Quotes About Reacher

Here was the problem with Jack Reacher: he was a bad guy who sometimes did good things. Given his itinerant lifestyle, Will thought of him as an American James Bond—not the Bond from the movies but the Bond from the books who was one level up from a street fighter. There was no M to temper his feralness. Reacher did not have a legal license to kill. Or maim. Or shoot people in their knees, which was a really mean thing to do, even to a stone-cold gangster.

The Reacher brothers' need for caffeine makes heroin addiction look like an amusing little take-it-or-leave-it sideline.

We should get a cup of coffee. Chang said, I don't understand how you drink so much coffee. Law of gravity, Reacher said. If you tip it up, it comes right out. You can't help but drink it. Your heart must be thumping all the time. Better than the alternative.

We're your legal advisors.' Which they weren't, obviously. Reacher knew that. Army lawyers don't travel in pairs and breathe through their mouths.

For real? That's kind of creepy." Reacher said, "I know. And I'm real

The only opponents Reacher truly feared were small whippy guys with fast hands and sharp blades.

California, Reacher thought. There was a sedan at the curb. It had been waiting there for them. A big car, black, expensive. The driver was leaning across and behind the front passenger seat. He was stretching over to pop the rear door. The guy opposite Reacher motioned with his gun again. Reacher didn't move. He glanced left and right. He figured he had about another second and a half to make some kind

The guy stood a yard inside the dark room and waited, blinking, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom after the hot whiteness of the Key West sun. It was June, dead-on four o'clock in the afternoon, the southernmost part of the United States. Way farther south than most of the Bahamas. A hot white sun and a fierce temperature. Reacher sat at his table in back and sipped water from a plastic bottle and waited.

Reacher took another step. Now he was seven feet away. Now they were in an intimate little cluster. No other cars in sight. The wheat moved slowly, in waves, like an immense golden sea.

Reacher glanced back. The guy on the right was about to transition from unconscious to concussed. The guy on the left was squirming halfheartedly and pawing at everything between his ribcage and his knees.

Chang said, "I don't understand how you drink so much coffee." "Law of gravity," Reacher said. "If you tip it up, it comes right out. You can't help but drink it.

The grounds had an iron fence set in a stone knee wall, which was just wide enough for a small person to sit on, and Turner was a small person, and Reacher was used to being uncomfortable.

Alaska Airlines would have been cheaper, but Reacher hated Alaska Airlines. They put a scripture card on their meal trays. Ruined his appetite.

Reacher thanked the guy for the ride, and got out, and watched the truck squeal away, each tire insisting the other three were wrong.

Reacher got to them on the plane. He put them out of action and stole their wallets." "On the plane?" "He broke Lozano's fingers and Baldacci's arms and no one noticed." "That's not possible." "Apparently it is. One against two, on an airplane, with a hundred witnesses. It's a blatant humiliation. And now he's renting cars on our dime? Who does this guy think he is?

Reacher prowled the hallway, his gun stiff-armed way out in front of him, his torso jerking violently left and right from the hips, like a crazy disco dance. The house-storming shuffle.

Reacher squinted through the glare. They were all looking at him. The sandy guy, Poulton. The woman, Lamarr. The hypertensive, Blake. All three of them from Serial Crimes down in Quantico. Up here to talk to him. Then Deerfield, the New York Bureau chief, a heavyweight. Then the lean guy, Cozo, from Organized Crime, working on the protection rackets. He glanced slowly left to right, and right to left, and finished up back on Deerfield. Then he nodded.

Reacher knocked on the door, and the voices fell silent. He opened the door, and saw a break room, very municipal, full of inoffensive colors and low chairs with fabric upholstery. In the chairs were five people, two men, three women, different ages, different types.

A kidnapping in Boston. A cop dies. Has Reacher lost

Reacher said nothing in reply to that. Feral, from the Latin adjective ferus, wild, via bestia fera, wild animal. Generally held to mean having escaped from domestication, and having devolved back to a natural state.

The missing guy got back from the restroom. He stood behind Reacher's chair, arms spread wide in exaggerated perplexity. As if to say, what the hell is going on here? Who is this guy? Reacher kept one eye on Jimmy Rat, and one on the window alongside him, where he could see a faint ghostly reflection of what was happening behind his shoulder.

This gentleman is heading for Mineral County in West Virginia. Near a place called Keyser, not too far from the Maryland line." Which all meant nothing to Reacher, except that West Virginia sounded one step better than regular Virginia.

Reacher nodded. "For a spell." Then he said: "Plato is a weird name for a Mexican, don't you think? Sounds more like a Brazilian name to me." "No, Yugoslavian," Peterson said. "Like that old dictator." "That was Tito." "I thought he was a South African bishop." "That was Tutu.

Chang asked, "Was that the showbusiness answer?" Reacher