The first shot came from the shadows—not from me or Karla, but from somewhere in the warehouse. One of the guards went down, clutching his shoulder.
"SNIPER!" The lead guard screamed, spinning toward the source.
More shots. Precise, controlled, each one finding a guard. Not killing shots—disabling shots. Shoulders, legs, the kind of wounds that stopped threats without being lethal.
Reacher. It had to be Reacher. He must have repositioned from the Upper East Side operation when he heard we were compromised.
"Move!" Karla shouted, grabbing my arm.
We ran, using the chaos for cover. The guards were disorganized, panicking, returning fire at shadows. We made it to the loading bay door, yanked it open, burst into the night.
A black SUV was waiting, engine running. The back door opened.
"Get in!" Neal's voice. My brother was driving the extraction vehicle.
We dove into the back seat. Neal hit the gas before the doors were even closed, the SUV accelerating hard.
Behind us, guards emerged from the warehouse, firing at the fleeing vehicle. Bullets impacted the rear window—bulletproof glass, thank god—spider-webbing but not penetrating.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I shouted at Neal.
"Saving your ass!" He took a corner at speed, the SUV handling like a race car. "Peter got word you were compromised. I volunteered for extraction because I'm the best driver and you're my brother."
More gunfire. The rear window took another hit.
"They're pursuing!" Karla said, looking back. Two vehicles—commercial vans, probably full of guards.
"I see them," Neal said calmly. He accelerated harder, the SUV's engine roaring. "Buckle up. This is going to get interesting."
He wasn't lying.
Neal drove like a man who'd spent years outrunning law enforcement—because he had. Weaving through traffic, taking corners that should have flipped the vehicle, using every ounce of the SUV's capabilities.
The pursuing vans tried to keep up. They failed.
Within five minutes, we'd lost them in the maze of Brooklyn streets. Neal took three more turns, then pulled into an underground parking garage and killed the engine.
Silence. Heavy breathing. The sound of our hearts hammering.
"Everyone okay?" Neal asked, turning around.
"We're fine," I said. "But how did you—"
"Peter coordinated with Elizabeth. When Swan reported you were blown, they activated emergency extraction. I was the closest, so I volunteered." Neal's expression was serious now, no charm, just genuine concern. "Frank, those guards weren't trying to arrest you. They were trying to kill you."
"We know." Karla was checking her equipment, making sure nothing was damaged.
"Did you get the evidence?" Neal asked.
"We got it," I confirmed, checking my phone. "Forty-seven photos uploaded to Elizabeth's servers. Documentation of buyers, financial records, authentication procedures. Everything Burke needs."
"Then the mission was successful," Neal said. "Dangerous, nearly fatal, but successful."
My earpiece crackled. "Frank, this is Reacher. Status?"
"Extracted successfully. Neal picked us up. We're secure in a parking garage in—" I looked at Neal.
"Carroll Gardens," he supplied. "Three blocks from Elizabeth's safe house."
"Copy that," Reacher's voice came back. "Swan and Neagley successfully secured evidence from the SoHo gallery. O'Donnell and I got what we needed from the Upper East Side location before we repositioned to provide you sniper support. All three operations complete. All personnel accounted for."
"The guards you shot?" I asked.
"Non-lethal wounds. They'll survive to stand trial." Reacher paused. "But Frank, those guards were ordered to kill you. This isn't just evidence protection anymore. Walsh has escalated to active elimination of threats."
"We noticed," Karla said dryly.
"Get to the safe house. We'll debrief there. Burke's tactical team is raiding the warehouse now—they'll secure the scene, collect the wounded guards, and start making arrests. But we need to make sure everyone's accounted for and not injured."
"Roger. We're moving now."
Neal started the SUV, navigating out of the parking garage and through quiet residential streets. Five minutes later, we pulled up to the safe house—a brownstone that looked like every other building on the block.
Inside, the 110th was assembling. Reacher and O'Donnell arrived thirty seconds after us. Swan and Neagley were already there, having extracted from the SoHo gallery without incident.
Elizabeth was at her laptop, monitoring police frequencies and coordinating with Burke.
"All teams accounted for," Reacher said, doing a visual check. "Anyone injured?"
"Bruised, shaken, but functional," I reported.
