Editorial Reviews. Review. “Lee Child's Reacher series has hit Book No. 20 with a resounding dingharbasuppprom.ml: Make Me (with bonus short story Small Wars): A Jack Reacher Novel eBook: Lee Child: Kindle Store. Make Me: (Jack Reacher 20) (Jack Reacher series) by Lee Child. Read online, or download in secure EPUB format. Read "Make Me (Jack Reacher 20)" by Lee Child available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get £3 off your first download. "Child's best for some.
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Free Download or Read Online Die Trying eBook (PDF ePub Mobi) - Lee Child, Featuring Jack Reacher, hero of the new blockbuster movie starring Tom Cruise. "The Affair" by Lee Child Latest Lee Child book I read while on holiday. A typical Jack Reacher novel - not so "gritty" as some of the others I've read - but with a. "Child's best for some time with detective-story and romcom elements (even sly humour) on top of the psychological duels and set-piece violence." (Sunday.
You assume he gets away, but how is not clear. Not enough action. A lot of build up, but when the bad guy gets it, it's just too quick. A couple of loose ends are never tied up. I kept waiting for the big pay off and I didn't really care when it finally came. I would choose another Reacher book. By Rocrob I just love all of the Jack Reacher novels. I have read them all and can't wait for the next one. The only question I have is why oh why did they use Tom Cruise to play him.
The guy who writes about him is too. But what keeps us coming back—by the millions—is the chance to walk around in the skin of that big guy in the middle of everything. Readers new to this series will find this book a good starting point, and fans will be pleased to see Jack again.
All his novels have been optioned for major… More about Lee Child. The beguiling Chang offers a new treat for series fans as well, and a surprise at the end will keep readers short of breath until the next installment begins. Child is a master of pacing, stretching out the mystery through short chapters that give rise to bursts of well-choreographed violence.
Of course, the biggest strength is Reacher himself: Reacher is still going strong. Will satisfy fans—and newcomers, too.
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Read An Excerpt. Paperback —.
download the Audiobook Download: Hopefully your friend will be here in the morning. She just glanced at the silent rails one more time, and then turned around and led the way through the exit gate. The office was the first door on the left, on the ground floor. There was a clerk behind the desk. He was a short old guy with a big belly and what looked like a glass eye.
He gave the woman the key for room , and she walked out without another word. Reacher asked him for a rate, and the guy said, "Sixty bucks. Twenty, maybe. Those rooms are expensive.
You're more than half empty. Practically out of business. Better to make twenty bucks than nothing at all. He took his roll of cash out his pocket and separated a ten, and two fives, and five singles.
He laid them on the counter and the one-eyed guy swapped them for a key on a wooden fob marked , taken from a drawer, with a triumphant flourish.
Not the best room in the place. Petty revenge. But Reacher didn't care. He figured his would be the last head to hit the pillow that night.
He didn't foresee any other late arrivals. He expected to be undisturbed, all the way through the silent plains night. He said, "Thank you," and walked out, carrying his key. The one-eyed guy waited thirty seconds, and then dialed his desk phone, and when it was answered he said, "She met a guy off the train. It was late.
She waited five hours for it. She brought the guy here and he took a room. A mean son of a bitch. He busted my balls on the room rate. I gave him , in the far back corner. I'm in the office. An instruction, not a question. The one-eyed guy said, "OK. Can you see his room from there? Outside, in the nighttime air. Not his preferred way of doing things.
From inside his room Reacher heard the lawn chair scrape across the blacktop, but he paid no attention. Just a random nighttime sound, nothing dangerous, not a shotgun jacking a round, not the hiss of a blade on a sheath, nothing for his lizard brain to worry about. And the only non-lizard possibilities were a lace-up footstep on the sidewalk outside, and a knock on the door, because the woman from the railroad seemed like a person with a lot of questions, and also some kind of expectation they should be answered.
Who are you and why have you come here? But it was a scrape, not a footstep or a knock, so Reacher paid no attention. He folded his pants and laid them flat under the mattress, and then he showered away the grime of the day, and climbed under the bedcovers. He set the alarm in his head for six o'clock in the morning, stretched once, yawned once, and fell asleep.
The dawn came up entirely gold, with no hint of pink or purple. The sky was a rinsed blue, like an old shirt washed a thousand times. Reacher showered again and dressed, and stepped out to the new day. He saw the lawn chair, empty, oddly placed in the traffic lane, but he thought nothing of it. He went up the metal stairs as quietly as he could, reducing the likely clang to a duller pulsing boom, by placing his feet very carefully.
He found and knocked on its door, firmly but discreetly, like he imagined a bellboy would, in a fine hotel. Your wake-up call, ma'am. She had about forty minutes. Ten to get going, ten to shower, ten to stroll up to the railroad again. She would be there well ahead of the morning train. Reacher crept back down the stairs and headed out to the street, which was wide enough at that point to qualify as a plaza.
For farm trucks, he guessed, slow and clumsy, turning and maneuvering, lining up ahead of the weighbridges and the receiving offices and the grain elevators themselves. There were train tracks embedded in the blacktop. It was a whole big operation.
Some kind of a hub facility, presumably, serving the locality, which in that part of America could have meant a two-hundred-mile radius. Which explained the large motel. Farmers would come in from far and wide, and spend the night before or after a train ride to some distant city.
Maybe they would all come at once, at certain times of the year.
When futures were for sale, maybe, in faraway Chicago. Hence the thirty bedrooms. The wide street or the plaza or whatever it was ran basically south to north, with the railroad track and the shiny infrastructure defining the eastern limit, on the right, and what amounted to a kind of Main Street defining the western limit, on the left.
The motel was there, and a diner, and a general store. Behind those establishments the town spread out in a loose westward semicircle. Low density. Sprawl, country style. A thousand people, maybe less. Reacher headed north on the wide street, looking for the wagon train trail. He figured it would come in across his path, from east to west, which had been the whole point of wagon trains.
Go west, young man. Exciting times. He saw a crossing fifty yards ahead, after the last of the elevators. A road, perpendicular, exactly east to west. On the right it was bright with the morning sun, and on the left it was long with shadows.
The crossing had no barriers. Just red lights. Reacher stood on the tracks and gazed back south, the way he had come. There were no other crossings for at least a mile, which was about as far as he could see, in the pale light.
There were no other crossings for at least a mile to the north, either. Which meant that if Mother's Rest laid claim to its own east-west thoroughfare, he was standing on it.
It was reasonably wide, and slightly humped, built up with dirt taken from shallow ditches dug either side.
It was covered with thick blacktop, grayed with age, split here and there by weather, and random like frozen lava on the edges. It was dead straight, from one horizon to the other. A possibility. Wagon trains went dead straight when they could. Why wouldn't they? No one put in extra miles just for the fun of it.
The lead driver would steer by a distant landmark, and the others would follow, and a year later some new party would find the ruts, and a year after that someone would make a mark on a map.
And a hundred years later some state highway department would come by with trucks full of asphalt. There was nothing to see in the east. No one-room museum, no marble headstone.
Just the road, between infinite fields of nearly-ripe wheat. But in the other direction, west of the tracks, the road ran through the town, more or less dead center, built up on both sides for about six low-rise blocks.