Book : Bad Luck And Trouble (jack Reacher) - Child, Lee

-Titulo Original : Bad Luck And Trouble (jack Reacher)

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THE NEXT BOOK IN THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING JACK REACHER SERIES THAT INSPIRED THE SECOND SEASON OF THE HIT STREAMING SERIES REACHER “Electrifying . . . this series [is] utterly addictive.”-Janet Maslin, The New York Times From a helicopter high above the California desert, a man is sent free-falling into the night. On the streets of Portland, Jack Reacher is pulled out of his wandering life and plunged into the heart of a conspiracy that is killing old friends . . . and the people he once trusted with his life. Reacher is the ultimate loner-no phone, no ties, no address. But a woman from his old military unit has found him using a signal only the eight members of their elite team would know. Then she tells him a terrifying story about the brutal death of a man they both served with. Soon Reacher is reuniting with the survivors of his team, scrambling to unravel the sudden disappearance of two other comrades. But Reacher won’t give up-because in a world of bad luck and trouble, when someone targets Jack Reacher and his team, they’d better be ready for what comes right back at them. Review “Electrifying . . . This series [is] utterly addictive.”-Janet Maslin, The New York Times “[An] action-packed thrill ride.”-Chicago Tribune “A slam-bang yarn filled with Child’s usual terse life-and-death lessons.”-Entertainment Weekly “A breathless, ultra-cool novel with relentless pacing.”-The Plain Dealer About the Author Lee Child is the author of more than two dozen New York Times bestselling Jack Reacher thrillers, with most having reached the #1 position, and the #1 bestselling complete Jack Reacher story collection, No Middle Name. Foreign rights in the Reacher series have sold in one hundred territories. A native of England and a former television director, Lee Child lives in New York City and Wyoming. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One The man was called Calvin Franz and the helicopter was a Bell 222. Franz had two broken legs, so he had to be loaded on board strapped to a stretcher. Not a difficult maneuver. The Bell was a roomy aircraft, twin-engined, designed for corporate travel and police departments, with space for seven passengers. The rear doors were as big as a panel vans and they opened wide. The middle row of seats had been removed. There was plenty of room for Franz on the floor. The helicopter was idling. Two men were carrying the stretcher. They ducked low under the rotor wash and hurried, one backward, one forward. When they reached the open door the guy who had been walking backward got one handle up on the sill and ducked away. The other guy stepped forward and shoved hard and slid the stretcher all the way inside. Franz was awake and hurting. He cried out and jerked around a little, but not much, because the straps across his chest and thighs were buckled tight. The two men climbed in after him and got in their seats behind the missing row and slammed the doors. Then they waited. The pilot waited. A third man came out a gray door and walked across the concrete. He bent low under the rotor and held a hand flat on his chest to stop his necktie whipping in the wind. The gesture made him look like a guilty man proclaiming his innocence. He tracked around the Bells long nose and got in the forward seat, next to the pilot. Go, he said, and then he bent his head to concentrate on his harness buckle. The pilot goosed the turbines and the lazy whop-whop of the idling blade slid up the scale to an urgent centripetal whip-whip-whip and then disappeared behind the treble blast of the exhaust. The Bell lifted straight off the ground, drifted left a little, rotated slightly, and then retracted its wheels and climbed a thousand feet. Then it dipped its nose and hammered north, high and fast. Below it, roads and science parks and small factories and neat isolated suburban communities slid past. Brick walls and metal siding blazed red in the late su