"Same," Swan said. Neagley just nodded.
"Good." Reacher moved to the center of the room, and we all turned to face him automatically. "Tonight the 110th conducted three simultaneous operations against a sophisticated criminal organization. We secured critical evidence, extracted under hostile pursuit, and completed mission despite active resistance. That's exactly the kind of performance that made us the best investigative unit in the Army."
"Hooah," we all said quietly.
"But we also learned something important," Reacher continued. "Walsh isn't just protecting her operation anymore. She's actively hunting threats. Those guards were ordered to kill Frank and Karla, not capture them. That means she knows we're coming for her."
"So what's our next move?" O'Donnell asked.
"We give everything to Burke and let him do his job," Reacher said. "Elizabeth, status on evidence transfer?"
"Already done," Elizabeth said, not looking up from her laptop. "I've compiled all photo evidence, financial records, and buyer documentation into a comprehensive package. It's being delivered to Burke through a digital dead drop that looks like it came from a confidential informant. He'll receive it within the hour."
"And Walsh?" Neagley asked.
"Burke's moving on her tonight," Elizabeth said. "The wounded guards at the warehouse are already talking—offering testimony in exchange for reduced sentences. One of them confirmed Walsh ordered the hit on Frank and Karla. That's conspiracy to commit murder, which gives Burke enough for an arrest warrant."
"How fast can he move?" I asked.
"He's already moving," Elizabeth said. She pulled up a police radio frequency. "Tactical team is en route to Walsh's residence now. ETA four minutes."
We all moved closer to listen.
The radio crackled with tactical communications—Burke's voice coordinating with NYPD SWAT, positioning units, preparing for a high-risk arrest.
"All units, this is Command. Target residence confirmed. Subject is believed to be inside. Proceed with extreme caution—suspect has resources and may resist arrest."
"Unit One approaching from the north. No visible activity."
"Unit Two covering rear exit. We're in position."
"Unit Three ready to breach on your command."
Burke's voice: "All units—execute, execute, execute."
The sound of a battering ram. Shouting. "FBI! SEARCH WARRANT! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"
Then silence. Tense, terrible silence.
Finally: "Command, this is Unit One. Residence is clear. Repeat, residence is clear. Subject is not here."
"Fuck," Burke's voice, professional composure cracking. "All units, subject is in the wind. Issue BOLO—Rebecca Walsh, five-foot-six, blonde hair, blue eyes, considered armed and dangerous. She's running."
Elizabeth closed her laptop. "Walsh knew we were coming. She evacuated before Burke could execute the warrant."
"How?" Karla asked. "We didn't know Burke was raiding her residence until just now. How could she have known?"
"Because she has resources we haven't identified," Reacher said grimly. "Someone warned her. Either she has people inside Burke's office, or she's monitoring communications we don't know about."
"Or she's just smart enough to know that when her guards don't report back from the warehouse, it means law enforcement is coming," O'Donnell suggested.
"Probably all three," Neagley said.
My phone buzzed—Burke calling. I answered on speaker.
"Frank, it's Peter Burke. I assume you're hearing the same radio traffic I am?"
"We are. Walsh is running."
"She's running, and she's dangerous," Burke confirmed. "We just got word from one of the wounded guards at the warehouse. Walsh has a contingency plan—if the operation is compromised, she destroys all evidence and eliminates anyone who can testify against her. That includes Marcus Vance in protective custody."
"Where's Vance?" I asked.
"Federal safe house in Queens. I'm sending tactical units there now, but Frank—if Walsh has resources we don't know about, if she can get to him before we secure the location—"
"We'll go," I said immediately, looking at Reacher. He nodded once. "The 110th is closer to Queens than your tactical units. We can be there in fifteen minutes."
"Do it," Burke said. "But Frank—Walsh is willing to kill federal witnesses. That makes her exponentially more dangerous than the guards you faced tonight. If you encounter her—"
"We'll handle it," I said.
"I know you will. But be careful. We need her alive to testify about the organization's leadership." He paused. "And Frank? Thank you. For tonight, for the evidence, for everything the 110th has done. We couldn't have broken this case without you."
"Thank you for trusting us to work parallel," I said. "Now let's go save your witness."
I hung up.
