Page 39 of Bulletproof Jack: Hunting Lee Child's Jack Reacher

Kim left the stairwell and merged into the group of tourists sporting cheap yellow rain ponchos milling about like twinkie snack cakes or minions in a kid’s movie.

The oversized hooded ponchos protected wearers from the breath-stealing, relentless cold shower thrown from the waterfalls, which was okay.

They also effectively disguised and concealed sex, size, and shape, which wasn’t okay. Not even remotely.

The oversized yellow ponchos concealed too well.

Any one of the yellow-clad could be Westwood.

Any of the others might be armed and dangerous.

Kim considered waiting for Russell. In situations like this, two agents were better than one.

Her natural instincts leaned toward self-preservation. When she had the option. Which she didn’t have here.

People poured into the tunnel at the speed of racing turtles. Soon, the already congested observation deck would be at full capacity.

Propelled by urgency, Kim snagged a yellow poncho and slipped it over her head. As she walked, she slid her arms through the plastic sleeves and raised the rain hood.

The poncho concealed her appearance as effectively as the others. Westwood wouldn’t see her coming. Which could be helpful.

As she crossed the tunnel rock, Kim slid along the edges of the crowd. She walked through deep cold puddles that soaked her shoes and sent shivers through her body. She clenched her teeth to stop the chattering.

Weaving carefully along the wet stone floor toward the open observation deck at the end of the tunnel, she continually scanned for Westwood’s sturdy shape and curly beard beneath the yellow plastic hoods.

She slipped twice. Only the tightly packed bodies swarming through the tunnel kept her upright.

She finally broke through the tunnel’s exit and emerged onto the frigid, wet air of the observation deck.

Along the outside edges, the deck was surrounded by a decorative safety barrier. A short concrete wall ran along the edge. Decorative stone pillars were placed at regular intervals. Vertical wrought iron fencing was placed between the pillars.

On the other side of the barrier was a sloped apron of green space and sporadic rocky outcroppings leading straight down to the rough shoreline of the Niagara River beyond Horseshoe Falls.

Younger kids climbed on the iron railings slicked by the relentless spray while their parents chatted among themselves, ignoring the obvious danger.

Nearby, exuberant teens engaged in good-natured horseplay sat astride the rails and pillars, daring each other to jump.

A determined suicide could easily climb over and plunge down into the Great Niagara Falls before anyone could stop him. There was no official count of suicides from this point, Kim guessed. The Chamber of Commerce didn’t like to publicize such things.

Out of sight, out of mind, perhaps. Even so, suicides were not rare.

Was Westwood planning to jump? Why would he do that? He’d sounded okay on the phone. He was a journalist tracking a story. Nothing he’d learned so far should have made him suicidal. Surely.

Kim glanced back toward the tunnel. The horde of yellow ponchos bobbed and weaved and pushed toward the cascade of water falling close to the north side of the wrought iron barrier. Phones were poised for photos of soaked visitors.

The throng of plastic-clad spectators continued to funnel through the tunnel’s opening from the elevators, increasing the growing mass packing the observation deck like canned meat.

The milling herd didn’t feel threatening so far. They seemed to be content to socialize and wait for the show to begin.

But panic could lead to a deadly stampede through the tunnel elevators from which there was no exit. Or over the railings to the slippery, wet ground. Everywhere she looked, Kim saw disasters waiting to happen.

She shivered uncontrollably now, from the cold and wet as well as the imminently dangerous vibe she felt all the way down to her bones.

Kim needed to find Westwood and move to a safer location to interview him. Sooner was better.

She turned a slow three-hundred-sixty degrees, scanning the yellow-clad tourists, seeking a glimpse of the man she now imagined a harmless nebbish.

Her eye level settled about mid-chest for the men and somewhere around the yellow hoods on most women. Faces were mostly obscured by the brimming ponchos packed in on all sides.

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