After everyone left, Jack arranged for Reacher to stay in a guest room directly across from his own in the fugitive task force's office building.
"This place is well-hidden and secure. Most people just think it's an insurance agency," Jack explained. The room was minimalistic but regularly cleaned, making it move-in ready.
Reacher pulled out his only piece of luggage—a toothbrush—and placed it on the bathroom sink, looking mildly perplexed.
"You guys deal in intelligence work too? Why so cautious?"
"Not really. Just call it one of my quirks," Jack replied. He briefly recounted how his house had been blown to smithereens, then elaborated on his personal security philosophy—the importance of protecting those around him.
"No matter if it's drug cartels or terrorists, I always assume the worst of them. Even Margrave's industrial district has its own security force now—just in case those South American traffickers decide to make a comeback."
Hearing a familiar name, Reacher subconsciously opened his mouth but hesitated, unsure how to respond.
"You haven't gone back, have you? Roscoe's still single, you know." Jack smirked as he grabbed two beers from the fridge—Clay and Jubal's stash.
Reacher took the beer but stayed silent. Jack chuckled, deciding not to press the subject. The guy was complicated.
He was loyal and deeply cared about people—yet chose to wander alone.
—
"Who was the one that died in the car crash?" Reacher suddenly asked after a long silence.
"Larry. He was the oldest of you guys, right? Died in Montana two years ago.
Has the Army really burned you so badly that you cut off all ties with your old unit?" Jack asked, genuinely curious.
"Of course not. I just got sick of the military's rules and routines. I wanted to experience true freedom… I just didn't think they wouldn't tell me."
Reacher twisted the bottle cap off by hand and took a deep swig of the cold beer.
Jack scoffed. "No address, no phone—what, you think everyone's as good at tracking people down as the FBI?"
—
"You know any gangs around here? I need a gun."
Jack rolled his eyes. "You're not planning on buying one legally, are you?"
Reacher smirked but didn't answer.
Jack sighed and motioned for him to follow.
—
Downstairs in the garage, Jack had repurposed part of the space into a private indoor shooting range and small weapons locker—essentially the fugitive task force's armory.
"These have no serial numbers and aren't in any databases. You can use them safely."
Jack handed Reacher a brand-new Glock 20, two spare mags, and a box of 10mm AUTO rounds.
"I like this gun," Reacher grinned, inspecting it briefly before firing a round at a distant target.
The shot hit dead center.
Jack, already wearing ear protection, just shook his head in exasperation. He'd known Reacher would do that.
After securing the pistol at the back of his waistband, Reacher followed Jack upstairs.
Jack pushed open the back door, and the two sat down on the porch rocking chairs—beer in one hand, cigars in the other—staring at the vegetable garden in silence.
—
After a long pause, Jack finally spoke.
"You still seem to enjoy this lifestyle."
"It's free. That's all I need," Reacher replied casually. "I don't have to work or deal with bosses.
Corporations and the military are the same—they put you in a cage."
Jack shrugged. "Guess we have different definitions of freedom.
I like my life just fine."
He studied Reacher's face. "It's been years… I'm surprised you still aren't tired of this drifter life. Haven't you been to every state by now?
Too bad Greyhound doesn't have a frequent rider program."
Reacher smirked. "Arkansas was my last stop in the South. If you hadn't found me, I'd already be on a freight train heading north."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "You used to ride the rails?"
"Yeah. Did it a lot for a while—until one of the freight trains I was on derailed.
After that, I decided hitchhiking and Greyhound were safer."
Jack snorted. "You think that's safer?
If I were a trucker, I'd be terrified of a giant hitchhiker like you."
"Some of them are alright," Reacher said with a grin. "They even share food with me."
"Sounds like pure luck to me." Jack smirked. "You'd be surprised how many weirdos are out there these days.
Not just female hitchhikers end up in trouble."
Still, Jack had to admit—Reacher had taken "budget travel" to another level.
—
Jack then shared stories about his own cases—the thrilling victories, the satisfying takedowns, and the gut-wrenching tragedies.
While Reacher mostly just listened, Jack caught glimpses of something in his eyes—interest, even longing.
It was fleeting, gone almost as soon as it appeared, but Jack knew he wasn't imagining it.
Jack grinned.
"If you ever do get tired of America,
you ever think about checking out other countries?"
Reacher raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"Canada, maybe. Or Mexico.
Maybe even further south—Central and South America.
Europe, Africa, Asia."
Reacher eyed him warily. "And what would you have me do there?"
"Nothing complicated—just buy some properties, sign some contracts.
I need to set up safe houses in major cities around the world, like this place, so my guys have somewhere secure to sleep when we're out on missions."
Reacher narrowed his eyes. "You want me to be your real estate agent?"
Jack grinned. "More like a logistics guy. No need to wear a suit—you just handle the early-stage acquisitions. I'll have management companies handle the rest."
"You do realize I hate suits and business meetings, right?"
"Fine by me.
All you have to do is sign checks and shake hands. That's it.
And you won't have to report to me. Just call me when you pass through a big city."
Reacher mulled it over.
"…If I ever feel like going abroad, I'll think about it."
Jack smirked. That wasn't a no.
—
"Take your time.
But even if you love this minimalist lifestyle, you don't have to live like an actual homeless guy.
Next time you can't find a motel, try a real hotel instead of sleeping on abandoned boats at the docks."
Jack truly respected Reacher's way of life.
Most people only fantasized about this kind of freedom—Reacher actually lived it.
But living like this wasn't as romantic as it sounded.
—
As the night stretched on, Jack finally asked about the fall of the 110th Special Investigations Unit.
It was a familiar story.
Reacher's team had uncovered military officers smuggling drugs into the U.S. via transport planes.
By calculating fuel consumption, they realized someone had been hiding drugs inside Humvee spare tires.
When they were about to shut the operation down, an Army Colonel—soon to be promoted to General—interfered.
The Colonel didn't want the scandal to spread and ordered Reacher to bury the case.
Reacher and his unit refused.
They exposed the operation, got the scandal all over the news, and in return—
The entire 110th was forcibly disbanded.
Everyone, including Reacher, was forced into early retirement.
Jack sighed. "Where the hell did you find a bunch of idealists like that?"
Reacher's expression softened.
"I handpicked them myself," he said simply.
There was guilt in his voice.
But not regret.
______
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