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  About VELOCITY

  Jack Reacher…

  Former army major, military police, the 110th Special Investigations Unit. Now a drifter and a trouble magnet. A man some law enforcement types might call a rogue vigilante. A man some others might call a hero. Are his actions justified? Should he finally be taken into custody, or perhaps forced to face the direst of consequences with no warning?

  Nicholas Colt…

  Former world-class guitarist and private investigator. Now an operative for a super-secret federal agency called The Circle. Sent to a Great Plains farming community to keep an eye on Reacher and wait for further instructions.

  Beyond Top Secret…

  Out in the middle of nowhere, there are things going on that only a handful of people know about. Will Nicholas Colt discover the shocking truth in time to avert one of the worst disasters in history?

  VELOCITY

  JUDE HARDIN

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  Excerpt: THE BLOOD NOTEBOOKS

  Bonus Novel: CROSSCUT

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Excerpt: SNUFF TAG 9

  PROLOGUE

  Sergio Del Chivo preferred to conduct his business at a small hotel on the edge of town. Not because it was the finest place to stay, but because it was not. With this hotel, you could stop shaving for a couple of days before checking in and put on a cheap Hawaiian shirt and a pair of sunglasses, and nobody would suspect that you were the kingpin of one of the wealthiest crime cartels in the world. It was a very good place to not be noticed.

  You could keep a low profile at this small hotel, and it was easy on the wallet as well. Del Chivo could rent an air conditioned room with a private bath for less than a fifth of what it would cost at one of the big chains. Del Chivo didn’t rise to his current stature by wasting money. There was just no point in it. The rooms were clean at the small hotel and the beds were comfortable, and there weren’t a bunch of security cameras mounted everywhere. There was a decent restaurant, and you could watch the surfers surfing and the beautiful women sunbathing from the balcony of your room.

  And best of all, nobody asked any questions.

  On September 12, at two-fifteen in the afternoon, Sergio Del Chivo slid a .22 caliber semi-automatic pistol into the pocket of his white sports jacket. He left his room and walked down to the cocktail lounge. He stood at the bar and ordered a shot of tequila and a glass of orange juice.

  “No,” Del Chivo said to the bartender. “I want that one.”

  He pointed to the bottle of tequila on the top shelf behind the bar. There were a few things in life you just didn’t scrimp on. Liquor, cars, real estate. With those things, you definitely got what you paid for.

  Del Chivo carried the drinks to a booth in the corner. At two-thirty, a man carrying a briefcase walked in. The man’s name was Pedro. That wasn’t really his name, but it didn’t matter.

  Pedro looked around. He spotted Del Chivo, walked over and said, “Is this seat taken?”

  Del Chivo lit a cigarette. “This is Monroe’s table,” he said.

  It was the right thing to say. Pedro set the briefcase on the floor and slid into the booth across from Del Chivo. They spoke to each other in Spanish.

  “The money is in the case,” Pedro said. “Along with the information you requested.”

  “Is all the money there?”

  “Of course. Would you like to count it?”

  Del Chivo’s right hand was in the pocket of his sports jacket, and the .22 caliber pistol was aimed between Pedro’s legs. “I usually don’t make these kinds of transactions myself,” he said. “This is a very special favor for a very special friend. You understand that, right?”

  “Yes. Just tell me where to find the product, and I will get up and walk away. That’s how this is going to work. The way that you and your very special friend agreed on. The money is all there. Don’t insult me by suggesting otherwise.”

  Pedro projected a level of self-confidence that bordered on arrogance.

  But Del Chivo could see through the thin veil of bravado. He’d dealt with many men just like him. Del Chivo didn’t actually care about the money in the briefcase. The information was the important thing.

  But Pedro needed to be taught some manners.

  “I know that my friend will not cheat me,” Del Chivo said. “Therefore, if I get home and the money is not right, then it means that you took some of it. If the money is not right, then my men will hunt you down and make you watch a movie of your family being slaughtered. They’ll make you watch this movie, and then they will cut various parts of your body off with a very dull and rusty hacksaw blade. They will keep cutting, slowly, one part at a time, until you bleed to death. You understand that, right?”

  Del Chivo said this in a calm manner, as if he were a doctor explaining a course of treatment to a patient.

  Pedro swallowed hard. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Perhaps I should take the briefcase back to my room, just for a minute, to make sure I counted correctly. Please excuse me, señor.”

  Pedro started to get up.

  “Wait,” Del Chivo said. “I will go with you. We’ll count the money together. Don’t worry. If it’s not right, I know that you will make it right. Okay?”

