If Jack hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he never would've believed the guy who got suckered into buying those "Little Wing" anti-air missiles was actually a terrorist defector from North Korea.
With that, the congressman's charges were completely locked in. After all, the U.S. had always classified the regime north of the DMZ as a terrorist state under heavy sanctions.
A terrorist who defected from a terrorist state—it sounded like some kind of dark joke. But in terms of significance, it wasn't a matter of one plus one, and definitely not "two negatives make a positive"—this was full-on multiplication.
Of course, what happened after that had little to do with Jack. He'd leave that headache to the FBI's International Division. U.S. relations with North Korea were… complicated lately. After all, the President kept calling that '80s-born dictator a "good friend" and advocated for reconciliation.
The FBI's International Division was still in the middle of reorganization. Besides the newly formed field team led by good ol' Mike "Uncle Bao" Taylor, most of the other departments had been either dissolved or restructured. The original leadership was down to a handful of people. Who knew how they were going to deal with this North Korean terrorist?
As for Jack, his next priority was much simpler—get back and divide the spoils, then figure out how to trick JJ and Hannah into writing some of the inevitable paperwork for him.
The congressman's takedown was no longer his concern. The Anderson family had already struck a deal with the political dynasty backing Lavoie to quietly wrap everything up.
But right now, Jack had one more pressing problem to handle: Anna. She'd been sticking to him like glue since they got back, and his headache just kept getting worse.
Now, under normal circumstances, having this beautiful Russian girl join Shangri-La should've been great news. Her cover identity had always been that of a model. Although her background had now been cleaned up, making it inconvenient for her to stay in the Paris fashion scene, transitioning into a small-time Hollywood actress wouldn't be difficult at all.
After her cosmetic procedures, Anna only had to avoid a couple of stylists who knew her too well. She could even occasionally pop up at Fashion Week in Paris without much risk of being recognized.
The Western fashion world wasn't exactly small—but it wasn't huge either. And models cycled in and out so fast that even "flash in the pan" didn't quite capture it. New faces entered the industry by the thousands each year, while yesterday's stars quietly faded without a trace. Anna had once been fairly well-known, but her disappearance hadn't drawn any real attention.
So the issue wasn't Anna's identity. Even if she wanted to stay off-camera, Shangri-La had grown big enough not to care about supporting a couple of idle hands—especially if she could be on standby to handle the kinds of gray-area tasks Jack often couldn't do himself.
Like this mission, escorting the middleman—technically arranged in secret by big bald Frank, even Jack hadn't known about it beforehand.
But if something similar happened again in the future, having someone like Anna working in the shadows meant Reacher wouldn't have to shamelessly carry a suitcase full of cash through a crowded street.
The real problem was Anna's personality—which had gone completely off the rails since her reappearance. She'd greeted Jack with a kiss, sure, but even after returning to the Fugitive Task Force HQ, she kept clinging to him like some perfect green tea girlfriend, completely ignoring the sharp glares from JJ and Hannah.
Which led to a very predictable outcome: less than ten minutes after sitting down, the three girls—under the amused eyes of the rest of the team—got into a discussion about self-defense tactics and promptly decided to "spar" in the combat training room next door.
Jack gave the onlookers a death glare warning, but it did absolutely nothing. The only thing he could be grateful for was that Jubal and Clara had already gone home to sleep—otherwise, his humiliation would've reached a whole new level.
So he got to work: cracked a few century eggs, sliced up two pounds of beef into thin strips, and cooked up a huge pot of savory, steaming congee. Then he fried up a tall stack of egg pancakes, brewed some piping hot coffee, and served what wasn't exactly a feast, but still a breakfast-lunch combo that looked, smelled, and tasted great.
The three girls returned from their "sparring session," and though their beautiful faces showed no signs of damage, each of them was massaging sore shoulders and hips—clearly, no one had walked away unscathed.
Technically, Anna should've been the strongest among them with her FSB training. But even in a one-on-one, Jack doubted she would've come out on top.
JJ and Hannah might've lacked in technique, but their raw physical stats were far superior to the former Russian operative—especially since Jack regularly healed their injuries with his powers. No lasting damage meant they could train hard without fear of setbacks.
Now that Anna had finally stopped acting up and was quietly eating her food, Jack let out a long, relieved sigh and shifted the conversation. "So... what do you guys plan to do with the $65 million? Use it to balance out some of the pain it caused?"
The former 110 Special Investigation Team members were starving. They'd been tearing into the food, but now they all paused, turning to look at the big guy.
"Of course," Negri said between sips of hot congee, steam fogging up her lashes. "But how exactly to do it... that's a big decision."
O'Donnell, his mouth stuffed with egg pancake, finally swallowed. "Thank God I'm just the guy who runs errands and gets shot. No decision-making responsibilities for me."
Reacher nudged the suitcase toward Jack with his foot. "Don't look at me—I'm the poorest guy here. Shouldn't something like this be handled by someone who actually knows what they're doing?"
Jack kicked the case right back. "I can help manage the funds and maximize returns for free. But I can't be the one to decide how it's split. I don't know your people."
And he meant that literally. Including the families of the innocent victims in this case—sometimes an even split wasn't the fairest choice. Sudden wealth didn't always lead to happiness.
"In my opinion," Jack added silently, "someone with no car payments, no mortgage, and no real job is the best person to handle this."
"You're the least money-hungry guy I know, Reacher," Dixon said, encouraging the big man who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. "I believe you've got this. Good luck, big guy." — Reacher spent half a month trying to fix Jack's door before giving up. In the end, he pulled $200 out of the $65 million and replaced the whole thing—frame and all.
During that same time, Angela Franz, widow of Calvin Franz, received a check for $1 million and a stock transfer agreement.
That agreement promised her a minimum of $200,000 in annual dividends from Shangri-La, and the company agreed to buy back the shares after 20 years for no less than $5 million.
Orozco's family received a similar deal, and Sanchez's girlfriend Milena got a lump sum in cash—enough to let her become the co-owner of that lucky little bar and fund a round-the-world trip.
A local stray animal rescue center received a long-term donation agreement too, the donor listed as "Tony Swann."
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