Page 45 of Bulletproof Jack: Hunting Lee Child's Jack Reacher

A crowd, maybe, standing outside at night.

Perhaps near Niagara Falls, since Fox had said Westwood was there.

Why did Fox choose such an exposed location? A kill in a place like that wouldn’t go unnoticed. Fox had taken a hell of a risk.

The man-sized lump could have been Westwood’s body lifeless on the wet pavement. Or it could have been a bulging black trash bag. Or a tired kid taking a nap.

The shot was snapped quickly and without Fox’s usual level of care. Even after several attempts to manipulate the image, Morin couldn’t definitively see that the lump was Westwood, dead or alive.

Morin shook his head. The cocktails had infiltrated his brain, making his thinking too fuzzy.

He could not confirm that Fox had killed the right man from this bad photo.

Which meant he couldn’t authorize payment. Brax would have his head.

The downward spiral of his thoughts gained speed as he reached the inevitable conclusions at the bottom.

Morin couldn’t pay Fox for unconfirmed services rendered.

His failure to pay meant Fox would discontinue the hunt for the scientist and the prototype.

Not good.

Brax would be pissed.

Which would give Audrey Ruston the advantage.

Also not good.

On the other hand, if Morin did pay for the kill and Fox had failed to eliminate Westwood, Brax would be livid.

Morin wouldn’t stay on the team for sure. Brax couldn’t and shouldn’t allow such incompetence to stand.

Audrey Ruston was one ruthless bitch. Always had been. She lacked whatever gene that gave most humans the capacity for forgiveness and remorse.

Which was the main reason he’d ended his relationship with her years ago. She was, simply put, too cold. No man had ever left Audrey before. She wouldn’t stand for it. She had vowed to make him pay.

Audrey’s quest to replace Morin had become a matter of personal pride for her. She would have Morin’s job. For sure. No matter how long it took or what was required to accomplish the feat.

If Morin managed to thwart her this time, her thirst for vengeance could become even worse.

He shuddered.

Without asking, the bartender brought another Manhattan. Morin should have sent it back. He didn’t.

He sipped slowly, crunching his gray cells to concentrate and think things through, discarding every option that popped into his head.

He could imagine no viable alternatives.

He needed proof of Westwood’s death. Nothing less would suffice. He couldn’t move forward without confirmation.

How could he get it?

A notification flashed across the phone’s screen. Another terse message from Fox, demanding payment. Morin heard the icy cold tone in his head.

Well?

Morin swigged the last of his cocktail, tied the sixth and final cherry stem, and tried to find a better answer. No luck.

---