Reckoning

by J. B. Turner

  The more he thought about it, the more he believed they’d be protected. Even if he got past their security detail, they might also be armed themselves.

  He thought of taking them out sniper-style.

  That in itself could be problematic. He’d get one. Maybe two if he was lucky. But three would be a stretch, let alone four. And there would be no guarantees. What if they were wearing bulletproof vests?

  Nathan pushed those thoughts aside and left the diner. He caught a bus uptown and made his way toward the address. Down Fifth Avenue and then East Sixty-Eighth Street until he caught sight of the stunning five-story limestone townhouse. Black front door, original stoop, brass knocker. He walked down the street, his senses switched on.

  He headed back onto Lexington and bought himself a pair of expensive shades. Then he headed farther down and into Barneys, on Madison Avenue, where he bought a navy jacket, pale-blue Oxford shirt, new Versace jeans, and tan wing tips. He put them on in the changing room, asked the assistant to cut off the price tags, and paid in cash, much to the assistant’s bemusement.

  “Man, you going to a party?”

  Nathan smiled. “Yeah, something like that.”

  He handed the kid a twenty-dollar bill as a thank-you and made his way back to the townhouse, shades on, the new clothes having changed his appearance even more. He climbed the stoop and keyed in the access code, and the door clicked open.

  He headed inside. A towering atrium stretched before him, black-and-white-tiled floors polished to a shine.

  He took out his Glock and pulled back the slide.

  He headed down a corridor, down a winding staircase to the basement, which led him out into a small back garden. He looked around the rest of the basement. Gas boiler. He flicked it open and turned it off.

  Then Nathan headed back up onto the ground floor. It was quite possible he was being watched on surveillance. But he figured there would be no need for evidence of any meetings or appearances. Higher and higher he climbed through the townhouse. Five bedrooms, six other rooms, including a library. Adjacent to the library on the fifth floor was a room, oil paintings on the wall, oval table with a dozen large bottles of water and glasses too. The blinds were drawn. It was situated at the rear of the building.

  On one wall, a gold-leaf mirror hung above a fireplace. Nathan kneeled down and examined the fire. It was a gas fire, a modern one, although it blended in very well with the old room.

  He wondered if this was the room they used for their meetings. It looked like it was set up for one.

  Nathan opened his backpack and rummaged inside for a screwdriver. He loosened the fake coal display and saw the pipe that led to the gas element. He loosened some wooden molding on the floor, where the valve was housed. Then he removed the valve and carefully replaced the molding, gluing it back in place. Then he put the fake coal display back on top of the gas element.

  Nathan headed back down to the basement and spotted the gas line regulator hidden in a tiny cupboard in the basement. He removed the valve there as well.

  He went up to the ground floor, where the kitchen was. It was all granite surfaces, expensive ceramic floors, with a faint smell of pine as if it had been cleaned that morning.

  Sitting on top of the worktop was a microwave. He raked through some drawers and found a metal container, which he placed in the microwave, carefully shutting the door. He checked the time on his cell phone. Then he set the microwave’s delayed-start function to begin at 9:19 p.m. that evening.

  Nathan headed down to the basement one more time and switched the gas on. Then he headed back up the stairs, out through the tiled lobby, and through the heavy front door, automatically locking it behind him. Inside he heard the alarm resetting.

  He disappeared down the street and melted into the crowds.

  Forty-Two

  Mahoney was wrapped up against the deep chill, walking along a deserted beach near East Hampton with his wife and kids. The sky seemed like it went on forever.

  “You look happier out here, Mark,” she said, linking arms with him.

  “Maybe we need to consider moving out of the city.”

  “What about the kids’ school?”

  Mahoney’s kids attended a prestigious private day school in Manhattan. “I’m sure there are good schools out here.”

  “There are.”

  “So why not move out here? We can get a little cottage, maybe rent your parents’ place for a year or so if they’d allow us.”

