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The Enemy [Jack Reacher Series Book 8] [Secure eReader (recommended)/Mobipocket/Microsoft Reader]
eBook by Lee Child
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eBook Category: Suspense/Thriller/Romance
eBook Description:  You're in the Army now, son ... New Year's Day, 1990. The Berlin Wall is coming down. The Cold War is ending. Soon America won't have any enemies left. The Army won't have anybody to fight. Things are going to change. Jack Reacher is the Military Police duty officer on a base in North Carolina when he takes a call reporting a dead soldier in a hot-sheets motel. Reacher tells the local cops to handle it--heart attacks happen all the time. But why is Reacher in North Carolina, instead of Panama, where the action is? Then the dead man turns out to have been a two-star general who should have been in Europe. And when Reacher goes to the general's house to break the news, he finds another corpse: the general's wife. What is he dealing with here? The last echoes of the old world ... or the first shocks of the new?
eBook Publisher: Delacorte, Published: 2004
Fictionwise Release Date: May 2004
This eBook is part of the following series:
Available eBook Formats [Secure eReader (recommended)/Mobipocket/Microsoft Reader - What's this?]: SECURE MOBIPOCKET FORMAT [635 KB], SECURE MICROSOFT READER FORMAT [499 KB] - Requires Microsoft Reader 2.1.1 for PCs, or Microsoft Reader 2.2.2 on Pocket PC 2002 handheld devices. Some older Pocket PCs can be upgraded. Learn More., SECURE EREADER (RECOMMENDED) FORMAT [392 KB]
All formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
Microsoft Reader ISBN, Adobe Acrobat Reader ISBN, MobiPocket Reader ISBN, eReader (recommended) ISBN: 9780440334989
 
"A fabulously suspenseful prequel.... [Lee Child's] best so far." -- Kirkus Reviews, starred review
"Textured, swift, and told in Reacher's inimitably tough voice … Child has few peers in thrillerdom." -- Publishers Weekly, starred review "The best showcase of Child's talent to date. .... one of the best thriller writers at work." -- Rocky Mountain News "The Enemy sizzles with suspense and action. Child sets a breathless pace." -- Orlando Sentinel "A rip-roaring read from the first page to the last ." -- St. Petersburg Times "[Jack Reacher is]. . .the thinking reader's action hero a surprisingly tender combination of chess master and G.I. Joe." -- Seattle Times "Will keep you guessing until the final page." -- Playboy
As serious as a heart attack. Maybe those were Ken Kramer's last words, like a final explosion of panic in his mind as he stopped breathing and dropped into the abyss. He was out of line, in every way there was, and he knew it. He was where he shouldn't have been, with someone he shouldn't have been with, carrying something he should have kept in a safer place. But he was getting away with it. He was playing and winning. He was on top of his game. He was probably smiling. Until the sudden thump deep inside his chest betrayed him. Then everything turned around. Success became instant catastrophe. He had no time to put anything right.
Nobody knows what a fatal heart attack feels like. There are no survivors to tell us. Medics talk about necrosis, and clots, and oxygen starvation, and occluded blood vessels. They predict rapid useless cardiac fluttering, or else nothing at all. They use words like infarction and fibrillation, but those terms mean nothing to us. You just drop dead is what they should say. Ken Kramer certainly did. He just dropped dead, and he took his secrets with him, and the trouble he left behind nearly killed me too.
I was alone in a borrowed office. There was a clock on the wall. It had no second hand. Just an hour hand, and a minute hand. It was electric. It didn't tick. It was completely silent, like the room. I was watching the minute hand, intently. It wasn't moving.
I waited.
It moved. It jumped ahead six degrees. Its motion was mechanical and damped and precise. It bounced once and quivered a little and came to rest.
A minute.
One down, one to go.
Sixty more seconds.
I kept on watching. The clock stayed still for a long, long time. Then the hand jumped again. Another six degrees, another minute, straight-up midnight, and 1989 was 1990.
I pushed my chair back and stood up behind the desk. The phone rang. I figured it was someone calling to wish me a happy new year. But it wasn't. It was a civilian cop calling because he had a dead soldier in a motel thirty miles off-post.
"I need the Military Police duty officer," he said.
I sat down again, behind the desk.
"You got him," I said.
"We've got one of yours, dead."
"One of mine?"
"A soldier," he said.
"Where?"
"Motel, in town."
"Dead how?" I asked.
"Heart attack, most likely," the guy said.
I paused. Turned the page on the army-issue calendar on the desk, from December 31st to January 1st.
"Nothing suspicious?" I said.
"Don't see anything."
"You seen heart attacks before?"
"Lots of them."
"OK," I said. "Call post headquarters."
I gave him the number.
"Happy New Year," I said.
"You don't need to come out?" he said.
"No," I said. I put the phone down. I didn't need to go out. The army is a big institution, a little bigger than Detroit, a little smaller than Dallas, and just as unsentimental as either place....
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