Hard Target (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  How likely that was, was something Reznick needed to determine. He let his gaze wander farther down the High Line. Tourists taking selfies, skyscrapers all around. It all seemed innocuous. “OK, we are where we are.”

  Trevelle looked around, then raised the wrist wearing his watch. “Wearable prototype jammer. Can’t be too careful, but we should be able to talk securely here.”

  Reznick stared at the watch. “And that blocks all signals?”

  “It’s been activated and we’re safe. For now.”

  Reznick waited until a couple ambled past before he spoke. “So what’s this all about? I mean really about. Someone has sure put the fear of God into you.”

  Trevelle bent forward and picked up the backpack at his feet. He unzipped it, reached in, and pulled out a MacBook Air. He flipped open the lid, logged on, and maneuvered the laptop so Reznick could see it. “I need to warn you, I’m going to play a video clip. And it ain’t nice.”

  “Hit it,” Reznick said.

  Trevelle pressed play and the footage began.

  Reznick watched the screen. Masked men with flashlights scoured an industrial building that looked like a warehouse. “Where is this?”

  “This is my workspace. My home. Same place you visited a few years back, in Overtown. I live, work, and do everything there.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be off the grid or something?”

  “So did I. I’ve never had one intrusion in all these years.”

  Reznick stared at the screen. “So who are those guys? And how did they find you?”

  Trevelle shook his head. “No idea who they are. Faces covered, very professional. How did they find me? I’m guessing they could have followed a friend of mine who was staying with me. He’s the one they killed. At first, I thought maybe he was their target. He’s an acknowledged leading light in signals intelligence. He might’ve popped up on the radar of some bad dudes. But then . . .”

  Reznick watched as the men went around gathering up computers and hard drives. Though the sound was low, he could hear them speaking in a foreign language.

  “Fernandez had his own gear with him. As far as I can tell, they only took my stuff.” Trevelle gestured at the screen. “This is when it gets crazy.”

  A masked man hauled a frightened, bespectacled twentysomething into view and pointed a gun at the young man’s head.

  “That’s Fernandez,” Trevelle said, shaking his head. “Can’t believe it.”

  Reznick stared at the screen. The masked man pulled the trigger, and Fernandez dropped like a stone, blood pooling on the concrete floor. A wave of revulsion washed over Reznick. He had done the same to high-value targets in Afghanistan and Iraq. Time after time. But to see a young kid, who’d probably done nothing wrong, neutralized like that sent an icy chill down his spine.

  Trevelle closed the screen and returned the laptop to his backpack, zipping it up once more. “He was my closest friend in the world.”

  “How exactly did you know Fernandez?”

  “We met at MIT. And we both worked at the NSA around the same time. Different facilities at Fort Meade. But we met up for coffee, and beers on the weekend. He stayed in Naples with his parents most of the time.”

  Reznick nodded. “Dumb fucking luck that he was staying with you.”

  “He’s been trying to raise funding the last few weeks from some firms in Miami and Silicon Valley. He was talking about buying a cheap industrial space in Overtown and turning it into a cybersecurity hub. He had visions of employing hundreds, maybe thousands of people, as contractors for the government. He talked about hiring smart kids from the area—kids who were otherwise susceptible to gangs and drugs—and training them.”

  “You said at first you thought he was the target. But now you don’t?”

  “No, I don’t. Maybe. Shit, I don’t know.”

  Reznick squinted as the glass towers surrounding them reflected the fierce sun. “Don’t beat yourself up. Whoever those guys were after, his death wasn’t your fault.”

  Trevelle shook his head and sighed.

  “You mentioned a file that was sent to you. Tell me about that.”

  “God, I wish I could turn the clock back. I thought I was doing a favor for a friend by agreeing to decrypt the file. A friend of mine here in New York, David. He was sent the encrypted files from a hacker friend in Germany.”

