by J. B. Turner
Then his attention was drawn to something so small and insignificant, it could and most certainly would be missed by the cops when they eventually found the body.
Behind Harry’s left ear was the tiniest of pinpricks.
Reznick felt his throat constrict. It was a telltale sign he was all too familiar with. Someone wanted those who discovered the body to think Harry had overdosed on booze and pills. But Reznick could see with his own eyes.
His blood brother Harry had been suicided.
Reznick began to shake. He thought his heart was about to burst. He fought back the tears as he slid his hand under Leggett’s head, cradling it like a baby, as the shower poured down. He felt a volcanic anger take hold as he stared at the lifeless eyes. The same eyes that’d shed tears of joy and laughter. The lines more pronounced, almost like claws around the skin surrounding the eyes. He pulled Leggett’s head to his chest and he began to weep. Unashamed. “Who did this, Harry?” He clutched him tight to his beating heart. “Who did this to you? Tell me!”
He felt numb as dark thoughts began to cloud his head. Someone had got to him. Not so long ago. Perhaps within the last few hours. Just ahead of Reznick. He wondered if he had been followed south. The whole thing was so fucked up it wasn’t true.
He felt conflicted. He didn’t want to leave him. But he knew he had to go.
Reznick carefully lowered Leggett’s head down onto the plastic floor of the shower room. Water cascaded into Leggett’s open eyes. His mind flashed images of Leggett’s sparkling eyes as they’d touched down in Black Hawks. A man who’d radiated courage. The old American values. Honour. Sacrifice. He sighed. “I’ve got to go, Harry. I need to leave you here.” He stared down, a lump in his throat. “I’ll be seeing you.” He touched his cheek. Cold.
He felt the raw anger inside begin to subside. He zoned out as he had been trained to do.
Reznick looked around the teak paneled cabin trying to figure out his next move as he gathered his thoughts. His prints were all over the place. On the rails, on the handles and in the cabins. The body would be eventually discovered. And they would have him pegged for killing his old buddy.
This was a cute operation. But how did they know about Leggett? Reznick hadn’t called ahead.
Reznick took another look at Harry’s pathetic, naked body. He thought of the operations they’d been involved in. The firefights. The training. The killings. The secret missions. It made him desperately sad that the once invincible Harry Leggett, his closest comrade, had ended up like this.
He looked again at the faded tattoo, turned and headed back to the bar.
SIX
Reznick took Harry Leggett’s son into a back room at the bar, locking the door. The boy had the same sunken eyes as his father. He sat the kid down and told him the news straight. He watched as the kid went a ghostly white before he broke down in tears.
“I don’t fucking believe you, man. Are you kidding me?”
Reznick draped an arm around the boy’s broad shoulders. “Ron, look at me. If I could turn back the clock, son, I would. Your father meant the world to me.”
The kid was sobbing hard.
“Let it out, son.”
Reznick remembered the wretched emptiness the day his own father died. He remembered watching them lower his coffin into the grave, former Marines looking on. He’d been a young man himself and had put on a strong face. A mask.
The boy’s body was shaking and quivering as he sobbed his heart out.
“I don’t have the right words, Ron. But I want you to know that your father loved you.”
The kid wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. “What happened?”
Reznick leaned in close and sighed. “Listen to me Ron,” he said, keeping his voice low, “what I’m about to say is difficult to get your head around.”
“What do you mean?”
“There were no visible signs of injuries. But I believe it was made to look like it was an accident, as if he’s fallen over and banged his head in the shower, drunk.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I can’t go into it… but I know the signs. He might have been jabbed by an anaesthetic type drug, one that paralyses, makes it look like a person has collapsed and had a heart attack. It’s a method of assassination.”
The kid looked at him aghast.
“Is this related to your work or people you know?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t really know.”
The kid shook his head, tears streaking his face. He stared at Reznick. “You caused this, didn’t you?”
“Ron, you’ve every right to be angry. I’d be angry too.”
“Someone is after you, is that what it is, and got dad instead?”
Reznick said nothing.
“My mum always thought something like this would happen. The people you work with get tangled up in your personal lives; she always worried about shit like that.”
“Ron, you said a guy turned up here yesterday morning, asking to speak to your dad. I need you to tell me about this guy.”
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “You think he did this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
The kid shrugged. “What do you want to know?”
“Have you seen the guy before?”
“No.”
“Did he have a name?”
“Chad… I think he said his name was Chad.”
The name sent alarm bells ringing with Reznick. “Chad?”
“Yeah, Chad. Fucking huge guy.”
“Ron, look, I know this is tough, but can you describe this guy to me?”
The kid dabbed his eyes. “Long blond hair, dark tan, mean looking dude.”
“Mean-looking, right. Did he have a pronounced accent at all?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, did it stand out in any way?”
“Yeah. He sounded like a big Texan boy.”
Reznick nodded. “I know this isn’t easy, but is there anything else you can remember about this guy? I’m talking physically.”
“He had a fuck-off scar on his face, if that’s what you mean. Nasty looking motherfucker.”
