by J. B. Turner
OTHER TITLES BY J. B. TURNER
Jon Reznick Series
Hard Road
Hard Kill
Hard Wired
Hard Way
Hard Fall
Hard Hit
Hard Shot
American Ghost Series
Rogue
Reckoning
Requiem
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by J. B. Turner
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542014434
ISBN-10: 1542014433
Cover design by Dominic Forbes
To my mother
Contents
Start Reading
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
When the men arrived at his home to kill him, Trevelle Williams was five miles away at an all-night diner in South Beach, eating scrambled eggs and toast and listening to the waitress bitch about tips. Her name tag said Mariana. Sitting in his usual corner booth, he smiled politely and checked his watch, hoping that Mariana would take the hint. But she was oblivious to his craving for peace and quiet. It was 4:32 a.m.
He swallowed the last bite of toast, gulped hot black coffee, then took out his MacBook and waited for it to connect to the internet. A virtual private network server in Iceland allowed him to send and receive messages anonymously, surf the net confidentially.
His gaze wandered around the old Pullman car diner. Two clubbers still high, sitting at the counter, sipping beers, and eating pecan pie with cream. A shifty-eyed white kid nursing an espresso. And two middle-aged guys deep in conversation about a girl they had both met at the Clevelander.
“The tourists are the worst. Especially from Europe. Ugh,” the waitress said.
Trevelle nodded and checked his watch again. She’d been talking nonstop for seven minutes.
She had her hands on her hips and was shaking her head. “One time, a big group of guys from Holland ordered about two hundred dollars’ worth of food and beer and stuff. You know how much they left me?”
Trevelle shrugged.
“Two fucking dollars! I thought, what? Are you guys for real?”
“That’s not right.”
“Damn straight it’s not right. I sure as hell won’t be serving them if they come in again.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Anyway, enough about me. How’s my favorite insomniac?”
Trevelle shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with any attention directed at his personal life. “I’m fine, thank you. And I’m not an insomniac. I just keep irregular hours.”
The waitress refilled his coffee and picked up his empty plate. “We’ve got a big menu. Lot of great food. You ever thought of trying something else?”
“Not really.”
“Get out of your comfort zone, so to speak.”
“I’m happy in my comfort zone.”
She gave a rueful smile. “You never change. Change is good.”
“I like what I like, what can I say?”
“My kind of guy.” The waitress winked at him, then walked away and picked up some dirty plates from an adjacent table.
Trevelle took a deep breath and looked at his computer. He’d logged on to a high-level cybersecurity chat room he occasionally contributed to, where the discussions ranged from network protection and security to software, programming, and state surveillance.
An encrypted private message popped up under the screen name CrackerHack.
It was the online handle of his friend David, who lived a hermit-like existence in New York. The guy was even more hardcore than he was.
The message said: Wondering if you’ve had any luck analyzing that file I sent you last week—the one from my hacktivist friend in Germany. Dude said the American company they lifted it from has ties to the Pentagon and the CIA. Told him I’d get back to him if it contained anything juicy.
Trevelle thought the message was strange. He hadn’t received any file. He quickly messaged back, saying to send it again but this time to his new email hosted in Switzerland.
When you did the sort of work he did, you couldn’t be too careful.
He finished his second coffee of the day.
The waitress was instantly tableside, refilling his mug. “Anything else, just holler.”
Trevelle looked up and smiled. “Appreciate that.” He watched her head to the other side of the diner to take another order.
He glanced out the window to where the edges of the sky were just beginning to lighten. He liked to spend a few hours down on the beach at the start of each day. Backpack on, laptop and cables and cell phone inside, walking on Ocean Drive, past the neon-lit signs on the art deco bars and hotels and apartments. He sometimes spent an hour or two at the News Cafe, watching the sunrise. The vibes were nice, mostly.
It made a sharp contrast to where he lived and worked.
Trevelle’s operation was based in an abandoned warehouse he had bought and converted into a high-tech fortress in the Overtown area of Miami. Low rent, high crime. He had views of a run-down liquor store, a crack house, and I-95. The rumble of freeway traffic a constant companion despite the thick walls and bulletproof, triple-glazed windows. But no one bothered him there. That was the main attraction. Still, South Beach was where he felt truly at home.
The vibes were chill, if you knew where to look. European house music pulsating into the night air. He usually popped into the Deuce when it opened at eight. Maybe a Heineken with a passing barfly from out of town. A game of pool with whoever was in at that ungodly hour.
