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Running Blind[RUNNING BLIND][Paperback]
Running Blind <> Paperback <> LeeChild <> BerkleyBooks
Paperback
Published February 28, 2013
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About the author
Lee Child
442 books34k followersLee Child was born October 29th, 1954 in Coventry, England, but spent his formative years in the nearby city of Birmingham. By coincidence he won a scholarship to the same high school that JRR Tolkien had attended. He went to law school in Sheffield, England, and after part-time work in the theater he joined Granada Television in Manchester for what turned out to be an eighteen-year career as a presentation director during British TV's "golden age." During his tenure his company made Brideshead Revisited, The Jewel in the Crown, Prime Suspect, and Cracker. But he was fired in 1995 at the age of 40 as a result of corporate restructuring. Always a voracious reader, he decided to see an opportunity where others might have seen a crisis and bought six dollars' worth of paper and pencils and sat down to write a book, Killing Floor, the first in the Jack Reacher series.
Killing Floor was an immediate success and launched the series which has grown in sales and impact with every new installment. The first Jack Reacher movie, based on the novel One Shot and starring Tom Cruise and Rosamund Pike, was released in December 2012.
Lee has three homes—an apartment in Manhattan, a country house in the south of France, and whatever airplane cabin he happens to be in while traveling between the two. In the US he drives a supercharged Jaguar, which was built in Jaguar's Browns Lane plant, thirty yards from the hospital in which he was born.
Lee spends his spare time reading, listening to music, and watching the Yankees, Aston Villa, or Marseilles soccer. He is married with a grown-up daughter. He is tall and slim, despite an appalling diet and a refusal to exercise.
Killing Floor was an immediate success and launched the series which has grown in sales and impact with every new installment. The first Jack Reacher movie, based on the novel One Shot and starring Tom Cruise and Rosamund Pike, was released in December 2012.
Lee has three homes—an apartment in Manhattan, a country house in the south of France, and whatever airplane cabin he happens to be in while traveling between the two. In the US he drives a supercharged Jaguar, which was built in Jaguar's Browns Lane plant, thirty yards from the hospital in which he was born.
Lee spends his spare time reading, listening to music, and watching the Yankees, Aston Villa, or Marseilles soccer. He is married with a grown-up daughter. He is tall and slim, despite an appalling diet and a refusal to exercise.
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
September 27, 2025
Big Jack Reacher is eating ravioli. And he's still hungry. But the size of Reacher’s stomach is of little consequence when two goons barge into the restaurant and demand $200 a week in protection money, with an option to raise it to $400 once the place starts making a profit. Naturally, Jack Reacher does not tolerate such things, and so he steps outside and… purchases a label maker and a tube of glue. Because, Jack Reacher.
As you have no doubt already guessed, moments later our testosterone-drenched knight of gratuitous violence turns the two goons into foot balm and sends them back to Monsieur Petrosian, their mafia boss, with a message glued to their foreheads—courtesy of said label maker.
An hour and seventeen minutes later (bear in mind that in Jack Reacher’s reptilian cerebellum exists a nuclear clock that keeps time to the second unless struck by a meteorite), and while driving along with near-tranquil detachment, the FBI stops him, drags him out of his car, places him in another vehicle, and—for reasons one can only attribute to butterfly effect or rising entropy—hands him a search warrant for his residence (a legacy from the elderly Mr. Grabber from the previous novel, whose daughter, incidentally, Reacher is rather intimately acquainted with). They do all this, of course, at gunpoint.
What follows is an utterly bizarre scene involving a miniskirt, thighs, and an exchange of insults that verges so absurdly close to the realm of sexual harassment that one begins to wonder whether legal action is not just justified, but overdue.
Then he’s transported to an odd facility and made to sit in a room while, every five minutes or so, someone opens the door, looks at him, and… carries on with their life. Yes, really. And be grateful I’ve summarised this for you.
