Jack Reacher 09 One Shot One Shot: A Reacher Novel (Book 9) · Read more · Jack Reacher Series. Read more · The Affair: A Reacher Novel (Jack Reacher). One Shot: A Reacher Novel · Read more · Hellboy Being Human (One Shot). Read more · Jack Reacher 09 One Shot One Shot: A Reacher Novel (Book 9). One Shot: A Reacher Novel (Book 9) · Read more · Jack Reacher 09 One Shot. Read more · The Affair: A Reacher Novel (Jack Reacher) · Read more.

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And the cone has fingerprints on it. Lots of them. The right thumb and index finger match prints on a quarter we took out of the parking meter. You know, selfish, but innocent. And the quarter could have been in the meter for days.

One Shot A Reacher Novel

Cops think like cops, and lawyers think like lawyers. At various points he left trace evidence behind, from his shoes and his clothing. And he'll have picked trace evidence up, in the form of cement dust, mostly. Probably a lot of it. That's all. Not specific enough.

That got Rodin's attention.

And you know what? That's exactly how ballistics labs test-fire a gun. They fire into a long tank of water. The water slows and stops the bullet with absolutely no damage at all. So we've got a pristine bullet with all the lands and grooves we need to tie it to an individual rifle. We find the rifle and we'll match the varnish and the scratches. It's as good as DNA. It's got tool marks on it from the ejector mechanism. So we've got a bullet and a case. Together they tie the weapon to the crime.

The scratches tie the weapon to the garage location.

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The garage location ties the crime to the guy who left the trace evidence behind. Emerson knew he was thinking about the trial.

Technical evidence was sometimes a hard sell. It lacked a human dimension.

Same thumb and index finger as on the quarter in the parking meter and on the traffic cone. So we can tie the crime to the gun, and the gun to the ammo, and the ammo to the guy who used it. It all connects. The guy, the gun, the crime. It's a total slam dunk. So it's just a matter of time. A desk guy knocked and entered. He was carrying a sheaf of paper. The paper listed a name, an address, and a history. Plus supplementary information from all over the system.

Including a driver's license photo. Emerson took the paper and glanced through it once. Then again. Then he smiled. Exactly six hours after the first shot was fired, the situation was nailed down tight. A must-win. Silence in the office. He lives twenty minutes from here. He served in the U. Honorable discharge fourteen years ago. Infantry specialist, which I'm betting means a sniper.

DMV says he drives a six-year-old Dodge Caravan, beige. Rodin picked them up and scanned them through, once, twice, carefully. Emerson watched his eyes. Saw him thinking the guy, the gun, the crime. It was like watching a Vegas slot machine line up three cherries. Bing bing bing! A total certainty. He separated out the DL picture and gazed at it. Judges will be lining up to sign them.

The Chief said he would schedule an eight o'clock press conference for the next morning. He said he wanted Emerson there, front and center. Emerson took that as all the compliment he was going to get, even though he didn't much like the press. The warrants were ready within an hour, but the arrest took three hours to set up. First, unmarked surveillance confirmed Barr was home. His place was an unremarkable one-story ranch. Not immaculate, not falling down. Old paint on the siding, fresh blacktop on the driveway.

Lights were on and a television set was playing in what was probably the living room. Barr himself was spotted briefly, in a lighted window. He seemed to be alone. Then he seemed to go to bed.

Lights went off and the house went quiet. So then there was a pause. It was standard operating procedure to plan carefully for the takedown of an armed man inside a building.

They used zoning maps from the city offices and came up with the usual kind of thing. Covert encirclement, overwhelming force on standby front and rear, sudden violent assault on the front and rear doors simultaneously.

Emerson was detailed to make the actual arrest, wearing full body armor and a borrowed helmet.

An assistant DA would be alongside him, to monitor the legality of the process. Nobody wanted to give a defense attorney anything to chew on later. A paramedic team would be instantly available. Two K9 officers would go along, because of the crime scene investigator's theory about the dog in the house.

Altogether thirty-eight men were involved, and they were all tired. Most of them had been working nineteen hours straight.

Their regular watches, plus overtime. So there was a lot of nervous tension in the air. People figured that nobody owned just one automatic weapon. If a guy had one, he had more. Maybe full-auto machine guns. Maybe grenades or bombs. But in the event the arrest was a walk in the park.

James Barr barely even woke up. They broke down his doors at three in the morning and found him asleep, alone in bed.

He stayed asleep with fifteen armed men in his bedroom aiming fifteen submachine guns and fifteen flashlight beams at him. He stirred a little when the SWAT commander threw his blankets and pillows to the floor, searching for concealed weapons.