"Neal," I said to my brother, who'd been listening quietly. "I need the fastest route to Queens. And I need you to drive like you're running from the FBI again."
"That's my specialty," Neal said, already pulling out his phone to map the route. "But Frank—I'm coming with you. I know the area where the safe house is located. I ran surveillance there two months ago on a different case."
"Absolutely not," I said. "This is 110th business—"
"This is my brother walking into a situation where a corrupt federal prosecutor is trying to kill witnesses," Neal interrupted. "I'm coming. Peter can fire me later if he wants, but I'm not letting you do this without backup."
I looked at Reacher. He considered for exactly two seconds, then nodded. "He comes. But he stays in the vehicle unless absolutely necessary. We need his local knowledge and driving skills, not another body in the line of fire."
"Agreed," Neal said immediately.
"Everyone else?" Reacher looked at the 110th. "We've been operational for twenty hours straight. Some of you are running on fumes. I need honest assessments—who's combat-ready and who needs to sit this out?"
"I'm good," Neagley said immediately. "Adrenaline's still high from the gallery operation."
"Same," Swan said.
"I'm functional," O'Donnell added. "Tired, but functional."
Karla looked at me, then at Reacher. "I'm with Frank. Wherever he goes, I go."
"Then we're all going," Reacher said. "Elizabeth—coordinate with Burke. We need real-time intelligence on Walsh's location, resources, any associates who might be moving to hit the safe house."
"On it," Elizabeth said, already typing. "Also—Frank?" She looked at me, her expression serious. "Come back alive. That's non-negotiable."
"I intend to."
"Good." She stood, crossing to me, and kissed me hard. "Because if you die protecting a witness, I'm going to be very angry."
"Noted."
She turned to Karla. "Keep him alive. Please."
"That's the plan," Karla said.
Elizabeth nodded, then returned to her laptop. "You have sixteen minutes before Burke's tactical units arrive at the safe house. If Walsh is moving against Vance, she's already en route. Go."
—
# The Safe House
Neal took a corner hard enough that the SUV's tires screamed, but his hands remained steady on the wheel. In the back seat, I was wedged between Karla and Neagley, while Reacher occupied the passenger seat with O'Donnell and Swan in the third row.
"ETA seven minutes," Neal called back. "But Frank, you need to know something about this location."
"What?"
"It's not really a safe house. It's a converted apartment building in Astoria. Burke's office uses it because it's nondescript, but it only has two exits—front entrance and fire escape. If Walsh's people have it surrounded, Vance is trapped."
"Then we make sure they don't surround it," Reacher said calmly. He pulled out his phone, studying a map. "Neal, when we arrive, you drop us two blocks away. We approach on foot, assess the situation, determine if hostiles are already in position."
"And if they are?" Swan asked.
"Then we neutralize them before they can reach Vance," Reacher said flatly. "Rules of engagement are the same as the warehouse—force is authorized if necessary to protect the witness. But remember: we need at least one of Walsh's people alive to testify about her orders."
My phone buzzed—Elizabeth: *Burke's tactical team is stuck in traffic on the Queensboro Bridge. Accident blocking two lanes. They're now twenty-three minutes out instead of twelve. You're Vance's only protection.*
I showed the text to Reacher.
"Then we don't have backup," he said. "We handle this ourselves." He twisted in his seat to look at all of us. "Listen carefully. Marcus Vance is the prosecution's star witness. Without him, Walsh's lawyers will argue the entire case is circumstantial. We lose Vance, we probably lose the case. So failure is not acceptable."
"Understood," we all said.
Neal took another turn, the GPS announcing we were four minutes from the destination. The streets were getting quieter now—residential neighborhoods, fewer cars, the kind of area where gunfire would definitely be noticed.
"Weapons check," Reacher ordered.
I pulled my Glock from its holster, checking the magazine. Seventeen rounds. I had two spare magazines in my tactical vest. Fifty-one rounds total—hopefully more than I'd need.
Karla was doing the same beside me, her movements efficient and practiced. Neagley had her sidearm out, plus what looked like a tactical knife strapped to her thigh. Swan was checking a compact submachine gun he'd pulled from a gear bag—where the hell had he gotten that?
"Swan, is that an MP5?" I asked.
