He was nursing a black coffee, but was on his feet in seconds.
It was a book. Hardback. Portrait. Maybe eight inches tall by five wide. With a moody dusky dust-jacket.
He rifled through the pristine pages. 464 of them.
The reader smiled. Excitement growing. This was it. The new Reacher. The 27th.
He had cleared his diary for publication day. He had No Plan B.