The ping from his MacBook indicated he had a message. Trevelle assumed it was the file his hacker friend had resent. And it was. But before he could open it, a second notification pinged. This one contained a video automatically generated by his home surveillance system.
/> The thermal sensor detectors had been activated.
He clicked to open the file, slipping on his wireless headphones. Real-time, high-definition footage began to roll.
Trevelle felt sick. Three men in ski masks and surgical gloves, carrying flashlights, were inside his home. Their voices were low, speaking in a language he didn’t understand. They fanned out, packing up all his laptops and devices, photographing the inside of the huge warehouse he called home. How the hell had they even gotten in? He had designed the warehouse to be impregnable. Perimeter intruder detection, CCTV, security lighting, and thermal sensors both inside and outside.
He stared, transfixed, as one of the men disappeared. He returned a few moments later with a guy in a Tom Petty T-shirt and boxer shorts, who was adjusting his glasses and squinting against the light.
Trevelle had been so caught off guard by the breach that he’d forgotten that Fernandez, a genius hacker and one of his closest friends since MIT, was spending the night. Fernandez was in town to meet some financial guys who he hoped would fund his technology start-up in one of the poorest areas of Miami. Was it possible the intruders were there for him?
Through the headphones, Trevelle heard Fernandez sobbing.
The masked man pressed a gun to Fernandez’s head. Then he blew his brains out. Despite the silencer visible on the end of the gun, Trevelle was certain he heard the sound echoing off the stone walls of the warehouse and that it would haunt him forever.
One
It was early in the evening, and Jon Reznick was shooting pool at a dive bar in Rockland, Maine. The woman across the table from him wore a tight-fitting Ramones T-shirt and was chewing gum. Reznick had been close to Gemma Frazier’s brother, Mikey, back in their school days. And he’d always had a soft spot for Mikey’s slightly wayward younger sister.
Gemma lined up a shot but missed the eight ball in a corner pocket. “Shoot!”
“Bad luck.”
“Tell me about it,” she said, leaning on her pool cue. “It’s the story of my life.”
Reznick gulped the rest of his draft beer and shook his head, smarter than to wade into those waters.
Gemma flicked some hair out of her eyes and smiled. “Well, Mikey told me that you disappeared off the face of the planet after high school and were overseas for a while. Says you still won’t talk about it. Says you’re a goddamn fucking enigma wrapped up in a mystery or something.”
“I have no clue what you just said.”
Gemma burst out laughing. “Seems a shame we didn’t run into each other sooner. Though”—she gestured around at the bar—“I wouldn’t have expected to see you back at the Myrtle anyway.”
It was Reznick’s turn to smile. He checked his watch. “I really gotta go.”
She pouted. “Already? But we haven’t finished our game.” With a wink, she added, “And I’m winning.”
“I’d better quit while you’re ahead, then. Got to get up early tomorrow. Stuff to do.”
“Like what?”
His cell phone rang.
Reznick pulled his phone out of his pocket, expecting it to be Lauren. His daughter was at Bennington College in Vermont, and they usually spoke once a week. But instead of Lauren’s cell number on the caller ID, a number he didn’t recognize flashed on the screen. He looked up at Gemma. “I need to take this.”
“You want another beer?”
“Put it on my tab.”
“That I can do.” Gemma headed to the bar to order the drinks.
Reznick walked to a quieter corner to take the call.
The voice on the line was a whisper. “Hey, man, are you there? Reznick?”
“Who’s this?”
“Your IT pal in Miami.”
Reznick recognized the voice of the high-level hacker he sometimes did business with. The kid kept a low profile—not surprisingly—but Reznick had found out that his name was Trevelle Williams and that he was a former National Security Agency cybersecurity expert. The kid had helped Reznick out of numerous tight spots and investigations that Reznick had worked on for the FBI, but it was extremely unusual for Trevelle to call him out of the blue. That wasn’t the only reason he sensed something was wrong—there was a tightness in the guy’s voice. “You sound kinda strange. You OK?”
“I’ve got a situation,” Trevelle whispered. “I need your help.”
“A situation? What kind of situation?”
“Long story . . . Bottom line? I’m in trouble.”
Reznick looked across at Gemma, who was chewing gum and drinking beer from the bottle as she talked to the bartender. “You in Miami?”
“Not anymore. I’m headed to New York. Can you meet me there?”
Reznick heard other voices in the background. “Where are you calling from? I hear other people.”
“I’m on a Greyhound bus.”