  “They’re members of the Maidstone Club. I’m not sure they’d want to go without golf in the summer.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Oh, honey, they like their hobbies. Is that so bad?”

  “No, it isn’t so bad. It’s just that I’m starting to feel better already. It’s so much quieter here.”

  The sun was sinking lower in the sky, a pale-crimson glow washing over the beach as the waves crashed onto the cold sand.

  “Sure, now it is. But you know what this place is like in the summer.”

  Mahoney nodded, remembering from past visits how insane the crowds were from May till September.

  “Jam friggin’ packed.”

  “But the rest of the time it’s like this,” he said.

  “True.”

  “I could get used to this.”

  “What about your job?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “What have you been thinking about? How stressed you are?”

  Mahoney felt the cold wind on his face, smelled the salt in the air, and sighed. “I don’t want to work in journalism anymore.”

  His wife took a few moments to answer. “What?”

  “I know, it’s out of the blue. I’m just . . . I don’t know, I feel like I need a change.”

  “What kind of change?”

  “The sort of change where I can see you and the kids every day. Where I can maybe write a book.”

  “A book? About what?”

  “Maybe about what I’ve been working on.”

  “Will the Times allow you to do that?”

  “My contract just mentions not working for competitors—you know, like the Post.”

  “I don’t know, honey . . . This is all so out of character.”

  “I feel like I need a change. A major change. A change of pace. A change of scenery.”

  “Shouldn’t we talk it over?”

  Mahoney shrugged. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

  “Well, no, honey. You’re basically just throwing this curveball at me. First you asked us to leave Toronto because you were stressed and on a deadline. Then you turn up back in New York without any notice. Now you’re talking about leaving your job. And writing a book? It’s like you’re having a breakdown.”

  Mahoney had never been good with confrontation. He wasn’t one of those journalists who could walk up to a door, knock on it, and ask for a quote. He found it uncomfortable. He would much rather have the time and space to research and write stories, investigate events, unearth news, write features. But even that, since Nathan had turned up in Toronto, had lost its shine. The whole journalism thing, which he was immersed in to the exclusion of his family life, had left his world hanging by a thread. He didn’t know what to do. He felt sufficiently cowed by Nathan to just do as he said. It wasn’t the tough thing to do. It wasn’t the brave thing to do. And it probably wasn’t the smart thing to do. But it was his call, as he was unable to burden his family with such news.

  He closed his eyes as they walked on the beach, the kids running along the waterline farther down the sand. He felt scared. Racked by uncertainty. And guilt. His family was at risk, and he hadn’t told them.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?” his wife asked. “I know you, Mark. I can tell there’s something terribly wrong. Oh God, what is it, Mark? Is it a girl? Have you met someone?”

  Mahoney shook his head.

  “Please, Mark, you’re scaring me now.”

  Mahoney wondered what to do
. He’d wrestled with what to do. He couldn’t find a solution. He couldn’t bear to tell her. He was scared of the ramifications. But could he really, in all conscience, just leave her to wonder why he was acting so strangely?

  “Is it a midlife-crisis sort of thing? Talk to me, Mark.”

  “I feel sick,” Mahoney said.

  “You feel sick? Something you ate? What?”

  “I feel sick that I haven’t . . .”

  “Haven’t what?”

  Mahoney pulled her close. He looked around at the perfect scene. The sound of the ocean crashing onto the shore was a balm to his soul. “I haven’t been totally honest with you.”

  His wife just looked at him.

  “I feel ill about what I’ve got to tell you.”

  “My God, Mark, please, you’re killing me. What is it?”

  Mahoney felt a pain in his chest. He took a large intake of breath. He wondered if he was going to have a panic attack. The scale of what was happening was almost too much to bear. “I’m going to share this with you and you alone. I couldn’t share it a few days ago.”

  “Please don’t say you’ve met someone. Please don’t say that. I couldn’t bear that.”

  “You can’t share what I’m about to tell you. With anyone.”

