Page 31 of Bulletproof Jack: Hunting Lee Child's Jack Reacher

Friday night in Morin’s favorite New York City restaurant was as predictable as sunrise. Which was exactly the way he liked it.

From his usual perch at the bar, Morin had placed the four cherry stems parallel on the cocktail napkin beside the cell phone. He’d tied knots in the stems with his tongue after he chewed the boozy fruit floating in his drink.

He preferred a Rye Manhattan, but tonight, he’d specifically requested Canadian whisky in tribute to the task at hand.

The bartender had offered food several times, but Morin declined. His head was too clear already because he’d received three brief texts.

The first when Fox arrived in Canada. Another when Fox had collected the necessary supplies.

The third had said simply,target acquired. Which meant Fox had located Westwood.

Nothing since. Which was not what Morin had expected. If Fox had located Westwood, why was the man still alive?

The delay was nerve-racking.

Which was why Morin had consumed the four Perfect Manhattans. So far.

The bartender offered food again and this time Morin ordered steak and fries with his fifth drink, simply to avoid the disapproving stares from hungry patrons expecting him to vacate his seat.

Before the bartender had a chance to deliver the cocktail, the guy occupying the stool next to Morin left.

A tall, exceptionally attractive woman slid gracefully onto the warm black leather. The sort of woman every man sees the moment she enters the room.

Morin noticed everything about her, all at once.

Her little black cocktail dress, standard New York evening attire for a certain set. Red pumps with four-inch heels. Sleek dark hair styled by the most expensive cutter in Manhattan.

Morin’s judgment snapped her into the proper box. Sophisticated, educated. Wealthy, of course.

And pure poison.

She was the kind of woman who, in another time, would have smoked her cigarette from an opera length slender silver holder resting between pouty red lips.

In short, she was exactly Morin’s type. An old-fashioned femme fatale. A seductive woman certain to cause disaster for any man involved with her.

Morin knew for sure.

Because they’d been lovers once, a long time ago.

When they were young and foolish and unattached.

She’d attached herself to a series of more successful men since then, while Morin had married a woman more suited to be a diplomat’s wife.

She had become Audrey Ruston, Special Assistant to Assistant Secretary of State Derrick Braxton.

After half a moment too long, Morin felt like slapping himself on the forehead. Maybe he’d had one too many cocktails. Of course, he should have anticipated the play.

Brax was a belt and suspenders guy.

Naturally, Fox wouldn’t be the only assassin deployed on this assignment. Maybe Morin had had too many Manhattans after all. Not that he’d admit it.

“Audrey,” Morin said while signaling the bartender on her behalf. “Aren’t you supposed to be globe-trotting with Brax at taxpayer expense, saving the world and all that?”

The bartender arrived. Audrey ordered a dirty gin martini.

“Iwaswith Brax in Quan. Horrid place, by the way. Can’t figure out why anyone would go to war over it,” she said, wrinkling her nose as she turned to face him. “He sent me back to check on you. You’re making him nervous.”

“Why?” Morin asked, as if her words hadn’t sent a painful chill straight through him like an icy spike to the groin.

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