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  THE JACK REACHER CASES (THE MAN BEHIND THE GUN)

  THE JACK REACHER CASES

  BOOK 20

  DAN AMES

  A USA TODAY BESTSELLING BOOK

  Book One in The JACK REACHER Cases

  CLICK HERE TO BUY NOW

  Copyright © 2023 by Dan Ames

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  PRAISE FOR DAN AMES

  "Packed to the gills with hard-hitting action and a non-stop plot." –Jacksonville News

  “A fast-paced, unpredictable mystery with an engaging narrator and a rich cast of original supporting characters.” –New York Times bestselling author Thomas Perry

  "Dan Ames writes fast-paced, gripping tales that capture you from Page One and hold you enthralled till the last word. He brings a strong, clear voice to whichever genre he chooses. This guy is one hell of a storyteller. Watch for him." -Amazon Review

  Dan Ames' writing reminds me of the great thriller writers -- lean, mean, no nonsense prose that gets straight to the point and keeps you turning those pages.” –Robert Gregory Browne

  These Jack Reacher stories are packed with action and unforgettable twists and turns. Great reads! -B & N Review

  “Cuts like a knife." -Savannah Morning News

  “Grabs you early on and doesn't let go." -Tom Schreck

  “From its opening lines, Daniel S. Ames and his private eye novel DEAD WOOD recall early James Ellroy: a fresh attitude and voice and the heady rush of boundless yearning and ambition. Ames delivers a vivid evocation of time and place in a way that few debut authors achieve, nailing the essence of his chosen corner of high-tone Michigan. He also deftly dodges the pitfalls that make so much contemporary private detective fiction a mixed bag and nostalgia-freighted misfire. Ames’ detective has family; he’s steady. He’s not another burned-out, booze-hound hanging on teeth and toenails to the world and smugly wallowing in his own ennui. This is the first new private eye novel in a long time that just swept me along for the ride. Ames is definitely one to watch.” — Craig McDonald, Edgar-nominated author

  “Dan Ames pulls off a very difficult thing: he re-imagines what a hardboiled mystery can be, and does it with style, thrills and humor. This is the kind of book mystery readers are clamoring for, a fast-paced story with great heart and not a cliché to be found.” -- Jon A. Jackson, author of Badger Games

  “Dan Ames is a sensation among readers who love fast-paced thrillers.” – Mystery Tribune

  “A smart detective story stuffed with sharp prose and great action.” –Indie Reader

  CONTENTS

  THE MAN BEHIND THE GUN

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part II

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part III

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part IV

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  Also by Dan Ames

  THE MAN BEHIND THE GUN

  THE MAN BEHIND THE GUN

  The Jack Reacher Cases #20

  By

  Dan Ames

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  So many co-eds, so little time.

  Bradford Halpern, or ‘Coach Brad,’ as he was known to most, smiled as he watched the two university students cross the street in front of him. Both of them were female; one was tall and slender and beautiful, the other was short and stocky but with a pretty face.

  Even though he was ten years their senior, he still felt like he was in college. As a student. And technically, he was a part of the college. As assistant coach of the university’s women’s lacrosse team, he was employed by the university. Of course, he was smart enough not to get involved with any of his current players.

  That was a huge no-no.

  However, after they graduated, well, if they stayed in the area then they were two consenting adults and their relationship had nothing to do with the player’s scholarship. Fiddling with a player who’s under scholarship is like a boss sleeping with an employee. Lawsuit 101.

  Not a good idea.

  Especially in the eyes of the law.

  The university, Chesapeake College, was considered a distant suburb of DC, close to the ocean but far enough to avoid the incredibly awful traffic of the capitol. In some ways it was even more exclusive than some of the Ivy League colleges, but not as well known.

  That was part of its allure.

  Coach Brad lived in a condo overlooking Chesapeake Bay. He didn’t bring many friends or co-workers or students he knew to the condo because they would be jealous and probably ask a lot of stupid questions.

  Questions for which he didn’t always have an answer.

  The damn place had cost him over a half million bucks and the homeowners’ association fee was nearly seven hundred dollars. Per month. Plus property taxes, it was no small nut to crack every thirty days.

  Another place he would never bring co-workers was down to the marina where he kept his boat. It was a downeast picnic boat, nearly ten years old, but even with that many years on it, it was still worth six figures.