  “OK.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah, I promise.”

  “What I’m about to tell you concerns a major secret investigation I’m working on. Two people at the New York Times know about this. And me. That’s why I’ve been in Toronto.”

  “Please, Mark, what is it?”

  “I’m investigating the murder of the late senator Brad Crichton, in Scotland.”

  “Didn’t he fall to his death climbing or something?”

  Mahoney shook his head. “He was killed by an assassin.”

  His wife didn’t speak, as if she was taking it all in.

  “The assassin’s name is Nathan Stone.”

  “The guy who had dinner with us the other night?”

  Mahoney nodded. “Nathan killed the senator, but his girlfriend managed to escape for a while. Until a second crew of assassins killed her. And they were subsequently killed by Nathan.”

  His wife put her fingers to her temples.

  “Nathan Stone was subsequently assigned to kill me.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “In Toronto.”

  “The guy at our apartment?”

  “That was him.”

  “You told him where we lived?”

  “He already knew. He knows everything about me.”

  “This is our family we’re talking about, Mark. Our family. Our children. Me.”

  “Listen to me, the people who assigned Stone to kill me kidnapped his sister to ensure he would carry out their plan. But he’s flipped or gone rogue or something, and he’s vowed to kill the people who ordered his sister’s kidnapping and the hit on me.”

  “This is like a nightmare. A living nightmare. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Nathan Stone . . . I sat down with him.”

  “The man in our apartment?”

  “Yes! The man in our apartment. Nathan told me to leave the apartment in Chelsea.”

  “This is nuts. Mark, we’ve got to go to the cops. The FBI. Anyone.”

  “No. We can’t.”

  “What do you mean we can’t?”

  “Nathan said not to go to the cops.”

  His wife turned away and ran her hands through her hair. “Mark . . . he’s going to kill us. He’s going to kill us out here.”

  “I don’t think he will.”

  His wife turned to face him. “What? Are you serious? How do you know he won’t kill us? He was hired to kill you, didn’t you say that?”

  Mahoney nodded.

  “This is a nightmare. I’m going to wake up.” She looked farther down the beach as their daughters walked along the shoreline. “Come back, kids!” she shouted.

  The children waved at her.

  “I said come back here! Right now, do you hear?”

  The children reluctantly started walking toward them.

  “If what you’re saying is true, Mark, the right thing to do, and the smart thing to do, is contact the cops. The FBI.”

  “Stone said not to do that. He said these people would get to me or to you wherever they put us.”

  “And you believed him?”

  Mahoney looked out at the ocean tossing and turning, waves crashing onto the shore. “So help me God I did.”

  Forty-Three

  Nathan watched from farther down the street as a couple limousines pulled up outside the Upper East Side townhouse. He was standing nearly two blocks away eating some tacos beside a food truck with a perfect line of sight. He had dumped the clothes from earlier and bought a pair of Levi’s, a black T-shirt, and a jacket, along with some black Nikes.

  Nathan finished the food, wiped his mouth and hands, and dropped the wrapper in a bin. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the new compact binoculars he’d bought. He saw three men, in their seventies, being led inside by a team of bodyguards. It was a classic formation, shielding front, rear, and side.

  A huge bodyguard entered the code into the keypad—the same one he’d used earlier—and pushed the door open. He held it ajar as the men stepped inside, security teams following. Two stayed outside guarding the entrance, one speaking into a cell phone.

  Nathan wondered where the final member of the Commission was. He watched and waited. He checked his watch. It was now 9:01 p.m. He scanned the windows of the various floors. Faint light glowed from behind the drapes in the library on the fifth floor. He believed the men would be meeting in the adjacent room, to the rear of the building.

  A tap on his shoulder and Nathan turned around. Two cops were staring at him.

  “What are you looking at, sir?” the burlier of the two asked.

  Nathan’s senses were all switched on. He smiled. “Just testing them out in low light, Officer.” He handed them to the cop. “See, try for yourself.”

