Reacher clearly failed to realize that not everyone had the kind of hardened mindset that came with military service. For him and his fellow veterans, life and death had become routine.
It took Nigeli and Dixon a long time to calm Milena down. Before the big guy could say anything to make it worse, O'Donnell quickly changed the subject.
"We're trying to find out who's behind all of this," he said. "We need your help. Did Sanchez and Orozco mention Calvin Franz or Tony Swan to you recently?"
"Yes. Franz came here a few weeks ago—right in this bar."
Milena wiped her tears and hurriedly pulled out her phone, scrolling through her gallery. She showed them a picture—Franz sitting in the middle, with Sanchez and Orozco each throwing an arm around his shoulders. All three of them were grinning, happy to be reunited.
"They said they were working on a case together," she added.
"What case?" Jack asked quickly.
"He didn't tell me." Milena shook her head, staring at the photo with fresh tears welling up.
"What about Swan? Did he ever come here?"
Another shake of the head. Milena didn't look away from the screen. "No, he never came to Atlantic City. But I did hear them mention his name. I'm sorry—I only know you all because of Sanchez's introduction and the pictures he showed me. Haven't you talked to Franz?"
Silence. Even Reacher didn't respond this time. The moment Milena saw their expressions, she understood.
"Oh God… What happened to them?"
Dixon took her hand. "That's what we're here to find out. We need your help. Think carefully—anything you remember could be important."
Milena covered her face, overwhelmed.
Just then, the bartender—who had been watching from a distance—walked over and set down a bottle of tequila.
"You guys look like you could use this."
Jack reached for his wallet, but the bartender pulled the tray away.
"On the house," he said. "Sanchez and Orozco were our friends, too."
Milena took a deep breath and swallowed a shot of tequila. The alcohol steadied her.
"I'm not sure if this helps," she said slowly, "but the last time I saw José (Sanchez), he was sitting right over there." She pointed to a stool at the bar.
"He got a phone call—it sounded important."
"Did you hear anything?" Reacher leaned in slightly, his voice low.
"I remember him repeating two numbers," she said. "Then he looked really shocked—or maybe worried. I'm not sure. Then he said he had to go, and I never saw him again."
"What numbers?" Dixon pressed.
"Yeah, of course—it was '650' and '100,000 each.'"
Milena repeated the numbers with conviction. Her voice cracked as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, but this time, she didn't wipe them away. She just stared at them, desperate to be useful.
"You're sure those were the numbers?" Reacher's eyes locked onto hers.
"Absolutely!" She met his gaze without flinching. "Would you forget the last thing someone you loved ever said to you?"
—
By the time they left the bar, the sky was beginning to lighten.
They were all exhausted.
Dixon, now flush with cash after her lucky night at the casino, booked a presidential suite at a luxury hotel big enough for all of them.
"We could've just found a motel," Reacher muttered, shifting uncomfortably in the excessively fancy suite.
"Our enemies probably won't try anything in a public place like this. Plus, casino hotels have their own security." O'Donnell yawned as he wandered toward his room. "I'd rather not get into another fight—at least not before I sleep."
"If you really can't handle this level of comfort," Nigeli smirked, "I could have the hotel bring you a park bench to sleep on."
Jack patted Dixon lightly on the chest, gesturing at her wound as a silent reminder to take care of it. Then he grabbed his laptop and headed to his room.
Before sleeping, he had a few things to take care of.
The investigation in New York was making progress—he needed to sync both sides of the case.
By the time he was finished, the sun was fully up.
And the noise from the next room had finally stopped.
Apparently, Reacher—who had gone in to help Dixon with her wound—had ended up getting much more than a first-aid session.
Sex was, after all, a great way to relieve stress.
Jack peeled off his disguise, took a hot shower, and crashed into bed. He slept until midday.
—
When he finally woke up, he ordered room service. As he ate lunch in the suite's living room, the others slowly started emerging from their rooms.
O'Donnell, still yawning, opened the door—and immediately froze.
"What the hell—who are you?" He instinctively reached for his brass knuckles.
Jack blinked in confusion—then touched his face.
Right. He had taken off his fake facial prosthetics and hadn't reapplied the mustache.
"It's me, Jack." He smirked. "Guess my disguise was pretty good, huh?"
O'Donnell's eyes widened. He stared at Jack for a long moment before blurting out, "Jack?! How old are you?!"
Jack's features were boyish—a stark contrast to his usual demeanor. People who spent enough time with him got used to it, but O'Donnell's first impression of him had been yesterday's square-jawed, mustachioed man.
Now, stripped of his disguise, wearing only a T-shirt, Jack looked more like a college kid than an FBI agent.
"Almost thirty," Jack lied casually, not wanting to shatter the poor guy's ego.
Just then, Nigeli stumbled out of her room, looking just as exhausted.
"I need a giant black coffee," she groaned, waving lazily at O'Donnell, who was fiddling with the coffee machine.
"If you're hungry, try the seafood platter," Jack suggested between bites. "The lobster's really fresh."
As he spoke, another door opened—Dixon stepped out first, radiating satisfaction.
Reacher followed a moment later, looking slightly less energetic.
Dixon grinned like a cat who had just gotten into the cream. She cheerfully greeted everyone, "Morning!—well, afternoon. We need to go over last night's leads."
"The whole hotel knows what happened last night," O'Donnell muttered darkly, rubbing his dark eye circles as he handed Nigeli her coffee.
Western women never shied away from these things, but Dixon still shamelessly dumped the blame on Reacher.
"You were kinda loud," she teased.
Reacher just chuckled, totally unfazed. "Dixon meant we need to review the case," he corrected.
"Everything's right here."
Jack pushed his laptop toward them, displaying a newly updated mind map from Alice.
It was like an upgraded digital evidence board.
One new addition?
A confirmed ID for Scarface—the man Jack had shot the night before.
Trevor Saropian.
A New York native.
______
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