  “Why couldn’t the friend in Germany have accessed the information?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes we share these files with friends or associates, covering our tracks, that kind of thing. We have them analyzed, and then when it’s agreed, they might be released to the outside world.”

  “You’re talking WikiLeaks?”

  “Precisely.”

  “So this friend in New York, not Fernandez, he sent you the file?”

  “Yeah, he sent the file just over a week ago. He was inundated with requests to decrypt and analyze sensitive files. He was swamped. So, he sent it on to me. I never got it, which seems strange now that I think about it. So yesterday, it’s before dawn, I’m sitting in an all-night diner.” He looked at Reznick and shrugged. “I don’t sleep too well. Anyway, this friend, David, messages me, asking if I’d looked at the file yet. I tell him to send it again. The same time it arrives, I get the alert that those guys are creeping around my place.”

  “Have you spoken to this friend in New York since this happened?”

  Trevelle hesitated. “I was heading up here to see him in person, but I’ve been so freaked out, I wanted to talk to you first. I sent him a message—nothing specific, just a hey, wanted to touch base about a project, but no reply. That’s not unusual, though. If he’s deep into a hack, sometimes I don’t hear from him for weeks, or months.”

  “I need to know more about the file. What kind of file is it? What does it contain?”

  Trevelle leaned forward, unzipped the backpack again, and flipped open the MacBook.

  Reznick watched as the kid signed in to a virtual private network, this time accessing the internet via a secure server in Germany. Two passwords were inputted as random metadata scrolled across the screen. Trevelle typed in one more password. The weird gobbledygook file dissolved, and the decrypted file appeared before Reznick’s eyes. Trevelle turned the screen more toward Reznick. “Check it out.”

  Reznick leaned closer and read the document quickly. It was a memo. Calling for a woman’s assassination.

  “You familiar with this kind of thing?” Trevelle asked.

  Reznick sat back on the bench. “Yeah. The memo appears to indicate that an operation has been set up, something similar to a special access program. That means the operation is considered highly classified, and information is severely restricted to a select few. Even people with top security clearances might not have access. Maybe only those in the higher echelons of the military, the chair of a congressional committee, and a few others would know. This kind of thing is black ops, sometimes. I would guess it’s a government operation.”

  “Except it’s not,” Trevelle said. “It appears government from the terminology. But I know that this memo definitely did not originate from within the US government or the Pentagon.”

  “So who’s it from?”

  “This is where it gets interesting. It’s from a private security company based here in New York. Geostrategy Solutions.”

  Reznick speed-read the document again. It gave permission for a back-channel operation conducted by an unnamed foreign intelligence service to neutralize—assassinate—an American woman.

  Geostrategy Solutions. Reznick doubted they’d instigated this on their own. He wondered if the assassination was a government operation that had been subcontracted to a private security firm. Compartmentalized assassination. Need to know. It gave the government plausible deniability. “It’s interesting. But how do we know this is authentic and not some elaborate hoax?”

  Trevelle waited until a group of excited school kids passed by with their frazzled teachers b
efore he picked up the conversation. “The guy who sent this to me and the guys who sent it to him don’t play pranks. They’re serious dudes out to expose government corruption. Besides, all the metadata points to it being legit.”

  “So this is for real. The woman referred to in this document . . . Do we know who Rosalind Dyer is?”

  Trevelle logged out of the VPN and reaccessed the internet using a server in Switzerland.

  “Why use a server in Europe?” Reznick asked.

  “They’re way more into privacy. And we can cover our tracks.”

  “Figures.”

  Trevelle typed in the name Rosalind Dyer, and the screen showed a picture of an attractive fortysomething woman. “Here she is. This is who they want to kill.”

  Reznick studied the picture. The woman looked well dressed. But not flashy. “Who is she? What does she do?”

  Trevelle took off his sunglasses and lowered his voice. “This is where it gets interesting. She lives in DC. And she works for the government.”

  “What part of government?”