He pictured the kid slumped in a seat, hand concealing his mouth as he whispered into the phone. “You left Miami on a Greyhound?”
“I believe people are trying to kill me.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Trevelle took a deep breath. “They’ve already killed one person. A friend of mine. I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Will you meet me? I don’t know anyone else in a position to help me with something like this. Only you.”
Trevelle was a good guy. Supersmart. Whatever had unnerved him and made him think his life was in danger had to be bad. “OK, let’s try and figure this out. Do you know why these people want to kill you? Do you know who they are?”
“I have a . . . I received a file.” His voice, already a whisper, dropped further. “It was passed to me. I think it has something to do with that.”
“What does the file contain?”
“I just opened the file a couple hours ago, but it was originally sent to me a week ago. It has national security implications.”
“I understand.”
“Look, man, I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Will you help me?”
Reznick was conflicted. He had decided to take a few months off—no shadowy ops, no FBI crises. But he couldn’t ignore a call for help from a guy who had gone above and beyond for him in the past. “Where in New York are you going to be?”
“I can’t say exactly. Just head to Manhattan. I’ll know when you’re there. I’ll contact you again.”
Two
Early the following afternoon, Reznick’s flight touched down at JFK. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed out of the terminal. He preferred to travel light. Then he waited in line to catch a cab into the city.
The Manhattan skyline came into view through the taxi’s windows. New residential towers sprang up each time he visited. A vista forever changed since 9/11. Thinking about it always left him empty. His young wife, Elisabeth, had died in the Twin Towers. That day had not only changed America and destroyed thousands of lives but also set the country on course for war. A dirty war that was still playing out in Afghanistan. The memories of Iraq were seared in his brain. As a young Delta Force operator, he had seen firsthand the destruction, the blood, the dead, and the dying. It never seemed to end. And for what?
His cell phone rang, snapping him out of his dark thoughts.
“You’re here.” Trevelle sounded relieved.
Reznick looked out the window, bemused. “How do you know I’m in town? My phone is secure.”
“Not as secure as you think. It’s three years out of date.”
“It is?”
“Standard-issue FBI encryption. I pioneered it eight years ago and sold them the patent.”
Reznick glanced at his phone, then returned it to his ear, displeased. “So this phone is vulnerable?”
Trevelle laughed, seemingly back in his comfort zone. “You have no idea. I’ve got some great encryption software for my high-end clients. You want me to download the software to your cell phone?”
“And it works?”
“Trust me. This version is being used by the Israelis. Shin B
et has issued this to most of their senior people.”
“Fine, send it over.”
“Good stuff. I’m loading the software onto your cell . . . now.”
Reznick heard a ping from his phone. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The cab driver glanced in his mirror.
Reznick stared at the man, who looked away. “When did you get into town?”
“Early this morning.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m on the west side. West Thirty-Fourth between Eleventh and Twelfth. Northern entrance to the High Line. You know it?”
“I know it. Where will you be exactly?”
“Not far. I’ll find you.”
“Gimme ten minutes.”
A silence stretched between them.
“You still there, son?”
“Mr. R., I just wanted to say thanks.”
“What for?”
“Trying to help. Believing me. Trusting me.”
“See you soon, kid.”
Reznick asked to be dropped off three blocks away from his destination, trying to minimize the risk of being tailed. He walked into the Javits Center and headed across the lobby. Then he strode out of an exit directly opposite the High Line entrance.
He crossed the street and passed a line of tourist buses gearing up for tours of the city.
Then he headed up the iron stairs, and he was on the High Line. He walked south along the elevated former freight rail line, now a beautiful mile-and-a-half-long walkway that led down to the edge of Greenwich Village.
He walked for fifteen minutes.
The semi-industrial landscape fringing the Hudson River soon gave way to superhigh residential towers and the Chelsea neighborhood below.
Reznick caught sight of a hunched figure in the distance. The skinny black kid was sitting on a wooden bench, headphones on, backpack at his feet, shades on. He wore a gray sweatshirt with a hood, dark jeans, and black sneakers and exuded a cool anonymity. Reznick figured the kid was in his late twenties, early thirties max. He walked toward him and sat down.
Trevelle took off his headphones. “Appreciate you coming, man.”
“You sounded more than a little shaken up on the phone.”
“You could say that.”
Reznick turned and looked at Trevelle, who was peering over his sunglasses. His bleary eyes reflected lack of sleep, and they darted from one side to the other, as if he expected someone to walk up and attack him at any moment.