He had none. He opened his eyes. Mumbled something that sounded like What? He was a large man, with white skin and black hair that was going gray all over his body. His pajamas were too small for him. He looked slack, and a little older than his forty-one years. His dog was an old mutt that woke up reluctantly and staggered in from the kitchen. The K9 team captured it immediately and took it straight out to their truck.

Emerson took his helmet off and pushed his way through the crowd in the tiny bedroom. Saw a three-quarters-full pint of Jack Daniels on the night table, next to an orange prescription bottle that was also three-quarters full. He bent to look at it. Sleeping pills.

Recently prescribed, to someone called Rosemary Barr. The label said: Rosemary Barr. Take one for sleeplessness. Emerson shook his head. Plus the whole pint of JD. So I guess Mr.

Barr had trouble getting off to sleep tonight, that's all. After a very busy and productive day. It smelled of dirty sheets and an unwashed body. His lawyer is going to say he's not fully capable of understanding Miranda. So we can't let him say anything.

And if he does say something, we can't listen. Told them to check Barr out, to make sure he wasn't faking, and to make sure he wasn't about to die on them. They fussed around for a few minutes, listened to his heart, checked his pulse, read the prescription label. Then they pronounced him reasonably fit and healthy, but fast asleep. Emerson found a pair of dress pants folded over a chair and checked the pockets.

Came out with a small wallet. Found the driver's license. The name was right, and the address was right. And the photograph was right.

Jack Reacher: One Shot (Movie Tie-in Edition)

Then he recited the Miranda warning. The right to remain silent, the right to a lawyer. Barr tried to focus, but didn't succeed. Then he went back to sleep. They wrapped him in a blanket and two cops dragged him out of the house and into a car.

A paramedic and the ADA rode with him. Emerson stayed in the house and started the search.

He found the scuffed blue jeans in the bedroom closet. The crepe-soled shoes were placed neatly on the floor below them. They were dusty. The raincoat was in the hall closet. The beige Dodge Caravan was in the garage.

The scratched rifle was in the basement. It was one of several resting on a rack bolted to the wall. On a bench underneath it were five nine-millimeter handguns.

And boxes of ammunition, including a half-empty box of Lake City M grain boat tail hollow point. Next to the boxes were glass jars with empty cartridge cases in them. Ready for recycling, Emerson thought.

Ready for handloading. The jar nearest the front of the bench held just five of them. Lake City brass. The jar's lid was still off, like the five latest cases had been dumped in there recently and in a hurry. Emerson bent down and sniffed.

The air in the jar smelled of gunpowder. Cold and old, but not very. Emerson left James Barr's house at four in the morning, replaced by forensic specialists who would go through the whole place with a fine-toothed comb.

He checked with his desk sergeant and confirmed that Barr was sleeping peacefully, in a cell on his own with round-the-clock medical supervision.

Then he went home and caught a two-hour nap before showering and dressing for the press conference. The press conference killed the story stone dead. A story needs the guy to be still out there. A story needs the guy roaming, sullen, hidden, shadowy, dangerous. It needs fear. It needs to make everyday chores exposed and hazardous, like pumping gas or visiting the mall or walking to church.

So to hear that the guy was found and arrested even before the start of the second news cycle was a disaster for Ann Yanni.

Immediately she knew what the network offices were going to think. No legs, over and done with, history. Yesterday's news, literally. Probably wasn't much of anything anyway. Just some inbred heartland weirdo too dumb to stay free through the night. Probably sleeps with his cousin and drinks Colt Nothing sinister there.

She would get one more network breaking news spot to recap the crime and report the arrest, and that would be it. Back to obscurity.

So Yanni was disappointed, but she hid it well. She asked questions and made her tone admiring. About halfway through she started putting together a new theme. A new narrative. People would have to admit the police work had been pretty impressive. And this perp wasn't a weirdo. Not necessarily. So a serious bad guy had been caught by an even-more-serious police department.

Right out there in the heartland. Something that had taken considerable time on the coasts in previous famous cases.

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Step-by-step coloring guides. Improve your skills! Core PUB. Stories PUB. An Autobiography PUB. Donald Trump: Then he says: Get Reacher for me. And sure enough, ex—military investigator Jack Reacher is coming. He knows this shooter—a trained military sniper who never should have missed a shot. Reacher is certain something is not right—and soon the slam-dunk case explodes.

Now Reacher is teamed with a beautiful young defense lawyer, moving closer to the unseen enemy who is pulling the strings. Reacher knows that no two opponents are created equal. This one has come to the heartland from his own kind of hell.Aug 12, Minutes. A new narrative. Then he seemed to go to bed. Get Reacher for me. It needs to make everyday chores exposed and hazardous, like pumping gas or visiting the mall or walking to church.

This time, because of the magnitude, Emerson was performing in front of the DA himself.

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