  “She’s a special agent. An investigator.”

  Reznick’s brows rose. “FBI?”

  Trevelle shook his head. “Defense Criminal Investigative Service. DCIS. The investigative arm of the Department of Defense Office of Inspector General.”

  Reznick frowned at the picture. “Never heard of them.”

  “They ensure American tax dollars are being spent correctly. Think defense contracts.”

  Reznick pondered that. “Billions of dollars at stake.”

  “She must know something,” Trevelle said. “And that’s why someone wants to silence her.”

  Reznick nodded. “Listen, son, I don’t know if I’m the best person to help with this.”

  “Why not? I thought you’d be the perfect person.”

  “I think we need to turn this over to the FBI. This is what they do. They’ll protect you. And they can figure out what to do about this woman and the people who want to kill her.”

  Trevelle turned away as if disappointed.

  “What?”

  “I’m not handing myself in. I’d never see daylight again.”

  Reznick sighed. “You’re not making this easy.”

  “Listen, I’m not ruling out speaking to the Feds about this. At some point. But I’ll need guarantees.”

  “I don’t think they do guarantees. But I can talk to them.”

  “In the meantime . . . what do you think? Am I overreacting?”

  Reznick gave it some thought. “The timing is odd. These guys descending on your place right when you receive the file. But if, as you say, your friend originally sent it a week earlier, that might have given them time to discover they were hacked and trace the recipients. The sort of work you do, I trust you’d know if this was coming from any of your other jobs.”

  “So what would you do, if going to the Feds isn’t on the agenda?”

  “I really think that’s your best and safest option.”

  Trevelle shook his head. “You said you know the sort of work I do. Then you know they’d lock me up and never let me near a computer again.”

  “Well, then I guess you need to warn your hacker friend in New York and Special Agent Dyer. Both of their lives may be in danger.”

  Trevelle nodded. He shut the MacBook and placed it inside the backpack. He zipped it up and got to his feet, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

  “How far away does your friend live?” Reznick asked.

  “He’s a fifteen-minute walk from here. He lives down in the Village.”

  Reznick stood up. “So what’re you waiting for? Let’s go talk to him.”

  Three

  It was a short walk from the High Line to Hudson Street, lined with upscale shops and fashionable bars and restaurants in Greenwich Village.

  Reznick looked around the area. “Nice place. Costs a fortune, I’ll bet.”

  “David—that was his handle, as in David and Goliath—bought Bitcoin when it was two cents. He bought the whole townhouse and rents out the floors below him.”

  “Smart dude.”

  Trevelle stepped forward and buzzed apartment 6. He tried a few more times. No reply.

  “Maybe your friend went out for coffee?” Reznick said.

  Trevelle shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like him.”

  “Why not?”

  Trevelle pulled out his cell phone. “He’s agoraphobic.”

  “So he doesn’t leave his apartment? Ever?”

  Trevelle shook his head. “He opens the window and sits on the balcony in the summer.”

  “He doesn’t go out? Seriously?”

  “He’s a fucking hermit, what can I say? It’s weird, I know. But he’s a nice guy.”

  Reznick took a step back and stared up at the top windows. “Give the guy a call. I’m assuming he has a cell phone.”

  Trevelle rolled his eyes. “Man, you need to chill.” He called the number and pressed his cell phone tight to his ear. A minute later, he ended the call and shrugged. “Voice mail.”

  Reznick wondered why the guy wasn’t answering. “Buzz him again.”

  Trevelle held down the buzzer for a full two minutes. Still nothing. “That’s pretty weird for him. He gets his groceries, coffee, water, everything delivered to his apartment. I swear, he’s a bigger recluse than me. When I visited, about a year ago, he showed me his medication. Xanax and a couple of other drugs to chill him out.”

  “So it’s unusual that he’s not answering?” Reznick said.

  “More than unusual. But maybe he’s got his headphones on, zonked on Xanax and weed.”

