Read High Heat: A Jack Reacher Novella for Free Online

friends. The two blondes.
They’ll wait. That’s part of the deal
. They had two hours until midnight, which suddenly seemed like nothing at all.
    The guy moved in the dark. He rolled around a pillar, light on his feet, staying covered, checking the blind spot at ninety degrees, checking the other direction, and then moving forward, fast and straight to the next pillar.
    Toward the Chevette.
    The guy eased around the new pillar, just to check his new blind spot, and then he pulled back and merged with the concrete, barely visible again, all the time being very careful with the thing in his hand, as if it was valuable or especially fragile.
    Chrissie was still busy. And she was doing a fine, fine job. Died and gone to heaven wasn’t even close. It was an underestimate of the most serious kind. Egregious, even. It was the kind of faint praise that could cause a diplomatic incident.
    The guy moved again. He went through the same routine, reflexively, glance, glance, move, to the next pillar, closer still to the Chevette, and he blended in, bringing his right arm to rest last, solicitous of the thing he was holding, taking care not to bring it into contact with the concrete.
    Thereby bringing it separately through the river’s glow, all by itself.
    Reacher knew what it was.
    It was an upside down revolver, swinging by the trigger guard on the guy’s right-hand index finger. A squat shape, thick in the upper body like the guy himself, rounded in the grips, a two-and-a-half-inch barrel, smooth, with few projections. Could have been a Charter Arms Bulldog, a five-shooter, sturdy, most often chambered for the .44 Special. Double action. Easy to service. Not a target shooter’s gun. But good close up.
    Chrissie was still busy. The guy moved again. Closer still to the Chevette. He stared right at it. Before he had gotten on the bus in Pohang Reacher’s mother had made him read her newspapers. New York City. A killing spree. The Son of Sam. Named from his crazy letters. But before the letters came he had been called something else. He had been called the .44 Caliber Killer. Because he used .44 caliber bullets. From a revolver.
    Specifically, the NYPD said, from a Charter Arms Bulldog.
    Chrissie was still busy. And this was no kind of a time to stop. No kind of a time at all. In fact stopping was not a possibility. Physically, mentally, every other way. It was absolutely not on the agenda. It was in a whole different hemisphere than the agenda. Maybe a whole different universe. It was a biological fact. It was not going to happen. The guy stared. Reacher stared back.
He’s killing people. Couples sitting in cars
. Way to go, Reacher thought. Do it now. I’ll go out on a high note. The highest possible note in the whole history of high notes.
Jack Reacher, RIP. He died young, but he had a smile on his face
.
    The guy made no move. He just stared.
    Reacher stared back.
    The guy made no move.
    Couples sitting in cars.
    But they weren’t. Not from an exterior perspective. Chrissie’s head was in his lap. Reacher was alone in the car. Just a driver, off the road in the emergency, waiting in the passenger seat, for the extra legroom. The guy stared. Reacher stared back. Chrissie was still busy. The guy moved on. To the next pillar, and the next, and then he was lost to sight.
    And then Chrissie’s work was done.
    *     *     *
    Afterward they repaired the damage as well as they could, straightening and zipping and buttoning and combing. Chrissie said, “Better than Blondie?”
    Reacher said, “How could I tell?”
    “Better than Blondie live on stage at CBGB, I mean.”
    “A lot better. No real comparison.”
    “You like Blondie, right?”
    “Best ever. Well, top five. Or ten.”
    “Shut up.” She started the engine again and put the air on max. She slid down in her seat and lifted her shirt tails so the vents blew straight up against her skin.
    Reacher said, “I saw someone.”
    “When?”
    “Just