  The boat would prompt lots and lots of questions.

  At this point in his life, Brad hated questions.

  He pulled his Audi SUV, two years old and on a lease, into his garage. Only the high-end condos had their own garage and he had insisted on getting one because he’d known he would be driving a better than average vehicle by the time he took possession of the property.

  Brad locked the car and took the elevator up to the third floor. He ordinarily used the stairwell but he’d had a good workout in the gym after practice and his legs were shot.

  He let himself into the condo and glanced out at the living room. The big picture window provided a great view of the sound, and today there were a few high cirrus clouds reflecting the close of day and providing a citrus-colored shadow to the coast.

  Brad went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of red wine. He’d read somewhere it was good for your heart and at the rate he was going, his heart was no doubt in perfect shape. It had been alarming a few weeks back when he’d had to empty his recycling bin. The number of wine bottles was surprising.

  Brad remembered asking himself, had I really consumed all that wine? By myself?

  He’d tried to recall if he’d had a party and that had been the reason so much wine had been imbibed, but no, there’d been no party.

  Ah, he thought, it’s just stress.

  He’d made a big move with his side hustle and frankly, it had stressed him out.

  Now, Brad poured himself a big glass of the red wine, chugged it and then refilled the glass. The wine went all the way to the top of the rim and he had to bend down and slurp some so as not to spill any on the counter.

  He smiled, remembering that scene in the movie Jaws where Chief Brody poured himself a whole water glass with wine while Richard Dreyfuss tried to tell him the wine needed to breathe.

  Brad wondered about the comparison: Brody had been under a great deal of stress with the shark attacks.

  And he, Brad, was stressed, too.

  In his mind, he’d never been happier. The money was rolling in and he was so far ahead in his investment and retirement plans he couldn’t believe it. Instead of having to work until he was sixty-five (if he lived that long) he was looking at retiring at fifty or even maybe forty-five. Pay off the condo, buy a car with cash and live off the interest of his investments.

  And still be young enough to catch plenty of college-aged tail.

  It was the American dream and the last time he checked, he was 100% American.

  It would all happen, as long as no one figured out exactly where the money was coming from.

  Brad checked his watch. He had a phone call later with his partner and he didn’t want to be too drunk. Although it was supposed to be a fairly routine chat, kind of a state of the union.

  At least, that’s what he figured.

  His partner had scheduled the call and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It was a call they had on a fairly regular basis, on burner cell phones.

  Brad went into his bedroom and changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He was already getting hungry and was thinking about ordering Chinese food again. He’d found a great place that delivered but he’d already eaten there twice in the last week. There wasn’t any point to keep working out if he was just going to eat badly every chance he got.

  No, tonight, he would try to eat a salad and nothing else but he also knew if he kept drinking the wine he would probably change his m ind and might find himself devouring a couple of cheeseburgers at Five Guys around midnight.

  He laughed at the thought. Still, a couple of burgers sounded good right about now, he thought.

  By the time he was done changing, the glass of wine was empty so he went back into the kitchen and got a refill.

  The sky over the sound was gorgeous and he strolled to the window.

  He always thought of his boat when he looked out at the dark water. He couldn’t wait to get back out there–

  The bullet crashed through the glass window and thudded deep into Brad’s chest. He seemed to cave inward and he took a step back, his knees bent and he had the momentary thought he was having a heart attack until the hole in the picture window told him what had really happened.

  The second bullet came through the window about an inch apart from the first. It too struck Brad in the chest and this time it tore into his heart and blew the muscle apart.

  Brad rocked backward and fell onto the floor on his back. The glass of wine went flying through the air, leaving a trail of red wine on the ceiling as it quickly crashed to the floor.

  On his back, Brad looked at the ceiling.

  His last thought before he died was: Is that wine on the ceiling, or my blood?

  CHAPTER TWO

  As always, the Guggenheim Museum in New York created a certain sensation within Lauren Pauling. She knew all about the criticisms of the structure, that it wasn’t practical, but she loved the design. Loved how it felt to walk in a spiral, while studying the art on the walls and forgetting the trials and tribulations of real life.

  Frank Lloyd Wright had designed the place and although she was neither a fan nor a detractor of the architect, she always felt that he had gotten this structure just right.

  Pauling was at the Guggenheim after several conversations with a good friend of hers working in the New York office of the FBI.

