Make MeLarge Print - 2015
Praised by Stephen King in Entertainment Weekly as "the coolest continuing series character now on offer," Jack Reacher is back in a gripping new thriller from #1 New York Times bestselling author Lee Child.
From the critics
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Threats had to be answered, which meant he was going to have to take their guns away, because probing pawns had to be sent back beaten, and because folks in Mother's Rest needed to know for sure the next time he came to town he would be armed. He wanted to tell them it was their own fault. He wanted to tell them they had brought it on themselves.
Chang said, “What are you doing?”
“Compressing the arteries that feed his brain.”
“You can’t do that.”
“What, it was OK to murder him the first time, but not the second time?”
“It was right the first time, when he was a piece of shit who was about to rape you at gunpoint. Did he change? Did he suddenly become some kind of a saintly martyr we should rush straight to the hospital? When did that part happen?”
Chang: Like Pascal’s Wager.
Reacher: Costs us nothing if we’re wrong, but saves us plenty if we’re right.
Reacher: Hope for the best, plan for the worst.
Chang: That wouldn’t get us a warrant.
Reacher: Warrants are about what you can prove. Not what you know.
Martial arts didn’t work in the real world. Judo and karate were useless without the mats and the referee and the special pajamas. So unarmed combat was brawling, basically. Like a bar fight. Whatever worked.
The guy’s face was turned away high and back, so Reacher;s boot caught him under the chin, like a monstrous uppercut from a heavyweight with a horsehoe in his glove.
You started a war. Which was dumb. Because you’ll lose. And it won’t be pretty. We’re going to beat you so hard your kids will be born dizzy.
“Conspiracies,” Westwood said. …
“Give me an example.”
“Smoke alarms are compulsory in homes because they contain cameras and microphones wirelessly linked to the government, with poison gas capsules too, in case the government doesn’t like what you’re saying or doing.”
Reacher said, “What kind of beams?”
“Mind-controlling beams. They come off the bottom of civilian airliners. The FAA requires the. That’s why they charge for checked bags now, so people will use carry-on instead, which leaves more space in the hold for the equipment …
… a single scribbled number 4. Which was a number of moderate technical interest, and most famous for being the only number in the entire universe that matched the number of letters in its own world in English: four.
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 diner was clean and pleasant and attractively decorated, but it was above all else a working place, designed to swap calories for money as fast as possible.
Let’s eat first. Eat when you can. That’s the golden rule.
“They call it anhedonia. The inability to experience pleasure.”
Reacher put his toothbrush in his pocket, and she packed her suitcase, with her comb, and her computer, and its charger and her phone charger.
Either way Reacher figured he might as well find out. He had no place to go, and all the time in the world to get there, so detours cost him nothing.
Forty thousand suicides every year in America. One every thirteen minutes. Statistically we’re more likely to kill ourselves than each other. Who knew?
The rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer, and that’s good news for the bodyguard business.
Pre-natal care, perinatal care, post-natal care, pediatrics, nutrition, education, orthodontics, vacations, college, postgrad, a fiancé, the whole nine yards. Her assembly line had worked just fine. The American dream, a spectacular result.
We live in strange times. Poor people are fat, and rich people are thin. That never happened before.
The only fights you truly win are the ones you don’t have.
There is several pages inside the book on the "Silk Road" type of high tech criminal communities. Here is a short introduction:
… It was a Zen question. Was a weapon you couldn’t trust a weapon at all?
He liked fiction better than fact, because fact often wasn’t. Like most people he knew a couple of things for sure, up close and eyeballed, and when he saw them in books they were wrong. So he liked made-up stories better, because everyone knew where they were from the get-go.
Once he had read a book about a cartel accountant, who spent five grand a month on rubber bands alone, just to package all the cash.
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