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” Pedro said. “I just want to make sure.”

  “Of course. It’s no problem.”

  Pedro picked up the briefcase and headed toward the exit. Del Chivo crushed his cigarette into an ashtray, knocked back the shot of tequila, and followed him.

  Room 176 had a television. Two dollars extra per night. Del Chivo never bothered with them himself, but he was happy that Pedro had splurged. He found the remote and switched it on.

  Pedro set the briefcase on the bed and opened it and started counting the money. One by one, he lifted the stacks of bills and set them off to the side.

  Del Chivo surfed through the television channels while he listened to Pedro count. There were twenty-five one hundred dollar notes in each bundle, and Del Chivo’s friend had promised him one hundred bundles. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars i
n all.

  It was way less than the going rate for the amount of product his friend would be receiving. It was a bargain. A gift, basically. Del Chivo’s product, which was never less than ninety-five percent pure, went for ten times that much.

  Del Chivo stopped on a channel that was showing an American gangster film from the 1930s. He turned the volume up.

  Del Chivo knew that his friend in Chicago would make a very tidy profit on this transaction, and he was fine with that. The information his friend had promised was worth every penny. Anyway, Del Chivo had no interest in the Midwest. Most of his business flowed from a very concentrated area along the east coast. Maybe someday he would expand, but for now he was happy leaving well enough alone. Especially since well enough amounted to over three billion dollars a year.

  Del Chivo was frugal, but he was not greedy. In this business, greed was as stupid as flamboyance, and often the two went hand-in-hand. As a way of life, they were a way to death. Del Chivo had seen it a thousand times.

  Pedro had finished counting, and there were only ninety bundles of cash in the briefcase. Twenty-five thousand dollars was missing.

  “Where’s the rest?” Del Chivo said, pretending to be angry. Twenty-five thousand dollars was an hour of fun in Las Vegas. It was nothing.

  But Pedro didn’t need to know that.

  “What do you mean?” Pedro said. “This is all of it.”

  “There was supposed to be two hundred and fifty thousand. That was the deal.”

  “I only took my fee. Ten percent. Nothing more.”

  “Who told you to take your fee off the top of my payment?”

  “That was the arrangement. Perhaps you should talk to your friend.”

  “Perhaps I should,” Del Chivo said.

  Pedro nodded. He was sweating profusely. He turned and started loading the money back into the briefcase.

  While the gangsters shot it out with the cops on television, Sergio Del Chivo, son of Carlos Del Chivo, pulled the .22 caliber semi-automatic pistol out of his pocket and fired it once into Pedro’s right ear.

  Pedro slumped to the floor.

  Del Chivo picked up the briefcase and dumped the money out. There was an envelope taped inside. It had been under the bundles of cash. Del Chivo gently peeled the tape away, lifted the envelope and opened it.

  He read the contents.

  He knew the information was legitimate, because he knew where it had come from. His friend in Chicago had never steered him wrong. Now he could get on with the business he needed to take care of.

  Old business, but important nonetheless.

  1

  We have quite a bit of information on a drifter named Jack Reacher.

  When I say we, I mean The Circle, a secret government agency that specializes in monitoring and eliminating homegrown terrorists and assassins. We work behind the scenes. Only a handful of people know we exist.

  Reacher has been on our watch list for a while. We have everything from his childhood vaccination records to his most recent ATM withdrawals.

  We have photographs.

  We have video.

  We have DNA.

  Since the time he resigned his commission as an officer in the United States Army, we’ve traced his footsteps north and south and east and west, everywhere from the Florida Keys to the Puget Sound. We’ve analyzed his actions in many of those locations, and we know he has hurt some people.

  We know he has killed some people.

  But were those actions justified?

  A lot of people would probably say yes. A lot of people would probably say that Jack Reacher is a good man. And I’m not sure that I would disagree. My overall impression has been that Jack Reacher is extremely loyal to the people he cares about, and that his enemies generally get what they deserve.

  But my overall impression is largely irrelevant. Once you’re in The Circle, you’re in it for life. There’s no escape. You can’t just resign and go back to what you were doing before. They’ll find you, and then you’ll disappear. I’ve seen it happen. So when I say we, I mean The Circle, even though my personal views don’t always coincide with theirs. I am part of the organization, and the organization considers Jack Reacher to be a rogue vigilante with possible ties to terrorist organizations. Our current agenda involved gathering as much incriminating evidence against him as possible before bringing him in for questioning.

  And possible execution.

