Jude Hardin - The Reacher Code - Timestream 1

THE REACHER CODE

TIMESTREAM 1

JUDE HARDIN

Before being recruited as Jack Reacher’s time-traveling bodyguard, Rock Wahlman got chased and shot at and beat some bad guys senseless in The Reacher Experimentseries of thrillers. Pulse-pounding action from the first page to the last!

About The Reacher Code: Timestream 1

October 2101

Rock Wahlman…

Former Navy Master-At-Arms, Jack Reacher’s genetic duplicate—his actual clone , produced from a blood specimen that was drawn over a hundred years ago.

Recently recruited by a secret government agency, Wahlman has been sent back in time to protect Reacher from a faction called Topple, a rogue group of time-traveling criminals determined to alter the past in an effort to make the future more profitable for themselves.

You might say that Wahlman is extremely motivated.

Because if Reacher is killed before the blood that was used to produce Wahlman is drawn, then it’s possible that Wahlman will cease to exist.

He definitely has his work cut out for him. He knows he’s in Germany for a reason, but after being in a coma for three days, he can’t remember exactly what that reason is.

In fact, he can’t even remember his own name.

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Tubes.

They were the first things he noticed when he opened his eyes. There was an IV line attached to his forearm, and a urinary catheter strapped to his thigh, and some kind of fat blue conduit that seemed to have been shoved down his throat.

It felt like he’d swallowed a garden hose.

He reached up and patted the area around his mouth with his fingertips, felt a narrower and stiffer length of tubing, and some adhesive tape, and an elastic strap. He tried to ease the apparatus away from his face gently, and when that didn’t work out he grabbed it and gave it a good yank and tossed the whole shebang over the bedrail.

He gagged and coughed and a high-pitched alarm started wailing and a woman with a stethoscope draped around her neck hurried into the room. She wore blue scrubs and a white lab coat and white sneakers. Mid-twenties, short blonde hair, blue eyes. She stopped in her tracks at the foot of the bed and stood there with her mouth open for a few seconds, as if she couldn’t quite process what she was looking at.

“You’re awake,” she said.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She moved around to the side of the bed.

“My name’s Jessie,” she said, stepping over to the machine that the fat blue conduit was attached to and silencing the alarm. “I’m your nurse.”

“Can I have some water?”

His voice was hoarse. His tongue felt like a strip of sandpaper. He needed a drink, but Jessie seemed to be focused on other things at the moment. She pressed a button on the bedrail, raising the head of the bed from an angle that was approximately thirty degrees to one that was approximately forty-five.

“Quiet for a minute,” she said. “I need to listen to your lungs.”

She lifted the stethoscope and slid the ear tips into her ears and pressed the cold bell against his chest and told him to take a deep breath. She repeated the process at several different locations along his ribcage, and then she draped the stethoscope back around her neck.

“Everything sounds good,” she said.

“I need water.”

“I’ll have to call the doctor for an order.”

“For a drink of water?”

“You were intubated,” Jessie said. “Do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“A tube was inserted into your trachea. The machine I just turned off was doing your breathing for you. So naturally you were NPO. That means nothing by mouth.”

“Why am I here? What happened to me?”

“You were in an accident,” Jessie said, pulling a pen and a notepad out of her pocket. “I need to check your level of consciousness. To see how oriented you are.”

“Okay.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“No.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me what year it is?”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

Jessie nodded. She jotted something down on the pad.

“That’s fine,” she said. “I’m going to go grab your chart and call the doctor, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Can you at least tell me my name?”

“Sure. According to the driver’s license we found in your wallet, your first name is Rock, and your last name is Wahlman. We didn’t find a passport, but there must be one somewhere. It might have gotten lost out on the highway.”

Wahlman. It didn’t ring a bell. But then nothing was ringing a bell at the moment. If his license said that he was Wahlman, then Wahlman he would be.

“Why would I need a passport?” he asked.

“Your license was issued in the United States,” Jessie said. “In Kentucky. You would have needed a passport to board an airplane or an ocean liner. Probably an airplane, right? Nobody travels by ship anymore.”

“Where exactly am I?”

“Sorry,” Jessie said. “You’re in Germany. Ramstein Air Base.”

“So I’m in the military?”

“Based on your age, and your haircut, and the fact that you didn’t have a military ID in your wallet, I’m going to say no. Although I guess it’s possible.”

“If I’m not in the military, what am I doing here?”

“This was the closest facility with a trauma center,” Jessie said. “Once the doctor determines that you’re stable, you’ll probably be transferred to Frankfurt. That’s where most of our civilian patients end up going.”

“How far is Frankfurt from here?” Wahlman asked.

“A hundred and thirty clicks. About an hour and a half by ground ambulance.”

Clicks. He somehow knew that it meant kilometers.

“What else can you tell me about myself?” he said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“Let’s see,” Jessie said. “Just off the top of my head, I can tell you that you’re six feet four inches tall, and that you weigh two hundred and forty pounds, and that you’re forty-four years old. And that’s about it. Of course we’ll want to get a thorough history, once your memory starts coming back.”

“What if it doesn’t come back?”

“I think it will.”

“What kind of accident was I in?”

“You were on a motorcycle. Apparently a car ran a stop sign and your front tire rammed into the driver side door. You went airborne for about fifty feet and landed face-first on a soccer field.”

“No wonder my head hurts so bad,” Wahlman said.

“You were fortunate. If you’d hit the pavement, you probably wouldn’t have a head right now. And if you hadn’t been wearing a helmet, you probably wouldn’t have a face, regardless of where you landed.”

“Anyone else get hurt?”

“We’re not sure. As it turned out, the car was stolen. Whoever was in it fled the scene before the police arrived.”

“I want my things,” Wahlman said.

“Pardon me?”

“My wallet. My clothes. My motorcycle. I want to get out of here.”

“You’re in the ICU. With a brain injury. You were on life support five minutes ago. You can’t just—”

“I feel fine now.”

“You were in a coma for three days. It’s going to take some time to recover. Just relax while I go call the doctor. I’m pretty sure he’s going to want to come and see you right away. If everything looks all right, he might send you down to one of the wards while you’re waiting to be transferred to Frankfurt.”