The Final Chapter of My New Novel

In the Style of Jack Reacher comes a Tough Guy tale from Me, Paul Scheer

Here’s an exclusive Sneak Peek at the last Chapter of my latest JACK STRONGMAN novel.

CHAPTER 76

The snow had stopped falling by the time Jack Strongman walked out of the Jackson Hole Police Department. His boots crunched on the frozen sidewalk as he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. The screen showed seventeen missed calls from his editor at Food & Wine, but Jack ignored them all. He had bigger problems than a missed deadline.

Sarah Chen-Strongman was waiting for him outside the Bunnery Bakery, her breath visible in the thin mountain air. Even after three days of marriage, Jack still couldn't believe she'd said yes. The diamond on her finger caught the afternoon light as she handed him a cup of coffee.

"They let you go," she said. It wasn't a question.

"For now." Jack took the coffee and felt the warmth spread through his hands. "The note was a fake. Whoever killed Marcus Webb wanted me to take the fall, but they made a mistake."

"What kind of mistake?"

Jack pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "This is the suicide note they found in the car. 'Jack killed me.' Simple enough. But look at the paper."

Sarah examined it. The letterhead was barely visible, but it was there. Rocky Mountain Catering Services.

"Webb's catering company," she said.

"Right. But here's the thing—Webb was left-handed. I watched him write out my check for the food blog review. Left-handed people angle their paper differently when they write. This note was written by a right-handed person trying to forge a left-handed signature."

A figure emerged from the shadows between two buildings. Jack's hand moved instinctively toward his waist, old Navy SEAL reflexes kicking in, but he relaxed when he recognized the face.

"Uncle Jack?"

The man was older than Jack by maybe fifteen years, with the same square jaw and dark eyes that ran in the Strongman family. He walked with a slight limp.

"Tommy?" Jack hadn't seen his cousin since they were kids. "I thought you were dead. Mom said you died in Afghanistan."

"That was the plan." Tommy Strongman extended his hand. "I needed to disappear for a while. Bad people were looking for me."

"What kind of bad people?"

"The kind that run high-end smuggling operations through catering companies." Tommy glanced around the empty street. "I've been watching Webb's operation for six months. He was moving more than just prime rib and wedding cakes."

Sarah stepped closer. "Drugs?"

"Art. Stolen pieces worth millions. Webb had buyers lined up from Denver to Seattle, using his catering trucks to transport everything. But he got greedy. Started skimming from his partners."

Jack felt the pieces clicking together. "So they killed him and tried to frame me."

"You were the perfect patsy. Out-of-town food blogger, former military, happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time." Tommy pulled out a thick envelope. "But I've been documenting everything. Photos, financial records, shipping manifests. Enough to put the real killers away."

"Why didn't you go to the police?"

"Because one of them is on the payroll." Tommy's expression darkened. "Detective Morrison. He's been taking money to look the other way."

Jack thought about Morrison's eagerness to pin the murder on him, the way he'd dismissed Jack's questions about the crime scene. It made sense now.

"What do we do?" Sarah asked.

"We finish what Webb started," Jack said. "But first, we eat."

---

An hour later, the three of them sat in a corner booth at the Local Restaurant & Bar, sharing a plate of elk medallions with huckleberry sauce. Jack had his laptop open, typing as he ate.

"You're really writing a restaurant review right now?" Tommy asked.

"Multi-tasking." Jack took another bite and typed: The Local's elk is tender enough to cut with a fork, with a gamey sweetness that pairs perfectly with the tart huckleberry reduction. Chef Martinez has created something special here—honest mountain cuisine that doesn't rely on gimmicks or pretension.

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Meet me at the catering warehouse. Come alone. We need to talk.

Jack showed the message to Sarah and Tommy.

"It's a trap," Sarah said immediately.

"Of course it is." Jack finished his elk and closed the laptop. "But it's also our chance to end this."

"We should call the FBI," Tommy said. "Morrison can't corrupt an entire federal task force."

"No time. We’re too close.”

---

The Rocky Mountain Catering warehouse sat at the edge of town, a metal building surrounded by food trucks and delivery vans. Jack parked his rental car across the street and waited. Tommy was positioned behind the building, and Sarah was in the car with 911 already dialed on her phone.

Jack's earpiece crackled. "Two vehicles just pulled up to the back entrance," Tommy reported. "Black SUV and a catering van."

"Copy that."

Jack walked across the street and through the front door. The warehouse was mostly empty, just a few stainless steel prep tables and industrial refrigerators. But he could hear voices from the back office.

"—should have killed him when we had the chance—"

"—too late now, he knows too much—"

Jack pushed open the office door. Three men looked up from a desk covered with photographs and documents. He recognized one of them immediately.

"Detective Morrison. Should have known."

Morrison drew his gun. "Jack Strongman. You just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?"

"Webb was your partner. You killed him because he was stealing from you."

"Webb was an idiot. He thought he could skim ten percent off the top and we wouldn't notice." Morrison's gun stayed trained on Jack's chest. "But you—you were supposed to be the fall guy. Nice and simple."

"Except I didn't cooperate."

"No, you didn't." Morrison smiled. "But that's okay. We'll make it work. A desperate murder suspect breaks into a warehouse and gets shot while resisting arrest. Very tragic."

Jack heard the soft click of a safety being released behind him. He dove left as the first shot rang out, rolling behind a prep table as bullets sparked off the stainless steel.

"Now!" he shouted into his earpiece.

The back door exploded open, and Tommy came through like a one-man army, his own weapon drawn. The two men with Morrison scrambled for cover as Tommy laid down suppressing fire.

"FBI! Drop your weapons!"

Jack looked up to see a dozen federal agents pouring through both entrances. Sarah must have called in reinforcements.

Morrison's gun clattered to the floor. "I'm a police officer!"

"You're a murderer," Jack said, getting to his feet. "And probably the worst art thief in Wyoming."

Agent Martinez—no relation to the chef at the Local—cuffed Morrison while her team secured the warehouse. "We've been tracking this smuggling ring for two years. Your cousin's intelligence was invaluable."

Tommy nodded to Jack. "Family looks out for family."

"Even family that's supposed to be dead?"

"Especially family that's supposed to be dead."

---

Three hours later, Jack sat in his hotel room, finishing his blog post about the Local Restaurant & Bar. Sarah was on the phone with her editor in San Francisco, and Tommy was meeting with the FBI to finalize his statement.

Jack's phone rang. His editor.

"Jack, what the hell is going on out there? I've been trying to reach you for days. We need that piece on Jackson Hole’s hottest new places to eat."

"Right. About that." Jack looked out the window at the snow-covered mountains. "I might need another day or two."

"Why?"

"Well, I just got married. And I found a relative I thought was dead. And I solved a murder." Jack paused. "Plus, I still need to try the bison short ribs at Snake River Brewing."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Just... file your story when you can. And try not to get arrested again."

"No promises."

Jack hung up and closed his laptop. Sarah emerged from the bathroom, having changed out of her wedding dress for the third time in four days.

"Ready for the honeymoon?" she asked.

"Where are we going?"

"I was thinking Portland. Great food scene."

Outside, the snow began to fall again over Jackson Hole. Jack Strongman had eaten well, solved a crime, and found family he didn't know he had. It was, he thought, a pretty good way to end a chapter in a book called his life.

But there would be other towns, other meals, and other mysteries waiting down the road.

There always were.