Reznick’s blood ran cold. The description was a perfect match for a guy he knew. A guy Leggett knew. A guy called Chad Magruder. A former Delta crazy who had been on countless missions with Leggett and Reznick, before he was found guilty of raping a woman after breaking into her home in Fayetteville, near Fort Bragg.
Had that sick son–o- a-bitch killed Leggett? And if so, why?
“Listen, Ron, this is very important, is there anything else you can remember about this guy, Chad? Did he arrive by car? Think very carefully.”
“Yeah, the dude’s car was right outside, half blocking the entrance. Look, Mr Reznick, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Don’t you understand that?”
“I understand that absolutely. But just try and think for a minute what kind of car was he driving?”
“I don’t know… Look, I think it was maybe a black SUV.”
“How do you remember that?”
“Surveillance cameras out front. I distinctly remember him pulling up. He stood out.”
“Can I check if they caught anything?”
“I don’t understand… This is crazy. What difference will that make? My dad’s dead and you…”
“I know that, Ron. I wish he wasn’t. But he is.” He held the boy by the hand. “I need your help, Ron. I need to know what this guy knows, do you understand? So, I would really appreciate it if I could look over the footage.”
The kid stared blankly before averting his gaze and getting to his feet. “Follow me. It’s out back.”
Reznick felt sick and soiled as he followed Ron through to a small windowless room near the rear of the bar. A keyboard and two small monitors on a table. One was blank and one showed the exterior of the bar, some kids still goo
fing around, smoking and laughing. He punched in the approximate time the guy called Chad arrived. Scrolling through the footage, minute after minute, he got to 9.04am with a black SUV pulling up, partially visible from the camera. The car reversed into view.
“Let this section play,” Reznick said.
A few moments later into the view of the camera walked a tall and wiry man, long blond hair, shades on, pale blue Cowboys baseball cap, black shirt, jeans and cowboy boots.
Magruder. Fuck.
“Freeze that!” said Reznick.
He looked long and hard at the grainy still image. It was Magruder all right.
“OK, I think that’s the guy you told me about,” Reznick said. “Can you back up to when the car arrives? I’m sure there’s something on the rear windshield, a big sticker, when he reverses.”
The kid scrolled back and froze the image.
Reznick peered at the screen. “Ryan’s of Weston?”
The kid scrunched up his face. “Yup.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Rental company based in Weston.”
“Where’s Weston?”
The kid blinked away the tears. “On the edge of the Everglades. Not far. Maybe twenty miles or so.”
Reznick looked at the boy before hugging him tight.
The kid began to sob into Reznick’s chest. “Why did he kill my dad?”
Reznick sighed. “God only knows.”
As he headed back to the parking garage, his mood darkened. Having Magruder on the scene was bad. He crossed a busy intersection and took a right and saw a blue neon sign for the parking garage.
What the hell are you doing, Reznick? Stuck in the middle of Fort fucking Lauderdale, walking around in the middle of the night, when your little girl needs you. Goddamn, why hadn’t he gone straight to Miami and focused on playing along with those guys, and getting his daughter back?
He balled his fists tight as he strode along the sidewalk, anger coursing through his veins.
Lauren was somewhere out there, alone. Probably terrified at the hands of God knows who. An innocent, staring into the abyss. And all the time he was pissing around, trying to get help from a psychologically damaged former Delta operator and lumbered with some fucking scientist he should have capped.
You idiot, Reznick. You fucking idiot.
His mind flashed back to the image of the man on the surveillance camera. The shades. The wiry physique. The scar. It was him. Why had that crazy fuck Magruder turned up at Leggett’s bar? And what were the chances of both Magruder and Reznick turning up within a day of each other?
Zero, that’s what. This was no coincidence.
Reznick’s gut instincts told him Magruder had killed Leggett and the thought unsettled him.
Suddenly Reznick heard the low growl of a car engine not far behind him.
“Hey, buddy, you lost?” a man’s voice said.
He turned around as a cop car pulled up beside him, the arm of the officer in the passenger seat hanging out of the window.
“Just looking for a bar, officer.”
The officer chewed gum as the driver talked into a radio. “Yeah, what bar you looking for?”
“Any bar’ll do.”
The officer smiled chewing hard on the gum. “You not from around here?”
“No, sir. From out of town.”
“Out of town, huh? Where you staying?”
“Supposed to be staying on a friend’s boat. But he’s gone out night fishing instead. So, you know how it is, a man’s gotta pass the time some way.”
The car pulled up beside him and the officer stepped out of the car. “Sir, do you have any identification on you.”
Reznick reached into his back pocket and handed him his second fake ID driver’s license. The cop chewed his gum as he scanned the license before nodding.
“Long way from Burlington, Vermont, Mr Laird.”
Reznick smiled but said nothing.
The cop shrugged. “Seems OK. But I’ll need to check these details over on our computer, sir. Won’t take a minute, OK?”
Reznick nodded. “Take your time, officer.”
The officer got back in the car and called in the name. A couple of minutes later, the radio crackled into life. “Yeah, it’s clean.”
The officer stared at Reznick. “What do you do up in Burlington, Mr Laird, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A bit of this, a bit of that. Maintenance mostly.”
