The guy with the revolver stayed at the door. Kept my hands above the table and drained my cup. Folded the abandoned newspaper into a square and shoved it into my coat pocket. I crammed egg into my mouth and trapped a five under the plate. So the heavy weapons and the rush weren't for any of them. He would ask them to come down to the station house. Any problem with any of them and an embarrassed sergeant would have shuffled in. The other five had probably been here all their lives. I had been in town less than a half hour. One revolver and one shotgun ran to the back. Red and blue light in the raindrops on my window. They were moving fast and crunched to a stop. I saw the police cruisers pull into the gravel lot. Outside, the rain had stopped but the glass was still pebbled with bright drops. I was in a booth, at a window, reading somebody's abandoned newspaper about the campaign for a president I didn't vote for last time and wasn't going to vote for this time. A doorway where the center booth would be. Narrow, with a long lunch counter on one side and a kitchen bumped out back. Brand-new, built to resemble a converted railroad car. The diner was small, but bright and clean. All the way from the highway to the edge of town. I was wet and tired after a long walk in heavy rain. This book is dedicated to the two of them, in appreciation of their efforts, which went far beyond the call of duty. My agent is Darley Anderson in London my editor is David Highfill in New York.Īn ocean apart, they worked hard side by side to get this writer his break. The first book in the Jack Reacher series
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