Hard Road

by J. B. Turner

  A beat. “I believe you.”

  Reznick stared down into Merceron’s terrified dark eyes. He wanted him to feel what it was like. He wanted him to suffer. He felt a rage build deep within him. Then he pressed the end of the suppressor to his head and squeezed the trigger. A muffled ‘phutt’ sound and brains and blood splattered all over the white starched tablecloth and napkins and glasses.

  His adrenaline was pumping. Senses switched to the max. Seconds ticking by. He needed to clean up.

  He hauled Merceron’s body feet first through the empty terrace to behind the bar and left a trail of blood dripping onto the hardwood floor. He saw an open trap door, with beer lines leading down to a cellar full of kegs. And he shoved Merceron’s hulking body head first down there, crashing into bottles and metal kegs. The same procedure for the bodyguard, spraying some anaesthetic spray in the guy’s ear first, ensuring he’d be out of it for hours. Finally, he wiped down the floor and all surfaces with the bloody white tablecloth and the barman’s wet rag which he dropped down into the cellar with the two bodies, before locking the hatch and putting the key in his pocket.

  Jesus H Christ.

  The barman still hadn’t returned. If he was lucky, it would be hours before they were discovered. He needed to disappear.

  He washed his hands behind the bar, put on his jacket, took Merceron’s phone and headed through the cigar bar and headed down the stairs all the way to the huge lobby and out the doors where he picked up the keys from the valet, tipped fifty dollars and sped off in the stolen BMW.

  Then he headed south out into the night, leaving the lights of Palm Beach in his rearview mirror. He drove hard down I-95. His mind was on fire. He had to get to Lauren. But as he got south of Miami, he realised the traffic was getting slower and slower.

  Eventually it stopped moving. Traffic was gridlocked.

  He wound down his window and looked across at a guy with his arm dangling out of his pick-up truck in the next lane. “What’s the problem?”

  The guy just shrugged. “Four car accident, apparently, buddy. Some kids racing each other.”

  Reznick closed his eyes, as the engines around him revved in the sultry evening air, hoping and praying his daughter was still alive.

  NINETEEN

  It was 2am and the wailing from a passing ambulance, coupled with the incessant drone of traffic noise in lower Manhattan, was starting to bug Lt Col Scott Caan. He stared down through the wooden blind slats in his third floor apartment in Tribeca to the icy cobbled street below. A boisterous group of young women wearing Santa hats, high heels and tinsel around their necks were hailing a yellow cab. One pulled up and they all piled in, laughing and screaming obscenities.

  He hadn’t ventured out of the rehabbed industrial building on the corner of Duane and Greenwich, since he’d arrived in New York. Within walking distance were trendy bars like the Knitting Factory and the fashionable Japanese restaurant Nobu and Mr Chow’s on nearby Hudson Street. But the hustle and bustle wasn’t for him.

  His father, by contrast, had loved that. He remembered when his father headed into town to show a new selection of cartoons either to the New Yorker or the Times, he sometimes took along Caan, the youngest, for the ride. He remembered being fussed over by staff at the New York Times. His father was feted and swapped political anecdotes and stories with journalists and senior editors alike. It was the Nineties and Clinton was the man in charge. And for his father, it was like manna from heaven. How could you go wrong? His father rubbed up some of the numerous liberals on the paper with his close-to-the-bone drawings, showing Clinton as having no restraint or moral compass. But anything – left or right – was fair game for his father. Caan liked that about his dad. He didn’t mind kicking the great and the good, but only if their actions or lofty position deserved it and needed to be deflated.

  He felt slightly envious of how very much at home his father had been amongst the metropolitan elites. The world of lunches, networking, dazzling conversation. He would have liked to be a conversationalist, hogging the limelight at dinner parties. But that wasn’t really him.

  He preferred his own company. His sister and two brothers all lived on the West Coast, but they didn’t see each other apart from Thanksgiving when they all met up at his sister’s house in the Hollywood Hills where she was a music producer. He felt suffocated in their company. He couldn’t be himself. Their material lives and that of their pampered children were of no consequence or interest.

  Caan stared down at the street and sighed. He wanted to escape the apartment. He wanted to breathe the air. He missed his daily runs and walks. But he knew he was under strict instructions not to leave the apartment.

  So he just stayed put, blinds down, doing hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups, waiting for the call. The apartment was all whitewashed walls, huge modern art paintings including a Warhol print that he abhorred, hardwood floors, high ceilings, all mod cons. But he was starting to get cabin fever.

  He felt claustrophobic. He needed air. But they didn’t want him to jeopardise anything at this stage. He understood the rationale and the need to maintain discipline.

  He had time to kill for the first time. He occasionally turned on the TV and he found that he rather liked Fox News. It wasn’t that it was fair and balanced. Clearly it wasn’t. But it was compulsive TV. He missed Glenn Beck on Fox, looking teary-eyed as he talked of freedom and liberty and the Constitution.

  Time dragged.

  When he tried to read a book, he found he couldn’t concentrate, so focused was he on the task at hand.

  He had gone over the plan a thousand times in his head. He’d memorised the blueprints of the building and could probably give a tour blindfolded, if he had to. He was in no doubt. He was ready to give America its wake-up call.

  His cell rang and his heart skipped a beat. Could this be it? At this hour? He picked up the cell from the coffee table and pressed the green phone icon.

  “The time has come, my friend,” a man said. “We have every confidence in you. The job is yours if you want it.”

  The code words had been spoken.

  Caan felt numb as if in a trance. He ended the call and stood and stared at the phone for a few moments, stunned. He quickly got himself together. He slipped the cell phone into his front shirt pocket and went over to the kitchen drawer where he pulled out an electronic screwdriver.

  This was it. This was what he had waited so long for.

  At the far end of the room, beside the bookcase, he bent down beside what looked like an air vent, six inches off the floor. He unscrewed the metal grill, which had covered the false air vent. Then he reached inside and pulled out the toolbox he had hidden inside when he had arrived. He carefully placed the toolbox on the coffee table. Then he went to the bedroom closet and took out the suit holder, which contained the blue maintenance uniform. He laid out the uniform on the bed and went back into the closet for the boots and overcoat.

  Everything was ready for this moment.

  He took off his shirt and pants and laid them neatly on a chair. Then he put on his uniform, laced up the black safety boots, put on the thick dark overcoat, dropping his cell phone into one of the pockets.

  Caan looked at his reflection in the mirror and smiled. He was ready.

  You’re going to make history, he thought.

  He took a deep breath before he headed into the living room, picked up the toolbox and walked out of his apartment, carefully locking the door. Then he headed down the three flights of stairs and through the building’s lobby doors and out into the sub-zero streets. He sucked in the cold air, his warm breath visible in the early morning chill. It was good to breathe fresh air again.

  He shivered as he headed across a striped crosswalk and past Puffy’s Tavern, which was still open. Down Hudson Street and in the direction of the Civic Center, east of Tribeca. A doorman was hosing down a sidewalk outside a smart brick building with warm water, steam rising off the frozen street.

  He did a z
igzag route as he’d been instructed, past suited porters outside glass fronted apartment blocks, then past a wine shop, then opposite the Tribeca Performing Arts Center, and past Washington Market Park where he got a whiff of hash in the air. He looked through the darkness and saw a handful of kids smoking pot inside the park’s gazebo.

  Then he headed east along Duane Street and within a few minutes, he saw the forty-plus story structure of the Jacob K Javits Federal Office Building. It housed twenty federal government agencies where thousands of employees worked in the heavily guarded building.

  But it also housed the New York City district field office of the US Citizenship and Immigration Services. He knew that in a few hours’ time there would be a long line of immigrants already lining up along Worth Street, ready to go through the security checkpoint and enter the building.

  Caan walked across Foley Square on the Broadway side of the building, towards the lights from the large ground floor windows, and knew security would be watching his every move on CCTV monitors and through the cable net curtains. The Federal Protective Service relied on low-wage contract personnel to provide security at federal buildings across America.

  This was no different.

  And it was a major weakness.

  He had read the 2009 Government Accountability Officer report. It had cited frequent security lapses in incidents across the country, including investigators carrying weapons into key federal installations.

  It was a no-brainer to pick such an installation.

  His throat felt dry as he went through the glass doors to the airport-style security screening area. The lobby was high ceilinged, glass and very modern; bright glare from the intense lighting. Roped off areas to process the thousands of visitors every day.

  The night security detail was as he’d been told. Four white guards, three of them morbidly obese. One was sitting monitoring an x-ray machine, one with an electronic wand and two others watching proceedings.

  Caan stepped forward and swiped his fake plastic ID through a reader and a gate opened. A guard chewing gum checked his photo.

  “Step right the way through, sir,” he said.

  Caan walked through the metal detector to the other side as his toolbox was put through the x-ray machine. No beeps. Then a supervisor stepped forward and ran an electronic wand across his body. Still no beeps.

  “He’s clean,” the man said.

  The toolbox was being opened up on a large table and a guard rummaging inside motioned him across.

  Caan felt a knot of tension in his stomach.

  “Can you explain to us what’s inside, sir? It’s showing five separate metal containers.”

  “Not a problem. I’m air conditioning maintenance.” He picked up the aerosol container. “This is a bubble up leak detector. We spray this stuff onto refrigeration pipes to test for any leaks. Pain in the ass, but gets the job done.”

  The guard lifted up an electronic device from the toolbox. “And what’s this?”

  “Diagnostic equipment for temperature and air leakage.”

  The guard turned and checked a computer screen. “It says here on the call-out log you’re doing five bits of maintenance.”

  Caan handed over the faked paperwork he had been given. “Old buildings always have these goddamn problems. Never a dull moment.”

  The guard nodded and looked at his superior who waved Caan through.

  Caan nodded and smiled. “See you guys later.”

  The men nodded, expressionless.

  Caan walked across to the elevators and headed down to the basement. He knew from the blueprints where he was going. He stepped off the elevator and headed down a long corridor, harsh artificial light illuminating the way, his footsteps echoing on the tile floor until he got to Maintenance Room 3. He swiped his card and went inside. Lockers and cupboards and the smell of diesel and disinfectant. He took off his coat, hanging it in an unlocked locker, and picked up a set of metal ladders from a cupboard. Then he took the ladders and toolbox and headed up on the service elevator to the twenty-third floor.

  His heart was racing hard. So far, so good.

  He watched the elevator climb. He counted off the numbers. Eventually a loud ping noise and the elevator opened. He got out and headed along a deserted corridor and opened out the ladder at the first designated location. He pulled a power screwdriver from the toolbox and climbed up two steps and opened up an air con grill. Then he got his toolbox and climbed up four more steps - his head inside the air vent – and took out one of the five aerosol cans, which looked like leak detection sprays, but were in fact primed to detonate their contents by radio signal.

  He felt the cold metal on his warm, clammy hands, and smiled. Then he reached up and carefully attached the aerosol can to the roof of the air vent. The metal stuck to metal, first time.

  Satisfied it was firmly in place, he carefully replaced the air con grill, climbed down the ladders, picked them up and walked down to the seventh floor. Over the next three hours, he did exactly the same on the seventh, tenth, twelfth and fifteenth floors.

  When he finished, he took the service elevator back down to the basement and put the ladders back in place. He put on his overcoat and picked up the near-empty toolbox, before he headed for the exit.

  “You all done, chief?” a guard asked.

  “It’s all sorted. Have a good night.”

  Then he walked around the corner and hailed a cab.

  “Where to, buddy?” the driver asked, as he climbed in the back.

  “Penn Station. And make it quick.”

  The maze of corridors inside Penn Station, the artificial light from the low ceilings, the throng of early morning commuters, the smell of cheap junk food, coffee, piss and crazy-eyed panhandlers straight out of a psychiatric unit shouting about God and Heaven and Hell, were making Scott Caan feel nauseous. He remembered the first time he rode on a train and arrived in New York. The sense of chaos and noise assaulted his senses.

  As he rode a packed escalator up towards the Amtrak concourse, his nerve ends were twitching, scanning the huge arrivals/departures boards at the top. He saw that he had twenty minutes to board the 6.30am Acela Express to Washington DC, which was departing from the West Gate on the left.

  Caan had been through the station numerous times before. It was a shithole and an embarrassment to the nation, tourists standing agog at the filth as the Long Island and New Jersey commuters flooded down the escalators after their early morning trains pulled in.

  It was a relief to get to the Acela lounge for First Class passengers.

  Caan saw for the first time the man who was shadowing him. He was clean-shaven, wore a dark blue fleece, dark blue jeans, Timberlands and was carrying a black Adidas sports holdall. He fitted the description perfectly. The man didn’t make eye contact. He bent down to tie his shoes. The sign. Then he followed him into the empty bathroom.

  The man placed the bag at his feet as he peed. Caan went over and picked up the bag and locked himself in a stall. He unzipped the bag and put on the fresh set of clothes that were inside. Then he left the toolbox in the stall for the man to dispose of, along with the discarded maintenance clothes.

  Caan got a seat in the lounge and settled into a comfortable seat to read his New York Times with his complimentary latte and blueberry muffin. He had just over ten minutes before he had to board the train to Washington. A short while later came an announcement that his train was boarding and he followed a red cap and the other passengers to the train. He stepped on board and entered the first class compartment. The décor was all silvers and greys. He found his allocated blue leather seat and sat down, letting out an audible sigh.

  He watched as his shadow took a seat four rows in front of him. The man didn’t make eye contact. That was fine. That had been explained to Caan.

  As the train headed out of the city – still cloaked in darkness – towards Newark, Caan was given a complimentary latte, his second of the morning.

  He gazed out in
to the darkness as the train picked up speed. He had dreamed of this journey for the last twenty-four months since the planning started. He couldn’t believe how well the New York side of the operation had gone. The mission could already be described as a success. What was to come would be the icing on the cake.

  All the years he had lived a lie. He had concealed his true feelings about America. But now his wildest dreams were on the brink of coming true.

  TWENTY

  The first pink rays of the early morning sun could be seen on the horizon, as the traffic finally got moving. Reznick was headed south out of Miami towards Key West. Throughout the night all he could do was sit in stationary traffic after the horrific multiple-lane pile-up. The long hours were filled trying not to think of his daughter. He channel hopped from talk radio station to talk radio station.

  They blasted out everything from Bible sermons to the dangers of big government. But all he could think about was Lauren. His little girl.

  He pictured her lying gagged and bound, drugged, at the mercy of some Haitian crazies.

  He felt a volcanic anger brewing within him, ready to devour him at any moment.

  Reznick looked at his satnav which told him it was a one hundred and thirteen mile drive on Highway 1 from Miami to Key West. It would take the best part of four hours. And he would have to stick to fifty most of the way.

  He pressed on south as the dawn broke finally on the sun-bleached road.

  The blue-green Atlantic was on his left, the Gulf on his right. He kept an eye on his speed so as not to attract attention. His gut reaction was to hit the gas pedal and get out to the yacht Lauren was being kept on. But that was not the way he was going to do it. He was too close now to blow it.

  Reznick’s mind drifted back to Lauren. He remembered the day she was born, nearly a year to the day after they married, and the way his wife held her so close. When it was his turn to hold her, he stared down into her soft pink face and she smiled back, blue eyes sparkling. The feel of her silky hair. The way she held his hand. He felt lighter that day. He felt something inside like he’d never felt before. A sense of calm. And of love.