Without Fail: (Jack Reacher 6): A Jack Reacher Novel [Paperback]

Lee Child has inexorably pulled himself into the upper echelons of thriller writing with a series of tough, lean and perfectly crafted novels featuring ex-US military cop Jack Reacher. Without Fail is the sixth outing for the resourceful Reacher, and far from showing any signs of incipient fatigue, the series just goes from strength to strength as Child hones his abilities.

As in such previous books as Die Trying and The Killing Floor, Jack Reacher is a maverick. He carries no ID, and any place he hangs his hat is home. And while he's more than capable of dealing out massive violence to the bad guys who take him on, he's a sucker for a plea for help--particularly from a woman. This time, he's asked by the persuasive Ms Froelich to help her protect the Vice-President of the United States from an assassination attempt that's on the cards. So Reacher, with only the clothes he stands up in, finds himself deep in the rarefied world of the United States Secret Service in Washington, where his problems come from the stiff-necked bureaucrats as much as from the utterly ruthless killer who soon has Reacher in his sights as much as the Vice-President.

If the plot here is a tad reminiscent of the Clint Eastwood movie In the Line of Fire, that's no coincidence--Child has his characters discuss the echoes of their situation with that film at length. But, boy, does Child ring some powerful variations of his own on the theme: this the most kinetic Reacher novel yet, full of the brilliantly orchestrated set-pieces that are a specialité de la maison with the author (the final climax in a snowy ravine is a pip). The action here is relentless, but never at the expense of character--Child is canny enough to keep dark shadows from Reacher's past a key part of his motivation. And the skill that the British-born Child is so proud of--his faultless evocation of the American landscape--is the final icing on a very tempting cake. --Barry Forshaw --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

‘Lee Child writes edgy American thrillers to rival the likes of Thomas Harris and John Grisham’

'Lee Child's protagonist, Jack Reacher, is a hero in the Dirty Harry style...Produces a surprising twist when it's least expected'

'Jack Reacher is a most magnetic creation, tough, cool and ultimately moral'

‘A good, edge-of-the-seat thriller’

Jack Reacher is back: this time, he's put in the line of fire.

Jack Reacher walks alone.No job, no ID, no last known address.Doesn’t want to be found.But he never turns down a plea for help.Especially from a woman.

Now a woman tracks him down. A woman serving at the very heart of US power. A woman who needs Reacher’s native cunning, surly charm and controlled aggression to help her with her new job.

Her job? Putting herself in the line of fire. Protecting the Vice-President of the United States.

Her problem? Someone wants the VP dead.

Jack Reacher is back: this time, he's put in the line of fire.

Jack Reacher walks alone. No job, no ID, no last known address. Doesn’t want to be found. But he never turns down a plea for help. Especially from a woman.

Now a woman tracks him down. A woman serving at the very heart of US power. A woman who needs Reacher’s native cunning, surly charm and controlled aggression to help her with her new job.

Her job? Putting herself in the line of fire. Protecting the Vice-President of the United States. Her problem? Someone wants the VP dead.

LEE CHILD is British, but after he was made redundant from his job in television, he moved with his family from Cumbria to the United States to start a new career as a writer of American thrillers. He now divides his time between France and New York. All his novels feature the maverick Jack Reacher, and all have been international bestsellers.

They found out about him in July and stayed angry all through August. They tried to kill him in September. It was way too soon. They weren’t ready. The attempt was a failure. It could have been a disaster, but it was actually a miracle. Because nobody noticed.
They used their usual method to get past security and set up a hundred feet from where he was speaking. They used a silencer and missed him by an inch. The bullet must have passed right over his head. Maybe even through his hair, because he immediately raised his hand and patted it back into place as if a gust of wind had disturbed it. They saw it over and over again, afterwards, on television. He raised his hand and patted his hair. He did nothing else. He just kept on with his speech, unaware, because by definition a silenced bullet is too fast to see and too quiet to hear. So it missed him and flew on. It missed everybody standing behind him. It struck no obstacles, hit no buildings. It flew on straight and true until its energy was spent and gravity hauled it to earth in the far distance where there was nothing except empty grassland. There was no response. No reaction. Nobody noticed. It was like the bullet had never been fired at all. They didn’t fire again. They were too shaken up.
So, a failure, but a miracle. And a lesson. They spent October acting like the professionals they were, starting over, calming down, thinking, learning, preparing for their second attempt. It would be a better attempt, carefully planned and properly executed, built around technique and nuance and sophistication, and enhanced by unholy fear. A worthy attempt. A creative attempt. Above all, an attempt that wouldn’t fail.
Then November came, and the rules changed completely.

Reacher’s cup was empty but still warm. He lifted it off the saucer and tilted it and watched the sludge in the bottom flow towards him, slow and brown, like river silt.
‘When does it need to be done?’ he asked.
‘As soon as possible,’ she said.
He nodded. Slid out of the booth and stood up.
‘I’ll call you in ten days,’ he said.
‘With a decision?’
He shook his head. ‘To tell you how it went.’
‘I’ll know how it went.’
‘OK, to tell you where to send my money.’
She closed her eyes and smiled. He glanced down at her.
‘You thought I’d refuse?’ he said.
She opened her eyes. ‘I thought you might be a little harder to persuade.’
He shrugged. ‘Like Joe told you, I’m a sucker for a challenge. Joe was usually right about things like that. He was usually right about a lot of things.’
‘Now I don’t know what to say, except thank you.’
He didn’t reply. Just started to move away, but she stood up right next to him and kept him where he was. There was an awkward pause. They stood for a second face to face, trapped by the table. She put out her hand and he shook it. She held on a fraction too long, and then she stretched up tall and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips were soft. Their touch burned him like a tiny voltage.
‘A handshake isn’t enough,’ she said. ‘You’re going to do it for us.’ Then she paused. ‘And you were nearly my brother-in-law.’
He said nothing. Just nodded and shuffled out from behind the table and glanced back once. Then he headed up the stairs and out to the street. Her perfume was on his hand. He walked around to the cabaret lounge and left a note for his friends in their dressing room. Then he headed out to the highway, with ten whole days to find a way to kill the fourth-best-protected person on the planet.

It had started eight hours earlier, like this: team leader M. E. Froelich came to work on that Monday morning, thirteen days after the election, an hour before the second strategy meeting, seven days after the word assassination had first been used, and made her final decision. She set off in search of her immediate superior and found him in the secretarial pen outside his office, clearly on his way to somewhere else, clearly in a hurry. He had a file under his arm and a definite stay back expression on his face. But she took a deep breath and made it clear that she needed to talk right then. Urgently. And off the record and in private, obviously. So he paused a moment and turned abruptly and went back inside his office. He let her step in after him and closed the door behind her, softly enough to make the unscheduled meeting feel a little conspiratorial, but firmly enough to leave her in no doubt he was annoyed about the interruption to his routine. It was just the click of!
a door latch, but it was also an unmistakable message, parsed exactly in the language of office hierarchies everywhere: you better not be wasting my time with this.
He was a twenty-five-year veteran well into his final lap before retirement, well into his middle fifties, the last echo of the old days. He was still tall, still fairly lean and athletic, but greying fast and softening in some of the wrong places. His name was Stuyvesant. Like the last Director-General of New Amsterdam, he would say when the spelling was questioned. Then, acknowledging the modern world, he would say: like the cigarette. He wore Brooks Brothers every day of his life without exception, but he was considered capable of flexibility in his tactics. Best of all, he had never failed. Not ever, and he had been around a long time, with more than his fair share of difficulties. But there had been no failures, and no bad luck, either. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.