  I was all for helping to eliminate terrorist activity and assassination attempts. It was what I’d signed up for. I wasn’t particularly thrilled about drawing the Jack Reacher assignment, but I didn’t get to pick and choose. I was obligated to do what The Circle told me to do. My life depended on it. Not only my life, but the lives of the people I cared about most. My wife, our adopted daughter, and a baby son I hadn’t even seen yet. My primary objective was for us to be a family again. To hold them in my arms again and never let go. But that wasn’t possible, at least not right now. And maybe it would never be possible. Which broke my heart every minute of every day. All because of a man in South America, the leader of one the biggest crime cartels in the world. Apparently my cover had been blown during a previous assignment. This man knew my name and he knew what I looked like. I was on his kill list, and so far The Circle hadn’t been able to locate him and take him down.

  A man named Sergio Del Chivo.

  I’d undergone some plastic surgery to change my appearance, but The Director still didn’t feel comfortable about putting me back with my family. Or even letting me see them. Not yet, he kept saying. Maybe soon. It’s still too dangerous. And so forth, for over a year now. It was the kind of thing that could make you snap if you weren’t careful.

  At 01:57 Tuesday morning, about an hour before my flight was scheduled to leave, I was down in the basement of The Circle’s Colorado headquarters building, in a suite they call the ID Store, waiting for an envelope full of phony credentials. Once again I was going to be issued a new name and a new personal history. What the clandestine community refers to as a legend.

  What I refer to as a package of baloney.

  The operative standing on the other side of the counter wore gray coveralls and a matching ball cap. He was probably in his mid-forties, a few years younger than me. Blue eyes, curly black hair that was graying at the temples. I’d never seen him before, but that didn’t mean anything. New faces showed up all the time.

  He asked me to state my full name.

  “The name you were born with,” he said.

  “Nicholas Colt,” I said.

  He asked for my date of birth and my social security number, and then he quizzed me on a series of photographs and scanned my thumbprint and stuck my arm with a needle and drew some blood. All part of the identification protocol. I’d been through it before. They have to make sure I’m me every time they send me out on a new assignment.

  He handed me the envelope. “The lead operative is waiting in the conference room on the first floor,” he said. “She’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

  “Thanks.”

  I stuffed the envelope into my carry-on bag. I walked away from the counter, exited the ID Store, walked past the soundstages they use for demonstrations and training exercises and took the elevator to the first floor. The door to the conference room was open. I walked in and saw Diana Dawkins sitting at the head of the table. She had a laptop and a stack of papers and two large Styrofoam cups with lids. She was alone.

  “Close the door,” she said.

  I closed the door.

  “How have you been?” I said.

  “Have a seat. We have a lot to go over, and we don’t have much time.”

  “Always in a hurry.”

  I set my bag on the floor, pulled one of the rolling desk chairs out and sat at the table. I asked if one of the Styrofoam cups was for me. Diana gestured toward the one that didn’t have lipstick on the lid.

  “You like it black, right?”

  “Right,” I said
.

  I tried taking a sip through the hole on the lid, but the coffee was still too hot. I pulled the lid off so it would cool faster.

  “There has been a change of plans,” Diana said. “A team of operatives penetrated Annex One early this morning. They have the files on Reacher, and they’re analyzing them as we speak.”

  I knew something about Annex One. It was originally located three hundred feet beneath the Capitol building in Washington, DC. Now it’s in California. Out in the desert somewhere. It’s where certain extremely sensitive information is kept. Documents vital to national security. Hardcopy only, no threat of cyber attack. The United States Army maintains security, and only a handful of people are allowed into the vault where the files are stored. Diana Dawkins and I had managed to gain access to the original area several months ago, but our little excursion had been totally unauthorized. She and I were the only ones who knew about it. Before walking into the conference room, I thought we were going to try again, in the new location, this time with the go-ahead from The Director.

  But apparently another team beat us to it.

  “How many operatives got in?” I said.

  “Two.”

  “I guess they’re celebrating. They think they’re the first.”

  “And they need to go on thinking that.”

  “Right. So tell me about the change of plans.”

  “We won’t be flying to California tonight,” she said. “In fact, I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to be on your own this time. The Director has decided to put you in a little town called Mother’s Rest.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a farming community. Wheat, mostly. It’s out in the middle of nowhere. Reacher got off a train and checked into the only motel in town a little over an hour ago.”

  I looked at my watch.

  02:07.

  “Are we sure it was Reacher?” I said.

  “We’re sure. And there’s also a former FBI agent there in Mother’s Rest, a private investigator named Michelle Chang.”