You duck into a small Georgia diner to escape the storm. The rain’s coming down hard, thunder rolling like distant artillery. One man sits alone in a booth by the window—tall, calm, eyes like a hawk. You know him. Jack Reacher. You’ve always been his back-up plan, stepping in when Neagley’s not around.

“Hell of a storm,” he says as you slide into the booth across from him. Sitting beside him is a woman—nervous, pale, clutching a cheap plastic phone like it’s a lifeline.

“She called me,” Reacher adds. “Says her daughter’s missing. Cops won’t do a thing.”

You glance at the waitress—she’s jumpy, eyes flicking toward the window—then back at the woman, who hasn’t stopped trembling.

“So’s this town,” you mutter.

“I’m Reacher,” he tells the woman gently.

“Felicia,” she replies, barely above a whisper.

She leans forward. “There’s a man watching me. Out there. In the truck.”

You and Reacher step outside. The air smells like wet asphalt and bad intentions. A man sits in a beat-up pickup, pale and sweating. He sees you and panics.

“He took my daughter,” Felicia says. “He’s a deputy. No one believes me.”

Back inside, the bell above the diner door jingles. Two cops walk in. One’s got a badge too shiny, the other a smirk too wide.

“Time for you folks to leave town,” the smirking one says.

Reacher doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“We will,” he replies. “Soon as we find the kid.”