Excerpt from Tripwire by Lee Child, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Are we going to make it?" the CEO asked.

That day had been D-Day. D stood for downsizing. Their human resources manager out at the manufacturing plant on Long Island had been busy since eight o'clock that morning. His secretary had rustled up a long line of chairs in the corridor outside his office, and the chairs had been filled with a long line of people. The people had waited most of the day, shuffling up one place every five minutes, then shuffling off the end of the line into the human resources manager's office for a five-minute interview that terminated their livelihoods, thank you and good-bye.

"Are we going to make it?" the CEO asked again.

The finance director was copying large numbers onto a sheet of paper. He subtracted one from another and looked at a calendar. He shrugged.

"In theory, yes," he said. "In practice, no."

"No?" the CEO repeated.

"It's the time factor," the finance director said. "We did the right thing out at the plant, no doubt about that. Eighty percent of the people gone, saves us ninety-one percent of the payroll, because we only kept the cheap ones. But we paid them all up to the end of next month. So the cash-flow enhancement doesn't hit us for six weeks. And in fact right now the cash flow gets much worse, because the little bastards are all out there cashing a six-week paycheck."

The CEO sighed and nodded.

"So how much do we need?"

The finance director used the mouse and expanded a window.

"One-point-one million dollars," he said. "For six weeks."

"Bank?"

"Forget it," the finance director said. "I'm over there every day kissing ass just to keep what we already owe them. I ask for more, they'll laugh in my face."

"Worse things could happen to you," the CEO said.

"That's not the point," the finance director said. "The point is they get a sniff we're still not healthy, they'll call those loans. In a heartbeat."

The CEO drummed his fingers on the rosewood and shrugged.

"I'll sell some stock," he said.

The finance director shook his head.

"You can't," he said, patiently. "You put stock in the market, the price will go through the floor. Our existing borrowing is secured on stock, and if it gets any more worthless, they'll close us down tomorrow."

"Shit," the CEO said. "We're six weeks away. I'm not going to lose all this for six lousy weeks. Not for a lousy million bucks. It's a trivial amount."

"A trivial amount we haven't got."

"Got to be somewhere we can get it."

The finance director made no reply to that. But he was sitting there like he had something more to say.

"What?" the CEO asked him.

"I heard some talk," he said. "Guys I know, gossiping. There's maybe somewhere we can go. For six weeks, it might be worth it. There's an outfit I heard about. A lender-of-last-resort type of thing."

"On the level?"

"Apparently," the finance director said. "Looks very respectable. Big office over in the World Trade Center. He specializes in cases like this."

The CEO glared at the screen.

"Cases like what?"

"Like this," the finance director repeated. "Where you're almost home and dry, but the banks are too tight-assed to see it."

The CEO nodded and gazed around the office. It was a beautiful place. And his own office was two floors higher, on a corner, and even more beautiful.

"OK," he said. "Do it."

"I can't do it," the finance director said. "This guy won't deal below CEO level. You'll have to do it."

It started out a quiet night in the nude bar. A midweek evening in June, way too late for the snowbirds and the spring breakers, too early for the summer vacationers who came down to roast. Not more than maybe forty people in all night, two girls behind the bar, three girls out there dancing. Reacher was watching a woman called Crystal. He assumed that was not her real name, but he had never asked. She was the best. She earned a lot more than Reacher had ever earned as a major in the military police. She spent a percentage of her income running an old black Porsche. Reacher sometimes heard it in the early afternoons, rumbling and blatting around the blocks where he was working.

Reprinted from TRIPWIRE by Lee Child by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 1999 by Lee Child. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.