The officer handed his ID back to Reznick. “Sorry for keeping you, sir. A routine check, I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“Not a problem, officer.”
The officer nodded to the driver and they drove off, taking a right at a set of lights.
Reznick let out a long sigh at the close call. If the cop had stopped the car, he’d have had had to take the cop down. Not ideal in any circumstances. He walked on for a few minutes, before he headed down a side street and founds his way back to the parking garage. He popped open the trunk and Luntz was breathing hard. Reznick untied him and undid the gag. “Let me out of here,” Luntz said, sweat beading his forehead. “Please don’t lock me in there again.”
Reznick stared down at the blinking, terrified scientist. “It all depends if you behave yourself. Do you understand?”
Luntz blinked away more tears and nodded.
Reznick yanked Luntz out of the trunk by his T-shirt and stood him up. He looked unsteady on his feet. “You OK?”
Luntz shook his head. “No, I’m not OK.” He was breathing hard, eyes glazed.
“Do what I say, and we’re gonna get through this, do you understand?”
Luntz stared blankly at him but said nothing.
“OK, let’s go,” said Reznick, and marched him across the concrete second floor parking garage towards a Volvo.
“Please, where are you taking me? Please, I’m scared. I’m scared you’re taking me somewhere to kill me.”
“That’s not gonna happen. Just trust me.” Using a high tech fob, Reznick disabled the alarm and the immobiliser system. Then he opened the passenger seat and strapped a disorientated and blinking Luntz in. “Don’t move a fucking muscle.”
Reznick went around and opened the driver’s door. Pulling out a knife, he bent down and popped the plastic cover around the steering wheel. On the left hand side was the ignition. He got out his Swiss army knife, unscrewed the two bolts that held a metal cover in place, and jammed the smallest knife into the slot. The engine purred into life.
He slid into the driver’s seat, pulled on his seat belt and revved up the engine a couple of times.
Where to now? Should he follow up the Magruder lead to the town of Weston on the off chance of getting lucky?
His thoughts turned to Magruder’s name. Unusual. Rare, even. So, how many Magruders could there be in a provincial town in south Florida?
Reznick pulled the iPhone out of his back pocket and punched in 4-1-1 for directory assistance.
“Good morning, what number are you looking for?” a woman’s voice said.
“Hi, looking for a number in Weston, Florida. Is there any for Magruder?”
“How are you spelling that, sir?”
“Magruder. M-a-g-r-u-d-e-r.”
“Hold the line, sir.” Vivaldi’s Four Seasons started playing for what seemed like an eternity. It was probably only a couple of seconds. Eventually the woman came back on the line. “Yes, sir, I’ve got one in the town of Weston, Florida.”
“One number, that’s great.”
“Yeah, we’ve got a Shelley Anne Magruder, 2387 Lake Boulevard, Weston. Number is 954-384-7272.”
He ended the call as he made a mental note of the address and number. He buckled up, switched on the satnav and punched in the town of Weston as the destination.
The woman’s voice on the satnav directed him out of Fort Lauderdale, onto the I-95 ramp towards Miami and the Port Everglades Expressway towards Weston.
Reznick screwed up his tired eyes, dazzled
by the oncoming lights. His mind drifted. He thought back to his daughter playing in the rock pools as a little girl, down in the cove on the rocky Maine headland. She was paying the price for his life in the shadows. He willed himself to focus.
Make haste slowly.
He needed to slow down his thought processes to prepare properly. The adrenaline rush that was making him nauseous would eventually burn off. But until then, he needed to focus.
He cranked up the air con and the blast of cold air began to refresh him. Then he switched on the radio and some country station was playing.
He turned it up and his mind flashed back to the first time he’d met Magruder.
It was a cold spring day in 1995; snow still on the ground, during the Selection and Assessment for the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment – Delta – in Camp Dawson, West Virginia. It started with the same bullshit eight-hour standardised psychological tests. Do you like brunettes? Do you have black, tarry stools? Do you think people are talking about you? Do you hear voices? On the whole, do people understand you? Do you think of yourself as a serious person? Are you introspective? That kind of lame pseudo psychobabble talk.
They wanted to screen out the crazies. But they must have been asking the wrong questions that spring morning.
Magruder, a tall wiry man, was clean gone. He also had insane amounts of nervous energy. He stood out as an obsessive, even amongst the obsessives of Delta. He had a stellar reputation for marksmanship even amongst the Delta crack shots, and practiced religiously. He attended shooting competitions across America and beat everyone out of sight. He’d practiced magazine change and dry firing, time after time. And he’d read his Operator’s Training Course manual, religiously keeping abreast of tradecraft and explosives. Everything was an opportunity to improve. To get better. He carried more weight in his rucksack; he studied martial arts to the highest level, beating the shit out of some of the best fighters in America.
But what no one knew at the time was that Magruder was damaged. Unlike Reznick, who had enjoyed a typical outdoor childhood in Maine – hiking, hunting and fishing with his dad – Magruder had endured a torrid, violent childhood. His father, a trucker, had physically abused him for years. Beatings bordering on torture, which initially toughened him up, had then sent Magruder spiraling into his own dark hell.
