Page 41 of Bulletproof Jack: Hunting Lee Child's Jack Reacher

Kim reached inside her jacket and pulled her weapon from its holster.

She held it concealed by her side as she plowed through the spectators, headed toward Westwood, continuing her slow, relentless forward momentum.

Three batches of fireworks exploded, one immediately following the other, drawing Kim’s attention to the sky. Boom! Boom! Boom!

The crowd whooped appreciation with loud applause and screaming high-fives for the spectacular color bursts, paced rapidly, growing more intense with each volley.

Westwood’s boots with the speckled laces were only a few feet away from her now. She was almost there.

One of the tourists shoved toward an opening in the yellow ponchos for a better view of the show. A momentary gap opened in the crowd just as he slipped on the wet pavement and caromed into Kim, knocking her to the ground.

She landed hard on her left side, holding her weapon off the wet pavers. The man who knocked her over didn’t seem to realize what he’d done. He kept going without a backward glance.

From her position on the ground, Kim’s focus returned to the boots. Craning her neck for a clearer view of Westwood from a new vantage point, seeking a chance to confirm his identity.

This time, her effort was successful. Definitely the same man whose photos she’d found online. TheLA Timesscience reporter. Ashley Westwood, PhD.

She saw him clearly through the gaps between legs and boots beneath yellow plastic ponchos.

Westwood’s body rested on the ground against the wrought iron fencing on the edge of the rowdy horde.

Eyes open. Lips slack.

Rivulets of water ran down his lifeless face from the falls’ unrelenting mist.

The yellow plastic hood was bunched around his neck.

Curly gray hair was plastered to his scalp.

His wiry beard resembled wet steel wool.

The bullet had come from a distance, entering through his back. Blood soaked his clothes inside the opaque poncho and ran beneath the clinging plastic onto wet concrete.

A pink-tinged pool of watery blood widened beneath the body.

People had shifted aside providing him space to crumple.

No screaming. No panic. Nothing.

No indication that nearby revelers had noticed the man die.

Before she could rise from the cold, wet pavement, another round of fireworks exploded overhead, sending showers of red, white, and blue sparklers raining across the night sky.

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Chapter 18

Friday, June 3

Niagara Falls, Ontario, CA

Kim pushed herself off the wet pavement. She whipped her head around to look for Russell. No luck. She couldn’t wait.

“Move!” she ordered as she shoved and elbowed her way through the crowd toward Westwood’s body. “Coming through! Out of the way!”

Spectators, eyes toward the sky, engrossed in the show, moved aside with annoyed glances.

One guy shoved back, declaring, “I was here first.”

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