her tall frame with brutal efficiency. With heels, she nearly stood eye-to-eye with Reacher.
Her stiff, awkward posture made it clear she was just as uncomfortable in formal wear as Reacher.
"Not. One. Word," Neagley warned, glaring at O'Donnell, whose jaw had already dropped.
Too late.
"Holy. Shit."
"You say one more word, I'll shove this skinny heel so far up your ass you'll be flossing with it." Neagley clutched the car door like she was walking on stilts rather than heels.
"I was just going to say you look great. You both do," O'Donnell stammered, pointing at Reacher. "Like cake toppers on a wedding gone wrong."
"We look like idiots on a wedding cake," Reacher agreed dryly.
Then the Trans Am's passenger door opened. JJ, dressed normally, hopped out and opened the door for the evening's main act—Dixon.
She stepped out wearing a pure black, backless gown with a plunging neckline held together by two slim straps that started at her neck and swooped down to barely contain her impressive curves. She clutched a Gucci handbag and smiled.
Jack recalled the dossier's description of Daniel Boyd's preferences and gave JJ a thumbs up. Handing this to her had clearly been the right move.
"Looks like everyone's ready," Dixon said with a wink to Reacher, then got back into the car.
"Let's hope traffic's light. I'll lead," Jack said, grabbing his keys and planting a quick kiss on JJ's cheek.
"Boss, shut your mouth and get driving—your grin's wide enough to catch flies," Neagley teased, tossing the Cayenne keys to a still-dazed Reacher.
Boston is one of the oldest cities in America, founded in 1630—almost 150 years before the U.S. became a country.
That year, in the East, the Ming Dynasty had yet to fall. Emperor Chongzhen had been on the throne for just under three years. He'd hang himself fourteen years later.
Downtown Boston's Theatre District, named plainly for its dense cluster of theaters, was where tonight's operation would unfold. Polished gentlemen and elegant ladies walked its streets, ready for the fundraiser concert of the Boston Pops Orchestra.
Dixon was the star tonight. Neagley handled surveillance. The three men—Jack, Reacher, and O'Donnell—waited outside. It wasn't their time yet.
At least there was a café across the street. Three sharply dressed men drinking coffee together looked slightly odd, but it beat standing in the cold wind like statues.
"I can't believe you're still in touch with 'Wool Coat Guy,'" Reacher muttered, tugging at his tie.
The nickname made Jack snort. "You should probably show him some respect. He's a homicide lieutenant now."
They were talking about Oscar Finlay. Since their adventure in Margrave, the short black detective had returned to Boston and resumed his career.
Jack had worked with him again during the "Boston Reaper" case—a case that nearly killed Hotchner and left Finlay with two bullet wounds. Thankfully, the vest's trauma plates had saved his life—and even earned him a promotion.
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