  The cop looked over the binoculars for a few moments. “We were observing you. Looked like you were spying on the building farther down the street.”

  Nathan grinned. “Not exactly, Officer. I’m a birder, just so you know.”

  “A what?” the cop said.

  “Bird-watcher. Just spotted some finches in the trees down the road. Really beautiful birds.”

  “Can I see some ID, sir?”

  Nathan pulled out his wallet and showed him the fake ID.

  “You’re a long way from home, sir.”

  “I love New York in the fall. Heading down to Central Park tomorrow to do some real bird-watching.”

  The cop handed back the ID and the binoculars. “You enjoy your stay in New York. Take care.”

  Nathan smiled. “Thank you, Officer. Stay safe.”

  He waited until they’d disappeared out of sight before he put the binoculars back in his pocket. Checked his watch. It read 9:11. His cell phone showed it was 9:13.

  A message flashed on the phone he’d taken from Clayton Wilson. It was from Richard Stanton. It read:

  Apologies, flight delay and I’m running late. Just landed at JFK and huge lines. Will be at least an hour before I’m there. Regards, R.

  Nathan took one last look down the street. Everyone was inside apart from the two guys still by the door.

  It would soon be time.

  He turned and headed away from the townhouse, back toward Fifth Avenue.

  A few minutes later, the sound of a huge explosion shook the ground and split the chill in the New York night.

  Forty-Four

  A couple of hours later, Nathan got a message from Richard Stanton on Clayton Wilson’s cell phone. It read:

  What the fuck is going on, C? You OK? Did you hear what happened? I just arrived. The place has been taken out. Please advise.

  Nathan took a few minutes to consider his next move. He wondered if he should arrange t
o meet up with Stanton and delete him. But he thought his luck might just be about to run out.

  He’d taken care of his handler, Clayton Wilson, and three members of the Commission. But Richard Stanton still eluded him.

  He began to run through some options as he tried to concoct an assassination strategy. He wondered if he could take him out from afar. Darkness would make that difficult. Besides, it was always best to hunker down for a few days before attempting a sniper attack.

  Slowly, his thoughts began to clear. He needed, in military terms, what was called an asymmetric response. Nathan assumed Stanton might bring a bodyguard to any suggested meeting. Then again, he might not if he was asked to come alone. But he needed a method that would not only attract Stanton but also wouldn’t leave any trace of Nathan.

  It was then that an idea began to form. Very slowly at first. His mind flashed back to the meeting with Zico. A crazy, irrational, money-driven psychopath.

  Nathan took out the business card, printed on cheap paper, and dialed the number.

  “Yo, who the fuck is this?”

  “Zico, it’s Nathan.”

  “Hey, man, what’s up?”

  “You said if I needed help you’d be there.”

  “Fucking right.”

  “I need your help. And I need it now. And I’m willing to pay.”

  “Pay for what?”

  “I want a custom service, Zico.”

  “Yeah, I’m your guy.”

  “But you need to be discreet. Can I count on that?”

  “Nathan, discretion is my middle name.”

  “Then this is what I want you to do.”

  Nathan caught a cab to the West Village and sent a text message to Richard Stanton from Clayton Wilson’s cell phone. It read:

  Family emergency, sincere apologies. What a mess. We’ve been compromised. And I believe I know who it is. Meet face-to-face to discuss. Security is doing a sweep of the location as we speak. Ground floor, the site of the old Keller Hotel, currently empty, Barrow Street entrance, just off the West Side Highway. 0100 hrs.

  Almost immediately he got a reply.

  Will do. R.

  Nathan asked the cab to drop him off a block away, outside the Rockbar. It was a gay bar on Christopher Street. He walked around the corner and along West Street. Saw the dilapidated hotel sign and turned down Barrow. He used a knife to pry open the padlocked door and headed inside. The smell of dust, damp, and decay rushed at him.