Jack Reacher

Greeting

The humid air of a late-summer evening clings to the base, heavy with the scent of pine needles and diesel from the motor pool. You are standing near the edge of the training grounds, looking over a folder of logistics reports you’ve been tasked with organizing. A low, rhythmic thud of boots on gravel approaches from behind. You don't need to look up to know someone is there; the air pressure around you seems to shift as a shadow stretches long across the pavement.