  “He wants to meet you,” her friend had said. The FBI agent’s name was Henry Fordham and back when Pauling had been with the Bureau, they had worked together several times, earning each other’s respect in the process.

  Fordham had explained that another former FBI agent, now working in the Department of Defense in a counterintelligence and security role, had asked to meet with Pauling.

  “Why me?” she had asked.

  “I told him you were one of the best agents I’d ever worked with and you were no longer with the Bureau, that you’d started and sold a private security firm and were now freelancing.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?” Pauling had asked, with a laugh. “Freelancing?”

  Fordham had just laughed.

  “What’s this guy’s name?” Pauling asked.

  “Luke Williams,” Fordham said. “Big guy. Red hair. You can’t miss him.”

  Now, Pauling entered the museum and walked over to the first installation. It was a series of figurative paintings that also exhibited a pop art sensibility. She studied the pieces and then a voice behind her said, “Ms. Pauling?”

  She turned and saw a giant of a man, easily seven or eight inches over six feet with a shock of red hair brushed to the side. He had light blue eyes behind rimless eyeglasses, a sharp nose and a thin mouth. But when he smiled, the cool face showed some warmth.

  “Please, call me Lauren. You’re Luke?”

  “I am,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.” He looked at the piece behind her. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

  “That’s all right. I’d gotten everything I could out of it already.”

  He studied her, almost a quizzical look on his face.

  “Walk and talk?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  They slowly wound their way up the spiral and Williams talked in a soft voice.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, by the way. And I apologize for the subterfuge, it all feels very spy novel, doesn’t it?”

  “A bit,” Pauling admitted. “But big brother is always watching.” She turned to him. “Unless of course, you are big brother.”

  Williams laughed. “No, I’m not even little brother. I’m really just an investigator who’s been put in charge of a highly sensitive case and I’ve been authorized to go outside the normal channels for help. Which is why I’m here.”

  Now Pauling was intrigued.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “An individual was murdered at a university just outside of DC. My team seems to feel there may be more to the case than the local police are equipped to handle. It was determined that because of our high-profile nature it might be best to have a neutral party work the case on our behalf.”

  Pauling stopped walking. She pretended to look at a sculpture of a butterfly.

  “Tell me what I’m missing,” she said. “Can’t you just monitor the case from afar? Are you afraid the local cops are going to miss something?” And then a second thought struck her. “Or are you afraid of something they might find and you want to minimize any possible damage to individuals you may be protecting?”

  Williams glanced at her. “Fordham did say you were sharp.”

  “So which is it, exactly?” she asked.

  “Neither,” Williams said. He continued strolling and Pauling walked next to him. She wasn’t sure she believed him.

  He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “We did some research on your fees back when you were with your security firm. We’ll pay you double. Even though we know you are, shall we say, financially independent, there is a hope it will sway you in taking on this assignment.

  “Bribery will get you everywhere,” Pauling joked, and made no move to take the envelope. “But I actually need more information. What is my official standing? Am I free to talk to the local cops as your representative?”

  “Officially, no. We would prefer you approach the job as a private investigator, and the identity of your client is confidential. However, unofficially, we will support you in any way possible.” He tapped the envelope. “In addition to the hefty check there is a contact list of people whom you can use as a resource. Computer investigation, DNA, fingerprints, identity analysis, license plates, etc. You have all of our tools and people, just behind the scenes. There’s also a brief summary of what little we know, so far.”

  Pauling thought about what he was saying.

  “Plausible deniability, for you as well,” she said.

  Williams gave a look Pauling read as disappointed. “Please, that’s not how I operate.”

  She’d heard that one before.

  “Inside the envelope is the address of the university, and the initial police report on the murder. We’d like you to start as soon as possible. You can use one of our vehicles or your own and we’ll reimburse you for expenses.”

  For a moment, Pauling considered telling the big redhead that she needed time to think about it. But in her heart, she wanted to do it. Besides, she had sold her firm to give her the freedom to do what she wanted. Her significant other, Michael Tallon, was working an assignment in Mexico and she herself was between projects.

  This case was coming at just the right moment.

  She held her hand out for the envelope.

  “Okay, I’ll get started tomorrow.”

  “Excellent,” Williams said, a broad smile on his face.

  “I think you’re going to be just what we need in terms of boots on the ground.”

 

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