Eventually—far too late for the desperate reader—they deign to actually speak to him. They bombard him with the sort of stories and questions that make you think the next logical inquiry will be, “Would you kill Hitler if you could?”, and just as you are about to toss both book and soul into the fireplace, they inform him that he is considered a suspect in the murder of two women he once knew from his military days.
Enter his girlfriend (the aforementioned daughter of Mr. Grabber), who also happens to be his lawyer (her expertise lies in high-end corporate mergers, not criminal law, mind you). After a brief exchange, Reacher decides that they’ve arrested him for a different reason entirely and that, naturally, there must be a third victim (cue dramatic music, rising action, new chapter). A few minutes later, they simply let him go. Just like that. Cheerio.
Of course, not long after, they turn up at his house at dawn. They drink coffee. They spill the beans. By this point, aside from the two faceless goons from the beginning, our kill-and-don’t-pay-the-price Reacher hasn’t so much as slapped his own cheek post-shave. Before you can process that, the Feds are threatening to release the name and address of his lady friend to Petrosian (the mafia boss whose men Reacher disfigured), claiming Petrosian is some grandiose pervert and all-around villain.
Thus begins a road trip to Virginia with a profoundly unlikeable FBI profiler who, rather conveniently, is terrified of flying. En route, they pass a wrecked car identical to Reacher’s—but he’s unfazed (likely a lease). Along the way, he learns that the bodies were found in bathtubs filled with army-green paint, though the exact cause of death remains undetermined. Also, any reader with an IQ above that of a lukewarm potato can immediately guess the murderer—and the motive. This is confirmed at the end. Naturally.
Later, when they reach headquarters and Reacher calls his lady love, she doesn’t pick up. Because… women.
What follows is a descent into near-parodic madness. Reacher orchestrates a wholly unnecessary infiltration of a military base, escapes via a window, procures a helicopter (yes, really), flies back to New York to intimidate two Chinese goons (rivals of Petrosian), then returns just in time to exit the room he was seen entering, as though nothing had happened. Naturally, this Neanderthal masterplan works perfectly, and all the gangsters (more brain-dead than rusted exhaust pipes) kill each other, neatly resolving the Petrosian subplot.
Meanwhile, no actual progress is made in identifying the real killer. Reacher and the profiler have a toxic dynamic worthy of its own psych evaluation, her sister dies (conveniently one of the potential victims), and the investigation spirals into chaos.
Of course, Jack ultimately solves everything, strangles the killer with his bare hands (accidentally, of course—hmwaughrg), and we are finally treated to the ludicrous revelation of how the killer committed the murders without anyone noticing. Let’s just say: had the method involved Martian mercenaries firing invisible lasers from orbit, it would have been more believable and far less insulting to the reader’s intelligence.
At the very end, Reacher makes a gentleman’s agreement with the FBI because, well, there’s been quite enough death and public scandal. He parts ways with his girlfriend, who is now partner at her prestigious law firm, and sets off for London, carrying nothing but a folding toothbrush. Because, Jack Reacher.
The book hovers dangerously close to the definition of shameful—even by the standards of the series. But having once read something by Dan Brown’s long-lost cousin in literary mediocrity, I can safely say that this still floats slightly above the abyssal trench of quality where such works eternally dwell.
As you have no doubt already guessed, moments later our testosterone-drenched knight of gratuitous violence turns the two goons into foot balm and sends them back to Monsieur Petrosian, their mafia boss, with a message glued to their foreheads—courtesy of said label maker.
An hour and seventeen minutes later (bear in mind that in Jack Reacher’s reptilian cerebellum exists a nuclear clock that keeps time to the second unless struck by a meteorite), and while driving along with near-tranquil detachment, the FBI stops him, drags him out of his car, places him in another vehicle, and—for reasons one can only attribute to butterfly effect or rising entropy—hands him a search warrant for his residence (a legacy from the elderly Mr. Grabber from the previous novel, whose daughter, incidentally, Reacher is rather intimately acquainted with). They do all this, of course, at gunpoint.