"MP5K," he corrected. "Compact version. Elizabeth sourced it from her contacts. Figured if we were running protection details against organized crime, we might need more than pistols." He looked at Reacher. "You want me on overwatch when we arrive?"
"Negative. I need you with the team. We don't have time to establish elevated positions." Reacher was loading his own weapon—a massive .44 Magnum that looked like a hand cannon. "If Walsh's people are already there, this is going to be close-quarters work. Fast, violent, decisive."
"My favorite kind," Neagley muttered.
Neal slowed as we entered the target neighborhood. "Two blocks out. I'm parking here."
He pulled into a spot near a darkened bodega, killing the engine. We piled out, the 110th moving with the synchronized efficiency of a military unit.
The street was quiet. Too quiet. No traffic, no pedestrians, just the ambient glow of streetlights and the distant sound of the city.
"Radios on," Reacher said quietly. We all activated our earpieces. "Neagley, you're with me. We take point. O'Donnell and Swan, you're second element—follow fifty meters back. Frank and Karla, you're rear security and Vance extraction. If we engage hostiles, you get to Vance and protect him at all costs."
"What about me?" Neal asked.
"You stay with the vehicle, engine running, ready for emergency extraction," Reacher said. "If we come back running, you drive. No questions, no hesitation."
"Got it."
"And Neal?" Reacher fixed him with that pale-eyed stare. "If we don't come back in thirty minutes, you call Burke and tell him we're down. Then you take this vehicle and get the hell out of here. Understood?"
Neal swallowed hard. "Understood."
"Good. Let's move."
We advanced through the quiet streets in tactical formation. Reacher and Neagley ahead, moving from shadow to shadow with the practiced stealth of people who'd done this a thousand times. O'Donnell and Swan fifty meters back, weapons ready but not obvious. Karla and I bringing up the rear, constantly scanning our six for threats.
The safe house came into view—a four-story brick building that looked exactly like every other building on the block. Ground-floor windows were barred. Fire escape zigzagged up the side. Single entrance with a security door that probably required a keycode.
And parked across the street, engine running, were two black SUVs.
"Contact," Reacher's voice came through my earpiece. "Two vehicles, probable hostile. No visible occupants—either inside the building already or staging for assault."
"I count eight potential hostiles minimum," Neagley added. "Maybe more if they brought backup teams."
"Swan, can you disable those vehicles?" Reacher asked.
"Give me sixty seconds," Swan said. He broke formation, moving low and fast toward the SUVs. Thirty seconds later, I heard two soft pops—suppressed shots. "Tires are flat. They're not driving anywhere."
"Good. Frank, Karla—you're up. Get inside, locate Vance, establish defensive position. We'll handle external threats."
"Roger," I said.
Karla and I moved toward the building entrance. The security door was closed but not locked—someone had already bypassed it. Not good.
I pulled the door open carefully, Glock raised, using the door frame for cover. The interior hallway was dimly lit, stairs leading up. No immediate threats visible.
"Clear," I whispered into my comm. "Proceeding to second floor."
We ascended the stairs as quietly as possible—difficult when wearing tactical boots and carrying weapons, but we managed. The second-floor hallway was empty. According to Burke's intel, Vance was in apartment 2C.
We approached the door. It was slightly ajar.
Very not good.
I signaled Karla—I'd go high, she'd go low. On three. One... two... three.
We breached the door simultaneously, weapons up, clearing angles with the precision Reacher had drilled into us over hundreds of training sessions.
The apartment was small—living room, kitchenette, bedroom visible through an open door. And sprawled on the living room floor was a federal marshal, unconscious or dead, blood pooling beneath him.
"Marshal down," I reported quietly. "Checking vitals."
I knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse. Still alive, but barely. Head wound—blunt force trauma, probably a pistol whip. He'd need medical attention fast.
"Where's Vance?" Karla whispered.
I moved toward the bedroom, Glock raised. The door was open, and inside—
Empty. Bed unmade, window open, fire escape accessible.
"Vance is gone," I said into my comm. "Window's open, fire escape compromised. Either he ran or they took him."
"Check for blood," Reacher ordered. "If they took him violently, there'll be evidence."
Karla examined the window and fire escape landing visible outside. "No blood. No signs of struggle. Frank, look at this."
She pointed to the windowsill. Fresh scratch marks—like someone had climbed out in a hurry but not under force.
"He ran," I said. "Vance heard them coming and went out the window."
"Then he's still in the building or nearby," Reacher said. "Neagley and I are coming up. Swan and O'Donnell, maintain perimeter. If anyone exits that building who isn't us or Vance, you stop them."
"Roger," Swan confirmed.
Footsteps on the stairs—fast, professional. Reacher and Neagley entered the apartment, both immediately assessing the situation.
"Marshal's critical," Reacher said, checking the downed federal agent. "But he'll survive. Neagley, call it in—we need medical now."
"On it." Neagley moved to the hallway, making the call on her cell.
"Frank, Karla—you're tracking Vance," Reacher continued. "He went out that window within the last five minutes, probably heard hostiles breaching the front door. He's scared, running, not thinking tactically. Where would he go?"
I moved to the window, looking out at the fire escape. It led down to an alley, which connected to the street on both ends. "He'd run away from the front entrance—that's where the SUVs were parked. So he'd go..." I traced the alley with my eyes. "East. Toward the commercial area. More people, more witnesses, harder for Walsh's people to grab him in public."
"Then that's where we go," Karla said.
"Wait," Reacher said. He was standing very still, head tilted, listening. "You hear that?"
I listened. Voices. Coming from somewhere in the building. Speaking Russian.
"They're still here," Reacher said quietly. "Searching the building floor by floor."
"How many?" I asked.
"At least three. Maybe more." Reacher moved to the apartment door, checking the hallway. "Frank, Karla—you need to go now. Find Vance before they do. Neagley and I will handle the hostiles in the building."
"You're taking on at least three armed men with just two people?" Karla asked.
"We're taking on however many there are with appropriate force," Reacher corrected. "That's what the 110th does. Now go—every second we waste is another second they might find Vance."
I looked at Karla. She nodded. We moved to the window, climbing out onto the fire escape as quietly as possible.
Behind us, I heard Reacher's voice—loud, commanding, exactly the tone he'd used to make suspects confess during interrogations: "FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
Then gunfire.
---
**The Hunt**
The alley was dark, trash-strewn, the kind of urban space that smelled like piss and regret. Karla and I moved through it with weapons raised, scanning for threats or signs of Vance's passage.
"There," Karla whispered, pointing. A door to a neighboring building was slightly ajar—not forced, but opened from the inside. "He went through there."
We approached carefully. The door led into another apartment building, this one older, more decrepit. The lobby was empty, a single flickering light providing minimal illumination.
"Vance!" I called out, not quite shouting but loud enough to carry. "Marcus Vance! FBI sent us to protect you!"
Nothing. Then, from somewhere above, the sound of a door closing.
"Third floor," Karla said. We ran for the stairs.
Behind us, muffled through walls and distance, more gunfire. Reacher and Neagley were engaged. I trusted them to handle it, but part of me wanted to be there, providing backup.
*Mission first,* I reminded myself. *Vance is the priority.*
We hit the third floor landing and I called out again: "Marcus Vance! My name is Frank Bennett! I'm with Peter Burke's investigation! We're here to help you!"
A door cracked open twenty feet down the hallway. A face peered out—middle-aged, terrified, definitely Marcus Vance from the photos.
"How do I know you're really FBI?" he asked, his voice shaking.
"We're not FBI," I said honestly. "We're private investigators working with Agent Burke. But the people trying to kill you? They're not FBI either. They work for Rebecca Walsh, and they're here to make sure you never testify."
"Walsh—" Vance's face went pale. "She knows where I am?"
"She knows where you were," Karla said. "Which is why we need to move you now. Burke's tactical team is en route, but we're your protection until they arrive."
"How do I know I can trust you?"
"Because if we wanted you dead, you'd already be dead," I said bluntly. "Now come with us or stay here and wait for Walsh's people to find you. Your choice. You have five seconds."
Vance emerged from the apartment, looking like he'd been living on adrenaline and fear for days. He was in sweatpants and a t-shirt, barefoot, clearly having run without thinking.
"We go back the way we came," I said. "Stay between us, keep your head down, do exactly what we say. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. Move."
We descended the stairs in tactical formation—me on point, Vance in the middle, Karla covering our rear. The lobby was still empty. The alley outside beckoned.
