Before Jack had crossed into this world, Reacher had only aired its first season. But he knew that if there were a second, the stakes would only get bigger.
Reacher might not be as over-the-top as the retired assassins from R.E.D., who tended to blow holes in the sky for fun, but even an idiot could figure out that this time, his enemies would be far more powerful than Kleiner Industries from Margrave.
After all, a show needs escalating threats and bigger action to keep audiences engaged—though, like most American TV series, it would probably get worse the longer it ran.
Jack wasn't worried about the plot being bad or the villains being too strong. What concerned him was Reacher going on a rampage and leaving a mess too big to clean up.
Because no matter how calm he looked after hearing about Franz's death, Reacher had always been that way—even when killing people.
And since New York was effectively Jack's turf now, he had to keep close to Reacher, even in disguise, until he figured out the full scope of this case.
"So, what's your plan?" Jack asked, his words slightly muffled.
Reacher frowned at the swollen look of Jack's cheeks, momentarily confused. "Are you planning to disguise yourself as some rich woman's kept man again?"
Jack shot him an irritated glare. "If you don't mind staying in my office, getting daily updates on the case, I'm happy to let my team handle this. I have full confidence in them.
Or, if you prefer, you can work under me as a civilian consultant—under my command."
Reacher made a face like he'd just swallowed something rotten. After a long pause, he shook his head. "No thanks."
—
Three hours later, the Gulfstream landed in New York, and Jack drove his Hellcat straight into the city with Reacher in the passenger seat.
"Won't this car's plates blow your FBI cover?" Reacher asked, glancing at the hidden police lights and knocking on the bulletproof windows.
"I swapped the plates. Right now, I'm a private investigator named Jack Ryan. Even if the CIA checks, that's all they'll find." Jack shot him a warning look.
"And don't even think about taking this car. It's government property. I'll rent you one if you need it." He had been driving this Hellcat more than his Firebird lately and had grown attached to it.
"So, where are we going first?" Reacher asked, changing the subject.
"To see Franz's widow, obviously."
"Franz got married?" Reacher sounded genuinely surprised.
Jack raised an eyebrow. "You're asking me? Wasn't he your friend? His file says he even has a son."
"We lost touch for a long time," Reacher admitted awkwardly.
—
"You're that big guy?"
The moment Franz's tear-streaked widow heard Reacher introduce himself, she gasped, "Oh my God. Calvin showed me your photos and told me stories about each of you."
Jack glanced at Reacher, who looked visibly affected, and stepped in to keep the conversation moving. "Angela, right? May we come in?"
"Oh! Of course."
Inside, the house was a mess. Toys and children's books were scattered across the couch, coffee table, and floor. A little boy, around five or six years old, was hugging a stuffed animal while staring blankly at the cartoons on the TV.
"Mikey, why don't you find your crayons and do some coloring at the table?" Angela picked up the remote, turned off the TV, and gently nudged her son toward the dining area before motioning for Jack and Reacher to sit.
"Sorry about the mess. I just… I haven't had the energy to clean up. My sister calls me every hour to make sure I don't… do something drastic."
"I believe you're a strong woman," Jack said, glancing at the little boy at the table. "Your son looks just like his father."
Angela was a fair-skinned woman in her early thirties. Her delicate features suggested she could be quite striking with some effort, but right now, she was barefaced, with swollen, reddened eyes.
"Sorry, were you also part of the 110th?" she asked hesitantly, noticing Jack seemed unfamiliar.
Jack smiled and handed her a business card. "I'm a private investigator and a friend of this big guy here. He asked me to help investigate Calvin's death."
Reacher, visibly uncomfortable, cut straight to the point. "I know the police have already questioned you, but can you walk us through everything that happened again, step by step?"
Angela's eyes welled up instantly. She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. "I took Mikey to the countryside to help my sister care for my mother—she has early-onset Alzheimer's. While I was there, I tried calling Calvin several times, but he never answered.
That wasn't like him, so I started getting worried and called the NYPD. The cops said he might be busy with a case—he was a private investigator, after all.
Or maybe he was just out partying since his wife and kid were away, taking advantage of the 'middle-aged man's freedom.'"
"So you thought he was out drinking and fooling around while you were gone?" Reacher frowned.
Angela wiped her tears and shook her head firmly. "Calvin would call me if he were even ten minutes late for dinner. He never went out behind my back."
She clenched her fists. "I got so worried that I came home early. But when I arrived, the whole house had been ransacked. Nothing was stolen, though. NYPD checked it out, but they found nothing."
Jack jotted down notes and asked, "Do you know what case he was working on recently?"
Angela shook her head. "He never brought work home. He said when he was with us, he wanted to give us 100% of his attention."
Noticing her breaking down again, Jack quickly lightened the mood. "That might be the most sincere and touching thing I've heard."
Angela gave a tearful smile, wiping her eyes.
Reacher, looking painfully out of place in this emotional setting, awkwardly fumbled for a napkin from the cluttered table and handed it to her. His face twitched as he attempted a smile—it looked more like a grimace. "Just a few more questions. I promise."
Angela muffled a few sobs before nodding.
"Can you describe Calvin's recent clients? Anyone particularly troublesome or putting him under stress?" Jack asked.
"No." Angela was adamant. "Ever since Mikey was born, Calvin promised me he wouldn't take dangerous jobs. His clients were mostly Wall Street guys—CEOs, venture capital firms, and insurance companies.
Clearly, that wasn't true. But I honestly don't know much else. Maybe you'll find something in his office."
She reached for a small dish on the mantel and retrieved a set of keys, handing them to Reacher.
"The address is 103 Flatbush. The sign says 'Three Rivers Consulting.' The police said the office was trashed, just like our house."
Reacher took the keys and hesitated. He seemed to want to offer words of comfort—or perhaps a promise.
Angela, sensing his struggle, filled the silence. "Calvin always told me Special Investigators aren't just regular cops. He said you're better than the best cops."
"Don't mess with the Special Investigators."
A small voice suddenly spoke from the other room.
Jack had just heard Reacher say those same words not long ago. He turned and smiled. "Did your dad teach you that?"
The little boy nodded timidly.
Jack glanced at Reacher, silently urging him to say something.
Reacher opened his mouth but took a long moment before managing, "He was right."
With that, he turned and left, his broad frame momentarily looking almost… hesitant.
______
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