Reacher is thirteen years old. His family is transferred, again. “Forty different places. “Forty different welcomes to forty different neighborhoods. Except that the . Download Second Son - Lee Child Here, goudzwaard.info ==== == == I read a couple of Lee Child's Jack Reacher novels and enjoyed them, so I. Read "Second Son: (Jack Reacher Short Story)" by Lee Child available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get £3 off your first download. A Jack Reacher.
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Second Son book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Ever wondered what early experiences shaped Reacher's explosive career. Editorial Reviews. goudzwaard.info Review. Lee Child's Reacher series (15 books in all) is a thundering force among modern thrillers. For the uninitiated, it follows. Photo PDF Second Son by Lee Child by Lee Child.
July Learn how and when to remove this template message The story's action is interspersed with contemplative moments, such as when grandfather Laurent recounts that "… a great war leaves a country with three armies: an army of cripples, an army of mourners, and an army of thieves. At the same time, Reacher figures that a guy who had survived unscathed the battles of Verdun and The Somme and later the Nazi occupation of France , and who lived to age 90, "has already beaten the odds".
Jack Reacher's pragmatic attitude toward issues of life and death is, in fact, similar to that displayed by Laurent himself. The plot takes place solely within the enclave of American military personnel and their family members on the island. After removing the wire back at his house, "Reacher saw he had the word Georgia stamped backward across one of his knuckles. Must have been where the wire was manufactured.
Raised lettering on the insulation. A place he had never been. These events are also referred to in the novel, The Affair, which occurs just before the storyline of Killing Floor.
USA Today. He's like a boat cut loose from his moorings. Desperately he fights for survival, hardening himself against the very persons who show him kindness, He is scared to trust them because it would hurt twice as much to be rejected again. He hates others because he hates himself. As a thirteen year-old boy, choked up by tears that would not fall, exploded to me, "Let's face it. I'm a reject. If one person, a teacher, a grandma, a coach sees the goodness that lies beneath the hard exterior of an unloved child, miracles happen.
In Francis Thompson's powerful poem, "The Hound of Heaven," the poet who has spent his life fleeing God finally gives in to the power of love. Except that no one smoked anymore, at least not indoors, so you had to do it while they were talking, which was OK, because everyone talked.
Bullies most of all. They talked a lot. All kinds of threats and taunts and what are you looking at? But, hope for the best. Reacher sipped the watery foam from his long-neck bottle and waited. The waitress was in a lull and came over to ask if he needed anything, which was clearly an excuse to chat a moment. Reacher liked her on sight.
Maybe she liked him too. She was a professional.
Maybe forty years old. Not a college kid, not a young person planning to move on soon to something better. She was looking away from the guy, too. His needs were being met by the barman, and she seemed very glad about that. It was more than obvious. I mean, I'm sure he has a name, but I don't know what it is.
A guy like that, everyone knows his name. Because a guy like that makes sure of it. Which had to mean something. But the woman didn't want to talk about it.
That was clear. She started in with the usual questions instead. New in town? From where? Doing what? Which were questions Reacher found hard to answer. He was always new in town, and he was from nowhere in particular, and he wasn't doing anything. He had been in the military all his life, first an officer's kid, then an officer himself, raised on bases all over the world, serving on bases all over the world, and then he had fallen out into civilian life and couldn't really settle down to the kind of existence normal people seemed to have.
So he wandered the land, seeing the things he had never had time to see before, going here, going there, staying a night or two, and then moving on. No bags, no schedule, no plan. Travel light, travel far. At first he had expected to work it out of his system, but he had long ago given up on that ambition. And waitresses knew.
They had a close-up view. Better than accountants or auditors or analysts. They saw the sad expression on the owner's face, exactly once a week, on payday. Which had to mean something too. The only bar near the bus depot should have been doing a roaring trade. Location was everything.
And the place was crowded. All the tables were taken and people were shoulder to shoulder at the bar, except for a quarantine yard around the big guy on the stool. Bottles and glasses were slamming back and forth with regularity, and fives and tens and twenties were heading for the register like a raging river.
So Reacher watched a little longer, over the first beer, into a second, taking them slow, and he saw another guy step into the room, and he felt the atmosphere change. Like a moment of truth had arrived.
Like the whole purpose of the evening had snapped into focus. The new guy was dressed one grade better than anyone else, and he moved in from the door with a proprietorial air. His place. The owner. He greeted people as he walked, a little vaguely, a little preoccupied, and then he ducked behind the bar and went in through a small door in back. The office, presumably. His domain. He came out again two minutes later, carrying something in his hand.
He stayed in the well behind the bar and squeezed past the bartender and stepped over to where the big guy was sitting on his stool. They faced each other, with nothing more than the mahogany slab between them.
Everyone looked away. Except Reacher. He saw the owner hand over the thing he was carrying. He did it fast and unobtrusive, like a magic trick. The guy on the stool took it and slipped it into his pocket. It was there, and then it was gone. But Reacher had seen what it was. It was a white office envelope, fat with cash.