Die Trying

Zusatztext Tough! elegant! and thoughtful.Robert B. Parker A riveting thriller! brought to life with well-observed detail and paced with taut! evocative prose. It's a winner.Greg Iles A thoroughly engrossing tale told by an author who doesn't miss a beat. Rocky Mountain News Child presents his tense! action-packed adventure in vivid prose! as lean and capable as his central character. Jack Reacher is not merely a terrific hero; he sets a new standard.Tom Savage Opens with a bang. Chicago Tribune A literate scenario-cum-thriller. The Philadelphia Inquirer Lee Child's knowledge of the modern military and its combat tactics amazed me. A chilling and all-too realistic story! and a damn good book.Steve Thayer [A] redoubtable yet romantic hero[a] fast-paced misadventure...Cunning and explosive! it's a thumping good read. Time Out Furiously suspenseful. Kirkus Reviews Informationen zum Autor Lee Child Klappentext Jack Reacher finds himself in bad company in the second novel in Lee Child's New York Times bestselling series.Jack Reacher is an innocent bystander when he witnesses a woman kidnapped off a Chicago street in broad daylight. In the wrong place at the wrong time, he's kidnapped with her. Chained together, locked in the back of a stifling van, and racing across America to an unknown destination for an unknown purpose, they're at the mercy of a group of men demanding an impossible ransom. Because this mysterious woman is worth more than Reacher ever suspected. Now he has to save them both-from the inside out-or die trying... 1 NATHAN RUBIN DIED because he got brave. Not the sustained kind of thing that wins you a medal in a war, but the split-second kind of blurting outrage that gets you killed on the street. He left home early, as he always did, six days a week, fifty weeks a year. A cautious breakfast, appropriate to a short round man aiming to stay in shape through his forties. A long walk down the carpeted corridors of a lakeside house appropriate to a man who earned a thousand dollars on each of those three hundred days he worked. A thumb on the button of the garage-door opener and a twist of the wrist to start the silent engine of his expensive imported sedan. A CD into the player, a backward sweep into his gravel driveway, a dab on the brake, a snick of the selector, a nudge on the gas, and the last short drive of his life was under way. Six forty-nine in the morning, Monday. The only light on his route to work was green, which was the proximate cause of his death. It meant that as he pulled into his secluded slot behind his professional building the prelude ahead of Bach's B Minor Fugue still had thirty-eight seconds left to run. He sat and heard it out until the last organ blast echoed to silence, which meant that as he got out of his car the three men were near enough for him to interpret some kind of intention in their approach. So he glanced at them. They looked away and altered course, three men in step, like dancers or soldiers. He turned toward his building. Started walking. But then he stopped. And looked back. The three men were at his car. Trying the doors. Hey! he called. It was the short universal sound of surprise, anger, challenge. The sort of instinctive sound an earnest, naive citizen makes when something should not be happening. The sort of instinctive sound which gets an earnest, naive citizen killed. He found himself heading straight back to his car. He was outnumbered three to one, but he was in the right, which swelled him up and gave him confidence. He strode back and felt outraged and fit and commanding. But those were illusory feelings. A soft suburban guy like him was never going to be in command of a situation like that. His fitness was just health club tone. It counted for nothing. His tight abd...

ldquo;Tough, elegant, and thoughtful.”—Robert B. Parker

“A riveting thriller, brought to life with well-observed detail and paced with taut, evocative prose. It’s a winner.”—Greg Iles

“A thoroughly engrossing tale told by an author who doesn’t miss a beat.” —Rocky Mountain News

“Child presents his tense, action-packed adventure in vivid prose, as lean and capable as his central character. Jack Reacher is not merely a terrific hero; he sets a new standard.”—Tom Savage

“Opens with a bang.”—Chicago Tribune

“A literate scenario-cum-thriller.”—The Philadelphia Inquirer

“Lee Child’s knowledge of the modern military and its combat tactics amazed me. A chilling and all-too realistic story, and a damn good book.”—Steve Thayer

“[A] redoubtable yet romantic hero…[a] fast-paced misadventure...Cunning and explosive, it's a thumping good read.”—Time Out

“Furiously suspenseful.”—Kirkus Reviews

Autorentext

Lee Child

Klappentext

Jack Reacher finds himself in bad company in the second novel in Lee Child's New York Times bestselling series. Jack Reacher is an innocent bystander when he witnesses a woman kidnapped off a Chicago street in broad daylight. In the wrong place at the wrong time, he's kidnapped with her. Chained together, locked in the back of a stifling van, and racing across America to an unknown destination for an unknown purpose, they're at the mercy of a group of men demanding an impossible ransom. Because this mysterious woman is worth more than Reacher ever suspected. Now he has to save them both-from the inside out-or die trying...

Zusammenfassung
*Jack Reacher finds himself in bad company in the second novel in Lee Child’s #1 *New York Times bestselling series.

*DON'T MISS *REACHER ON PRIME VIDEO!

Jack Reacher is an innocent bystander when he witnesses a woman kidnapped off a Chicago street in broad daylight. In the wrong place at the wrong time, he’s kidnapped with her. Chained together, locked in the back of a stifling van, and racing across America to an unknown destination for an unknown purpose, they’re at the mercy of a group of men demanding an impossible ransom. Because this mysterious woman is worth more than Reacher ever suspected. Now he has to save them both—from the inside out—or die trying....

Leseprobe
1 NATHAN RUBIN DIED because he got brave. Not the sustained kind of thing that wins you a medal in a war, but the split-second kind of blurting outrage that gets you killed on the street.

He left home early, as he always did, six days a week, fifty weeks a year. A cautious breakfast, appropriate to a short round man aiming to stay in shape through his forties. A long walk down the carpeted corridors of a lakeside house appropriate to a man who earned a thousand dollars on each of those three hundred days he worked. A thumb on the button of the garage-door opener and a twist of the wrist to start the silent engine of his expensive imported sedan. A CD into the player, a backward sweep into his gravel driveway, a dab on the brake, a snick of the selector, a nudge on the gas, and the last short drive of his life was under way. Six forty-nine in the morning, Monday.

The only light on his route to work was green, which was the proximate cause of his death. It meant that as he pulled into his secluded slot behind his professional building the prelude ahead of Bach’s B Minor Fugue still had thirty-eight seconds left to run. He sat and heard it out until the last organ blast echoed to silence, which meant that as he got out of his car the three men were near enough for him to interpret some kind of intention in their approach. So he glanced at them. They looked away and altered course, three men in step, like dancers or soldiers. He turned toward his building. Started walking. But then he stopped. And looked back. The three men were at his car. Trying the doors.

&…