  “Does he get his weed delivered to his apartment too?”

  “Usually.”

  Reznick shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun as he looked up at the fire escape. “And he’s on the top floor?”

  Trevelle pointed to a window. “Yeah.”

  Reznick opened up his backpack and pulled out his flashlight which he placed carefully in his waistband next to his Beretta.

  “What are you doing, man?”

  Reznick stepped forward, jumped up, and pulled the iron fire escape down to street level.

  “The hell are you doing, man?”

  Reznick put one foot on the ancient creaking ladder. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “You breaking into his apartment?”

  Reznick shook his head as he began to climb the outside of the building. “The guy might’ve fallen asleep stoned, watching cartoons.”

  “I guess. Maybe. Listen, people will call the cops.”

  “Relax, it’s New York. This sort of thing happens all the time.” He got to the top floor and looked at Trevelle on the ground. He pointed at a window adjacent to the fire escape. “This it?”

  “Got it.”

  Reznick peered through the dirt-encrusted window. He could just make out empty pizza boxes, cans of Red Bull, and candy wrappers strewn on the floor. He knocked hard on the window. No answer. He knocked again. “Jesus Christ, never a break.” He tried to lift up the window. But it wouldn’t budge.

  He took a knife out of his back pocket. He tried to pry the window open, sliding the knife underneath the wooden frame. But nothing. It was stuck, as if months and years of dirt, dust, and grime had cemented it.

  Trevelle shouted up, “He’s very security conscious.”

  “Thanks for telling me now.”

  Reznick pulled his flashlight out of his waistband and smashed it hard into the window. The glass shattered. He reached through the broken glass shards to the window lock and slid it open. He lifted up the smashed window, careful to avoid getting cut by the jagged glass.

  He climbed inside. The smell of stale weed smoke filled the dank air. Reznick looked around. Dirty coffee mugs were lying on the floor. The place was dingy and dark despite it being daytime.

  He switched on the flashlight and looked around. He thought it strange that the hermit hacker wasn’t around. There was no sign of any c
omputer equipment.

  Reznick headed into the hallway and combed the rest of the apartment carefully. It was a complete mess. Old computer magazines lying around, clothes strewn over chairs and the floor, grungy sneakers. He checked the bathroom. Then a small galley kitchen, with dirty dishes piled high. How could someone live like this?

  Movement sounded in the apartment below. No doubt a neighbor who’d heard the breaking glass.

  Reznick went back through the apartment and into the living room. He saw a closet at the far end. He opened it up and shone the flashlight inside. On closer inspection, he saw the ceiling contained an attic hatch.

  Reznick reached up and pulled the dangling rope. Wooden stairs unfolded neatly into place.

  Reznick climbed up the steps into the attic. He shone the flashlight around the darkened space between old oak beams. Then the light caught something moving. A pair of sneakers, swaying in midair. His stomach knotted as the light bathed the far end of the attic. Dust particles backlit from a dirty skylight in the attic roof. Flies and moths buzzing around.

  And hanging by a nylon cord from a wooden beam, a twentysomething white guy, eyes wide open but seeing nothing.

  Four

  Max Charles was clocking his fiftieth lap on the elevated indoor running track of the prestigious New York Athletic Club during his lunch hour. At seventy-eight, he was probably the oldest member working out, but his creaking bones and knee joints didn’t worry him. He ran on, endorphins kicking in. Making him feel good again.

  Down below on the basketball courts, J.P. Morgan hedge fund guys were high fiving each other after their game. He noticed their relaxed demeanor, their well-bred features, and all the signs of privilege.

  He slowed down and rested up.

  Charles felt the sweat sticking to his shirt. He checked his heart rate on his watch. Barely raised. His decades of running, rowing, and walking had left him with more energy than men half his age.

  He headed down to the boxing gym and did some serious heavy bag work. Punching, jabbing, moving.