What follows is an utterly bizarre scene involving a miniskirt, thighs, and an exchange of insults that verges so absurdly close to the realm of sexual harassment that one begins to wonder whether legal action is not just justified, but overdue.
Then he’s transported to an odd facility and made to sit in a room while, every five minutes or so, someone opens the door, looks at him, and… carries on with their life. Yes, really. And be grateful I’ve summarised this for you.
Eventually—far too late for the desperate reader—they deign to actually speak to him. They bombard him with the sort of stories and questions that make you think the next logical inquiry will be, “Would you kill Hitler if you could?”, and just as you are about to toss both book and soul into the fireplace, they inform him that he is considered a suspect in the murder of two women he once knew from his military days.
Enter his girlfriend (the aforementioned daughter of Mr. Grabber), who also happens to be his lawyer (her expertise lies in high-end corporate mergers, not criminal law, mind you). After a brief exchange, Reacher decides that they’ve arrested him for a different reason entirely and that, naturally, there must be a third victim (cue dramatic music, rising action, new chapter). A few minutes later, they simply let him go. Just like that. Cheerio.
Of course, not long after, they turn up at his house at dawn. They drink coffee. They spill the beans. By this point, aside from the two faceless goons from the beginning, our kill-and-don’t-pay-the-price Reacher hasn’t so much as slapped his own cheek post-shave. Before you can process that, the Feds are threatening to release the name and address of his lady friend to Petrosian (the mafia boss whose men Reacher disfigured), claiming Petrosian is some grandiose pervert and all-around villain.
Thus begins a road trip to Virginia with a profoundly unlikeable FBI profiler who, rather conveniently, is terrified of flying. En route, they pass a wrecked car identical to Reacher’s—but he’s unfazed (likely a lease). Along the way, he learns that the bodies were found in bathtubs filled with army-green paint, though the exact cause of death remains undetermined. Also, any reader with an IQ above that of a lukewarm potato can immediately guess the murderer—and the motive. This is confirmed at the end. Naturally.
Later, when they reach headquarters and Reacher calls his lady love, she doesn’t pick up. Because… women.
What follows is a descent into near-parodic madness. Reacher orchestrates a wholly unnecessary infiltration of a military base, escapes via a window, procures a helicopter (yes, really), flies back to New York to intimidate two Chinese goons (rivals of Petrosian), then returns just in time to exit the room he was seen entering, as though nothing had happened. Naturally, this Neanderthal masterplan works perfectly, and all the gangsters (more brain-dead than rusted exhaust pipes) kill each other, neatly resolving the Petrosian subplot.
Meanwhile, no actual progress is made in identifying the real killer. Reacher and the profiler have a toxic dynamic worthy of its own psych evaluation, her sister dies (conveniently one of the potential victims), and the investigation spirals into chaos.
Of course, Jack ultimately solves everything, strangles the killer with his bare hands (accidentally, of course—hmwaughrg), and we are finally treated to the ludicrous revelation of how the killer committed the murders without anyone noticing. Let’s just say: had the method involved Martian mercenaries firing invisible lasers from orbit, it would have been more believable and far less insulting to the reader’s intelligence.
At the very end, Reacher makes a gentleman’s agreement with the FBI because, well, there’s been quite enough death and public scandal. He parts ways with his girlfriend, who is now partner at her prestigious law firm, and sets off for London, carrying nothing but a folding toothbrush. Because, Jack Reacher.
The book hovers dangerously close to the definition of shameful—even by the standards of the series. But having once read something by Dan Brown’s long-lost cousin in literary mediocrity, I can safely say that this still floats slightly above the abyssal trench of quality where such works eternally dwell.
November 7, 2025
I love all of the Jack Reacher books but I have tried to get through this one on an audio book and it was absolutely painful. The reader was the worst I have heard and I couldn’t finish. I am going to have to read this one on my own.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews