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Summary
Summary
When his wife and child are kidnapped, Edward Lane hires Jack Reacher, former military policeman and enigmatic man-of-the-people, to find them. This case is like no other, however, because Edward Lane seems just as likely of a suspect as anybody else. This puzzling case has Reacher so perplexed, so harried, that there's only one way to do things: the hard way.
Summary
Jack Reacher was alone, the way he liked it, soaking up the hot, electric New York City night, watching a man cross the street to a parked Mercedes and drive it away. The car contained one million dollars in ransom money. And Edward Lane, the man who paid it, will pay even more to get his family back. Lane runs a highly illegal soldiers-for-hire operation. He will use any amount of money and any tool to find his beautiful wife and child. And then he'll turn Jack Reacher loose with a vengeance - because Reacher is the best man hunter in the world. On the trail of a vicious kidnapper, Reacher is learning the chilling secrets of his employer's past...and of a horrific drama in the heart of a nasty little war. He's beginning to realize that Edward Lane is hiding something. Something dirty. Something big. But Reacher also knows this: he's already in way too deep to stop now.
Author Notes
Lee Child is the pen name of Jim Grant, who was born in Coventry, England on October 29, 1954. He attended law school at Sheffield University, worked in the theater, and finally worked as a presentation director for Granada Television. After being laid off in 1995 because of corporate restructuring, he decided to write a book. The Killing Floor won the Anthony Award for Best First Novel and became the first book in the Jack Reacher series. In 2012, the first Jack Reacher film was released starring Tom Cruise. His book's, Worth Dying For and Past Tense, made the bestseller list in 2018.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
In bestseller Child's 10th novel to feature ex-army MP Jack Reacher (after 2005's One Shot), a sidewalk cafe encounter in New York City plunges Reacher into one of his most challenging-and thoroughly engrossing-adventures to date. Acting out of "reflex and professional curiosity" (and the promise of a generous fee), Reacher agrees to help sinister ex-army officer Edward Lane, whose posse of six Special Forces veterans are even more ominous than he, track down his kidnapped daughter and trophy wife. Since the kidnapping of wife number one five years earlier ended in her death, Lane cautions Reacher that he will not brook police interference ("You break your word, I'll put your eyes out"). From Lane's quarters in the West Side's venerable Dakota apartment building to the shady sections of SoHo and Greenwich Village, the author's atmospheric descriptions make Manhattan a leading player, with menace lurking at every intersection. The inevitable showdown, on a farm outside a tiny English village, ranks as one of Child's most thrilling finales. (May) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Child's last two Jack Reacher novels ( One Shot0 , 2005, and The Enemy0 , 2004) have emphasized procedural detail rather than the high-octane action that gave the series its identity. There's still plenty of procedure, but this time the gearshift is back in overdrive: "Reacher, alone in the dark. Armed and dangerous. Coming back." Former military cop Reacher does his level best not to come back: he lives off the grid (no address, no belongings), but his instincts keep driving him toward solving other people's problems, the kind that won't stay solved without violence. Here, he's having an espresso in Greenwich Village when a man walks across the street, gets in a car, and drives away. It happens every day, but it's not always a kidnapper picking up the ransom. Soon Reacher is involved in helping a ruthless mercenary find his wife and stepdaughter before the kidnappers tie up loose ends. There's a lot more to it than that, though, and it takes three-fourths of the novel before Reacher figures out who the bad guys are. Like all the best thrillers, this one is about more than pace: yes, the narrative propels you forward with a locomotive's thrust, but Child never loses sight of the small detail or the human fabric--not unlike Reacher in the dark, armed and dangerous, intent on the action in front of him but always aware of the sights and sounds to his sides and behind him. --Bill Ott Copyright 2006 Booklist
Kirkus Review
In this slick, swift, sexy thriller, it's Jack Reacher, the thinking man's Rambo, against a band of hand-picked, combat-hardened, armed-to-the-teeth, ex-special services guys, but, hey, there are only eight of them. We're talking Navy SEAL, Army Ranger, Green Beret, British SAS and the like, all now free from their savage services but never from their training. Which is to render people dead without wasted motion or mercy. They're commanded by an ex-U.S. Army colonel who has formed these wacko killers into a group called Operational Security Consultants (read mercenaries), and who may be considerably off-kilter himself. Reacher comes into contact with them all by happenstance. Sitting in a favorite caf, sipping espresso, he notices something odd about a certain parked car--and is noticed noticing. What he's seen, it turns out, is a car full of ransom money. It belongs to ex-Colonel Edward Lane, whose wife and step-child--Kate and Jade--have been kidnapped. In Reacher's world, however, it's a truism that kidnappings are not always what they appear. Kate, Reacher soon learns, is not Lane's first wife. Nor is she his first wife to be kidnapped. Reacher learns this from a young woman with vengeance on her mind. For four years, Patti Joseph, the first Mrs. Lane's sister, has kept Lane under personal surveillance, convinced that he murdered her sister, intent on making him pay for it. From private eye Lauren Pauling--green-eyed and elegant--Reacher learns more about Lane, none of it redeeming. In and out of bed, Reacher and Pauling form an effective team, mounting a search-and-destroy operation that eventually takes them across the Atlantic to what amounts to an English O.K. Corral. Quintessential Child (One Shot, 2005, etc.)--preposterous as always, but oh, how those pages keep turning. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
With it's sparse yet keenly observant prose, plenty of action, and underlying knowledge that wrongs will be righted and true justice served, The Hard Way clearly demonstrates why Child (The Enemy) is not only a best-selling author but one who clearly will have thinking listeners eager for his thrillers for years to come. Our flawed hero, ex-army military police major Jack Reacher, is called upon by the mysterious head of a private military corporation to use his bravery, intelligence, dogged investigative skills, and ruthless use of controlled violence to find a kidnapped woman and her daughter in New York City. The listener will be tempted to indulge in the whole work in one sitting after being taken on a roller coaster ride that ends with an unexpected conclusion. Dick Hill's narration is like the characters-real and multidimensional. Highly recommended.-Scott R. DiMarco, Mansfield Univ. of Pennsylvania (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter One JACK REACHER ORDERED espresso, double, no peel, no cube, foam cup, no china, and before it arrived at his table he saw a man's life change forever. Not that the waiter was slow. Just that the move was slick. So slick, Reacher had no idea what he was watching. It was just an urban scene, repeated everywhere in the world a billion times a day: A guy unlocked a car and got in and drove away. That was all. But that was enough. The espresso had been close to perfect, so Reacher went back to the same cafeŽ exactly -twenty--four hours later. Two nights in the same place was unusual for Reacher, but he figured great coffee was worth a change in his routine. The café was on the west side of Sixth Avenue in New York City, in the middle of the block between Bleecker and Houston. It occupied the ground floor of an undistinguished -four--story building. The upper stories looked like anonymous rental apartments. The cafe itself looked like a transplant from a back street in Rome. Inside it had low light and scarred wooden walls and a dented chrome machine as hot and long as a locomotive, and a counter. Outside there was a single line of metal tables on the sidewalk behind a low canvas screen. Reacher took the same end table he had used the night before and chose the same seat. He stretched out and got comfortable and tipped his chair up on two legs. That put his back against the cafe's outside wall and left him looking east, across the sidewalk and the width of the avenue. He liked to sit outside in the summer, in New York City. Especially at night. He liked the electric darkness and the hot dirty air and the blasts of noise and traffic and the manic barking sirens and the crush of people. It helped a lonely man feel connected and isolated both at the same time. He was served by the same waiter as the night before and ordered the same drink, double espresso in a foam cup, no sugar, no spoon. He paid for it as soon as it arrived and left his change on the table. That way he could leave exactly when he wanted to without insulting the waiter or bilking the owner or stealing the china. Reacher always arranged the smallest details in his life so he could move on at a split second's notice. It was an obsessive habit. He owned nothing and carried nothing. Physically he was a big man, but he cast a small shadow and left very little in his wake. He drank his coffee slowly and felt the night heat come up off the sidewalk. He watched cars and people. Watched taxis flow north and garbage trucks pause at the curbs. Saw knots of strange young people heading for clubs. Watched girls who had once been boys totter south. Saw a blue German sedan park on the block. Watched a compact man in a gray suit get out and walk north. Watched him thread between two sidewalk tables and head inside to where the cafe staff was clustered in back. Watched him ask them questions. The guy was medium height, not young, not old, too solid to be called wiry, too slight to be called heavy. His hair was gray at the temples and cut short and neat. He kept himself balanced on the balls of his feet. His mouth didn't move much as he talked. But his eyes did. They flicked left and right tirelessly. The guy was about forty, Reacher guessed, and furthermore Reacher guessed he had gotten to be about forty by staying relentlessly aware of everything that was happening around him. Reacher had seen the same look in elite infantry veterans who had survived long jungle tours. Then Reacher's waiter turned suddenly and pointed straight at him. The compact man in the gray suit stared over. Reacher stared back, over his shoulder, through the window. Eye contact was made. Without breaking it the man in the suit mouthed thank you to the waiter and started back out the way he had entered. He stepped through the door and made a right inside the low canvas screen and threaded his way down to Reacher's table. Reacher let him stand there mute for a moment while he made up his mind. Then he said "Yes," to him, like an answer, not a question. "Yes what?" the guy said back. "Yes whatever," Reacher said. "Yes I'm having a pleasant evening, yes you can join me, yes you can ask me whatever it is you want to ask me." The guy scraped a chair out and sat down, his back to the river of traffic, blocking Reacher's view. "Actually I do have a question," he said. "I know," Reacher said. "About last night." "How did you know that?" The guy's voice was low and quiet and his accent was flat and clipped and British. "The waiter pointed me out," Reacher said. "And the only thing that distinguishes me from his other customers is that I was here last night and they weren't." "You're certain about that?" "Turn your head away," Reacher said. "Watch the traffic." The guy turned his head away. Watched the traffic. "Now tell me what I'm wearing," Reacher said. "Green shirt," the British guy said. "Cotton, baggy, cheap, doesn't look new, sleeves rolled to the elbow, over a green T-shirt, also cheap and not new, a little tight, untucked over -flat--front khaki chinos, no socks, English shoes, pebbled leather, brown, not new, but not very old either, probably expensive. Frayed laces, like you pull on them too hard when you tie them. Maybe indicative of a -self--discipline obsession." "OK," Reacher said. "OK what?" "You notice things," Reacher said. "And I notice things. We're two of a kind. We're peas in a pod. I'm the only customer here now who was also here last night. I'm certain of that. And that's what you asked the staff. Had to be. That's the only reason the waiter would have pointed me out." The guy turned back. "Did you see a car last night?" he asked. "I saw plenty of cars last night," Reacher said. "This is Sixth Avenue." "A Mercedes Benz. Parked over there." The guy twisted again and pointed on a slight diagonal at a length of empty curb by a fire hydrant on the other side of the street. Reacher said, "Silver, four-door sedan, an S-420, New York vanity plates starting OSC, a lot of city miles on it. Dirty paint, scuffed tires, dinged rims, dents and scrapes on both bumpers." The guy turned back again. "You saw it," he said. "It was right there," Reacher said. "Obviously I saw it." "Did you see it leave?" Reacher nodded. "Just before eleven -forty--five a guy got in and drove it away." "You're not wearing a watch." "I always know what time it is." "It must have been closer to midnight." "Maybe," Reacher said. "Whatever." "Did you get a look at the driver?" "I told you, I saw him get in and drive away." The guy stood up. "I need you to come with me," he said. Then he put his hand in his pocket. "I'll buy your coffee." "I already paid for it." "So let's go." "Where?" "To see my boss." "Who's your boss?" "A man called Lane." "You're not a cop," Reacher said. "That's my guess. Based on observation." "Of what?" "Your accent. You're not American. You're British. The NYPD isn't that desperate." "Most of us are Americans," the British guy said. "But you're right, we're not cops. We're private citizens." "What kind?" "The kind that will make it worth your while if you give them a description of the individual who drove that car away." "Worth my while how?" "Financially," the guy said. "Is there any other way?" "Lots of other ways," Reacher said. "I think I'll stay right here." "This is very serious." "How?" The guy in the suit sat down again. "I can't tell you that," he said. "Goodbye," Reacher said. "Not my choice," the guy said. "Mr. Lane made it -mission--critical that nobody knows. For very good reasons." Reacher tilted his cup and checked the contents. Nearly gone. "You got a name?" he asked. "Do you?" "You first." In response the guy stuck a thumb into the breast pocket of his suit coat and slid out a black leather business card holder. He opened it up and used the same thumb to slide out a single card. He passed it across the table. It was a handsome item. Heavy linen stock, raised lettering, ink that still looked wet. At the top it said: Operational Security Consultants . "OSC," Reacher said. "Like the license plate." The British guy said nothing. Reacher smiled. "You're security consultants and you got your car stolen? I can see how that could be embarrassing." The guy said, "It's not the car we're worried about." Lower down on the business card was a name: John Gregory . Under the name was a subscript: British Army, Retired . Then a job title: Executive Vice President . "How long have you been out?" Reacher asked. "Of the British Army?" the guy called Gregory said. "Seven years." "Unit?" "SAS." "You've still got the look." "You too," Gregory said. "How long have you been out?" "Seven years," Reacher said. "Unit?" "U.S. Army CID, mostly." Gregory looked up. Interested. "Investigator?" "Mostly." "Rank?" "I don't remember," Reacher said. "I've been a civilian seven years." "Don't be shy," Gregory said. "You were probably a lieutenant colonel at least." "Major," Reacher said. "That's as far as I got." "Career problems?" "I had my share." "You got a name?" "Most people do." "What is it?" "Reacher." "What are you doing now?" "I'm trying to get a quiet cup of coffee." "You need work?" "No," Reacher said. "I don't." "I was a sergeant," Gregory said. Reacher nodded. "I figured. SAS guys usually are. And you've got the look." "So will you come with me and talk to Mr. Lane?" "I told you what I saw. You can pass it on." "Mr. Lane will want to hear it direct." Reacher checked his cup again. "Where is he?" "Not far. Ten minutes." "I don't know," Reacher said. "I'm enjoying my espresso." "Bring it with you. It's in a foam cup." "I prefer peace and quiet." "All I want is ten minutes." "Seems like a lot of fuss over a stolen car, even if it was a Mercedes Benz." "This is not about the car." "So what is it about?" "Life and death," Gregory said. "Right now more likely death than life." Reacher checked his cup again. There was less than a lukewarm -eighth--inch left, thick and scummy with espresso mud. That was all. He put the cup down. "OK," he said. "So let's go." From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from The Hard Way by Lee Child All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