We were five steps from the exit when the door burst open.
Two men entered—heavyset, armed, definitely Walsh's people. They saw us immediately.
"GO!" I shouted, pushing Vance behind me.
The first man raised his weapon—a shotgun, terrible choice for close quarters—but he didn't get to fire. I put two rounds into his chest center mass. He went down hard.
The second man was smarter. He dove for cover behind a concrete pillar, returning fire. Bullets impacted the wall behind us, spraying plaster and dust.
Karla fired three controlled shots around the pillar—not hitting him, but keeping him pinned. "Frank, get Vance out!"
"Not leaving you—"
"GET HIM OUT!" She fired again. "I'll cover and extract behind you!"
I grabbed Vance, pulling him toward the back of the lobby where emergency exit signs pointed to a rear entrance. Behind us, Karla was moving, firing, using the lobby's minimal cover to keep the hostile pinned.
The rear exit led to another alley, this one narrower. I pushed Vance ahead of me, my Glock raised, scanning for additional threats.
"Karla, status!" I said into my comm.
"Hostile down, extracting now—" Her voice cut off. Then: "Contact! Two more coming through the front entrance!"
"I'm coming back—"
"NEGATIVE! Protect Vance! That's the mission!" More gunfire. "I can handle two idiots with guns—GO!"
Every instinct screamed at me to go back, to provide backup, to make sure Karla wasn't overwhelmed. But she was right. The mission was protecting Vance. If I went back, I'd be abandoning him to save her—and Karla could handle herself.
*Mission first,* Reacher's voice echoed in my head. *Complete the objective.*
"Come on," I said to Vance, pulling him down the alley toward where Neal was waiting with the extraction vehicle.
We ran. Behind us, gunfire continued—Karla engaging Walsh's people, buying us time with her life potentially on the line.
"Frank, this is Swan," my earpiece crackled. "I've got visual on you and Vance. Coming to meet you—stay on your current vector."
Relief flooded through me. Swan appeared at the alley entrance, his MP5K raised, providing cover as Vance and I reached him.
"Karla?" he asked.
"Engaging two hostiles. She told me to extract Vance and she'd follow."
"Then we trust her," Swan said. "O'Donnell's bringing the vehicle around. Thirty seconds."
I turned back toward the alley, my Glock raised, ready to provide suppressing fire if Karla needed it.
She emerged fifteen seconds later, running hard, no visible injuries. "They're down but not dead. We need to move before—"
An engine roared. One of the black SUVs—the one Swan hadn't disabled—came around the corner, bearing down on us.
"MOVE!" Swan shouted.
We scattered. The SUV didn't slow, clearly intending to run us down or block our escape. It skidded to a stop, doors opening, men piling out.
Four more hostiles. Armed with automatic weapons.
This was about to get very bad.
And then Neal's vehicle came around the opposite corner, accelerating hard. He didn't slow down either—he aimed directly at the hostile SUV and hit it at forty miles per hour.
The impact was tremendous. Metal screeching, glass shattering, both vehicles crumpling. The hostile SUV was knocked sideways, blocking its occupants from exiting.
Neal's vehicle—built like a tank, apparently—backed up, engine still running despite the front-end damage.
"GET IN!" Neal screamed through the broken windshield.
We ran. All four of us—me, Karla, Swan, and Vance—piling into Neal's vehicle. Vance ended up on the floor between seats, curled in a protective ball. Swan took the front passenger seat, his MP5K pointed out the window.
"Where's Reacher?" I asked, suddenly realizing the Major wasn't with us.
"Still in the building with Neagley," Swan said. "They're extracting separately—they had to deal with five hostiles and that marshal who needs medical attention."
Neal hit the gas, the damaged vehicle protesting but accelerating anyway. Behind us, Walsh's people were extracting themselves from the crashed SUV, weapons coming up.
"SWAN!" Neal shouted.
Swan leaned out the window and fired a controlled burst from the MP5K—not at the people, but at the SUV's remaining tires and engine block. The vehicle died, smoke pouring from under the hood.
"That'll slow them down," Swan said with satisfaction.
We careened through residential streets, Neal driving with one hand, the other hand bleeding from where he'd hit the airbag during the crash. But he was smiling—actually smiling, the adrenaline junkie.
"That was insane!" Vance shouted from the floor. "You people are insane!"
"We're the 110th," Karla said, checking her weapon. "Insane is basically our job description."
My phone rang—Reacher.
"Status," he said without preamble.
"Vance secured, extracting to rally point. Encountered six hostiles total, four down, two unknown status. You?"
"Five hostiles neutralized, marshal is stable and receiving medical attention. Burke's tactical team just arrived—they're securing the building and treating wounded." He paused. "Good work, Frank. You completed the mission."
"Karla did most of the work," I said. "She engaged four hostiles while I extracted Vance."
"Then Karla gets commendation and you both get to brief Burke on what happened." Reacher's tone shifted slightly. "But Frank? Walsh is still out there. She sent at least eleven people to kill one witness. That's desperation. She's going to try again."
"Then we'll be ready," I said.
"You better be. Because next time, she might not send people. She might come herself." He hung up.
---
**The Debrief - 0143 Hours**
Burke's office at FBI headquarters was crowded—the 110th assembled, Neal still bleeding from his hand but refusing medical attention, and Marcus Vance sitting in a chair looking like he'd seen the face of death and barely escaped.
Which, to be fair, he had.
Burke stood at the head of the table, looking tired but satisfied. "Eleven hostiles neutralized or captured. One federal marshal recovering from head trauma but expected to survive. And Marcus Vance alive and ready to testify." He looked at each of us. "That's extraordinary work."
"That's the 110th," Reacher said simply.
"I'm starting to believe the stories I've heard about your unit." Burke pulled up crime scene photos on his laptop. "The hostiles at the safe house are already talking. All of them confirm Walsh ordered the hit on Vance. Combined with the testimony from the warehouse guards and the evidence you collected tonight—we have enough to charge Walsh with conspiracy to commit murder, witness tampering, money laundering, racketeering, and about fifteen other federal crimes."
"If you can find her," Neagley pointed out.
"When we find her," Burke corrected. "We've issued alerts at every airport, train station, and bus terminal. Her credit cards are flagged, her bank accounts are frozen. She can't run forever."
"She can if she has resources we don't know about," O'Donnell said. "Five billion dollars buys a lot of escape routes. Fake passports, private planes, safe houses in countries without extradition treaties."
"Which is why we need to find her before she can use those resources," Burke said. "And that's where I need your help." He looked at Reacher. "The 110th operates outside normal channels. You can pursue leads that would take us weeks to get approval for. You can monitor Walsh's known associates without warrant restrictions. You can—"
"Break laws in service of justice?" Reacher interrupted.
"I was going to say 'operate in legal gray areas,'" Burke said carefully. "But yes. Essentially."
Reacher considered this. "What's the arrangement?"
"You find Walsh. You alert us to her location. We execute the arrest." Burke leaned forward. "I'm not asking you to be vigilantes. I'm asking you to be investigators doing what you do best—finding people who don't want to be found."
"And if we find her first? Before we can alert you?"
"Then you maintain surveillance and wait for backup," Burke said firmly. "Walsh is armed, dangerous, and desperate. I don't want civilians getting killed trying to apprehend her."
"We're not civilians," Neagley said. "We're former military investigators."
"Who are currently working as private security consultants," Burke corrected. "Which means you have no arrest authority and no legal protection if something goes wrong. So I'm asking—begging, actually—please don't try to be heroes. Find her, tell me where she is, let my people do the dangerous part."
Reacher looked at each of us, silent communication passing between the team. Finally, he nodded. "We'll find her. And we'll coordinate with you when we do. But Burke? We need access to her financial records, known associates, travel history—everything you have."
"Already prepared." Burke pulled out a flash drive. "This is everything we know about Rebecca Walsh. Banking, real estate, family connections, law school classmates, former colleagues, even her gym membership. If she contacts anyone in this file, we'll know about it."
O'Donnell took the flash drive. "I'll need twelve hours to analyze this properly."
"You have six," Reacher said. "Walsh has a head start. Every hour we waste is another hour she's making herself harder to find."
"Understood."
Burke stood. "I'll let you all get to work. But one more thing—" He looked at me specifically. "Frank, your brother saved your life tonight. That vehicular intervention was completely reckless and probably saved Vance from being killed." He turned to Neal. "Which means I should suspend you for violating about a dozen protocols."
Neal paled. "Peter—"
"But I'm not going to," Burke continued. "Because what you did was brave, necessary, and exactly the kind of quick thinking that closed this case. So instead, I'm giving you a commendation. And a week of desk duty while your hand heals."
Neal looked at his bandaged hand—the building's medic had finally forced him to accept treatment. "Desk duty?"
"Desk duty," Burke confirmed. "Unless you'd prefer suspension?"
"Desk duty sounds great," Neal said quickly.
"Thought so." Burke headed for the door, then paused. "The 110th? Thank you. For everything. We couldn't have done this without you."
After he left, we sat in silence for a moment.
"Well," Swan finally said. "That was a hell of a night."
"That was a standard Tuesday," Reacher corrected. "Now let's get some rest. O'Donnell starts analysis in six hours. Everyone else—sleep, eat, prepare for the hunt. Because Walsh is out there, and we're going to find her."
"And then?" Karla asked.
"And then we finish what we started," Reacher said. "The 110th doesn't leave cases incomplete."
---
We filed out of Burke's office, exhaustion finally catching up with all of us. In the hallway, Karla caught my arm.
"Frank, we need to talk."
"About what?"
"About how you almost got yourself killed trying to come back for me," she said quietly. "About how I told you to complete the mission and you almost disobeyed because of—" She gestured vaguely between us. "Because of this. Whatever this is."
"You were engaging four hostiles," I said. "I wasn't going to leave you."
"You were going to compromise the mission to save me," she corrected. "Frank, I love that about you. I love that you're protective and loyal and willing to risk everything for people you care about. But it can't interfere with operations. We learned that three years ago."
"This is different—"
"It's not different," she interrupted gently. "It's the same problem we had during our deployment. We care about each other so much that we make tactical decisions based on emotion instead of mission requirements." She moved closer. "Frank, I need to know you can separate the personal from professional. That when we're on operations, you'll complete the objective even if it means I'm in danger."
"I don't know if I can do that," I admitted.
"Then we have a problem." Karla's expression was serious. "Because I can't work with you—can't be with you—if every operation turns into you trying to save me instead of completing the mission. That gets people killed. That gets witnesses like Vance killed."
She was right. I knew she was right. But acknowledging it didn't make it easier.
"I'll work on it," I said finally.
"You need to do more than work on it," she said. "You need to fix it. Because Frank, I'm in this—with you, with the 110th, with whatever complicated arrangement we're building. But I need to know you trust me to handle myself."
"I do trust you—"
"Then prove it." She kissed me softly. "Next time I tell you to complete the mission while I handle hostiles, you do it. No hesitation. No almost coming back. You trust my skills and you complete the objective. Deal?"
"Deal," I said, though part of me knew it would be the hardest promise I'd ever made to keep.
"Good." She stepped back. "Now, I believe I promised to show you exactly how much I've missed you once the operation was complete."
"Karla, we've been awake for twenty-four hours—"
"And I'm still wired on adrenaline and the fact that we both survived." Her smile turned predatory. "So unless you're too tired?"
I definitely wasn't too tired.
"My apartment or yours?" I asked.
"Elizabeth's probably at yours waiting to make sure you came home alive," Karla said. "And I'm not ready to share you with her just yet. So my hotel. Twenty minutes."
"I'll follow you."
She kissed me again—harder this time, promising things that made my exhaustion evaporate—and headed for the parking garage.
I pulled out my phone to text Elizabeth, letting her know I was alive and would be home later.
Her response came immediately: *I know where you're going and who you're with. Have fun. Use protection. Come home eventually.*
Then: *Also—good work tonight. The evidence you collected is going to dismantle Walsh's entire organization. I'm proud of you.*
And finally: *But seriously, use protection. I'm not ready to explain complex polyamorous arrangements to potential offspring.*
I smiled despite my exhaustion. Elizabeth understood. She always understood.
I headed for the parking garage, where the Mustang—somehow undamaged despite the night's chaos—waited.
Karla was right. The operation was complete. Vance was safe. The evidence was secured.
Now we had six hours before the hunt for Walsh resumed.
And I intended to spend every minute of it reminding Karla Dixon exactly why three years apart had been far too long.
---
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