Hard Target (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  Reznick had popped two Dexedrine to keep him awake and was hyperalert. He slunk down low. He wondered where they were headed. Had they received a tip-off about where Rosalind was? Was that it? Whose apartment did they just visit? Was that relevant to what they were doing? Was it a safe house for them?

  The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that they were part of a kill team, sent to the city to neutralize Rosalind Dyer. He could tell by the way they carried themselves that these were no poseurs in sharp suits protecting VIPs. These were tough motherfuckers, make no mistake. They reminded Reznick of Brazilian military personnel that he had trained in Central America a decade earlier.

  The men drove off.

  Reznick messaged Trevelle to keep track of the men’s movements, deactivate the alarms, and pinpoint which level the apartment was on. He also told Trevelle not to answer the door for anyone. Not under any circumstances. And he told him to keep away from the windows.

  A short while later, Trevelle messaged to confirm the men had been in the top-floor apartment and all alarms to the building had been deactivated.

  Reznick was sorely tempted to follow the men. However, he was also curious about the apartment. He picked up his backpack, got out of the car, locked the doors, and crossed the street.

  Then he casually walked up to the entrance door and took out the tension wrench in his pocket.

  Reznick got to work on the dead bolt keyhole. It had been a little while. He was maybe a bit rusty. He turned the wrench using a bit of pressure, making sure the lock pin didn’t fall back. Then he inserted a pick into the top of the keyhole.

  He felt the pick push the pins up and used the tension wrench to keep them up. He listened for the sign. A clicking. There it was. A second later, the dead bolt opened.

  Reznick removed the tension wrench and pick. He pushed open the door. He climbed the stairs to the top level. He knew the alarm inside had been deactivated. The lock on the apartment was an old Yale lock.

  He pulled out the pick, inserted it, and had the lock open within a few moments. He turned the handle and went inside, then locked the door from the inside.

  Reznick headed down the hallway. Expensive Brazilian dark-wood floors. The smell of men’s cologne still in the air. The first bedroom was empty. Mirrored closets, blinds drawn. He checked inside the closets. Nothing.

  He headed through to the living room. Blinds again drawn. The whole place seemed to be empty. Unfurnished.

  He wondered what the guys were doing in an unfurnished apartment. Were they just killing time? Or was there another reason?

  Reznick headed through to another bedroom just off the living room. A rug on the floor. He moved it aside, pulled out the flashlight from his backpack, and examined the floor. He saw telltale scrapes on the dark wood. He kneeled down and pulled off a Swiss Army knife attached to his belt. He used one of the blades to pry up a floorboard.

  He lifted it up and placed it carefully on the rug.

  He shone the flashlight down through the opening. Black metal glistened. He peered inside. The smell of grease. He could make out what looked like a sniper rifle. He leaned in closer. Tucked in beside the rifle were hundreds of rounds of ammo and a foldable tripod.

  What are those guys up to?

  Reznick took out his cell phone. He snapped a photo of the contents and sent it to Trevelle for safekeeping. He pulled out the rifle, ammo, and tripod. He stripped down the rifle and placed it inside his backpack, alongside the ammo and tripod. He carefully replaced the floorboard and put the rug back on top.

  Was this a safe house? Then again, maybe it was going to be used as an integral part of an operation. The question was, what was the real purpose of the apartment? Was it purely storage? A gathering point before the operation? Or a vantage point for a hit?

  Reznick looked around. He went out into the hallway. Adjacent was another empty bedroom, blinds drawn. He peered out through the wooden slats and saw it overlooked the front entrance to the apartment block.

  He crouched down, pulled open the blinds.

  Reznick took out his binoculars and surveyed the scene. He scanned the buildings about a hundred fifty yards diagonally down the street from his position. The binoculars picked out a plaque on the entrance of an imposing building. He felt his heart rate quicken. “Son of a bitch.”

  It was the Hart Senate Office Building. The location where Rosalind was set to testify in just twenty-four hours.

  Twenty-Five

  Trevelle was sitting at the kitchen table in Fifi’s parents’ place, running cutting-edge facial recognition software on his MacBook. A notification flashed on the screen. He had a match to the photo Reznick had sent. The two men he was checking both came up as Guatemalan citizens. What was that all about?

  Trevelle turned around and cocked his head toward Fifi. “Check this out.”

  She looked over his shoulder. “You kidding me? So why Guatemala? What’s the connection?”

  “Reznick believes they’ve been hired to kill Rosalind. And now we’ve got a match from a database.”

  “Nice work, Trevelle.”

  Trevelle called Reznick’s cell phone number and conveyed the names of the Guatemalan suspects he had photographed.

  “That is interesting,” Reznick said.

  “I’m assuming these guys are military contractors.”

  “No question.”

  “So what do you want me to do with this information?”

  “Send those images, encrypted, to Martha Meyerstein, you got that?” Reznick said.

  “What will I say?”

  “Say Jon Reznick wants her to look into these two guys. He believes they are Guatemalan citizens. And they may be linked in some way to the Rosalind Dyer case.”

  Trevelle said, “I don’t understand how they fit into it. Who sent them? Geostrategy Solutions?”

  “Almost certainly. Just send the images and what we know to Meyerstein. Gotta go.”

  Trevelle ended the call and sent the encrypted images and a short message to Meyerstein. He looked at Fifi. “I think we’re onto something.”

  Fifi studied the faces on the screen. “Who do you think they are?”

  “Killers.”

  “Mercenaries?”

  Trevelle shrugged. “Probably. It’s not my area of expertise, obviously. This whole thing freaks me out.”

  “I’m guessing they’re not in this country on diplomatic visas.”

  Trevelle felt himself smile.

  “What?”

  “Just you. You say funny things. But, you know, you’re a good person. I just wanted to say that. For helping us out like this. It’s above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “I’m not doing nothing you wouldn’t have done for me.”

  “I know, but I really appreciate you helping me out on this. You’re really sticking your neck out for me. And Rosalind.”

  Fifi sat down at the opposite end of the table, mug of coffee cupped in her hands. “I thought I had finished with all that bullshit when I quit the NSA. Shit, maybe we need to set up a support group.”

  Trevelle smiled. He missed the day-to-day interaction with former NSA friends, staffers, and contractors. It felt good to be with an old friend, albeit in terrible circumstances.

  “I feel so sorry for Rosalind,” Fifi said. “She’s doing the right thing. But now she’s the one who’s being threatened. It’s insanity. I can only guess how scared she must be.”

  Trevelle nodded.

  “She’s definitely going to testify tomorrow,” Fifi said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “She told me. No ifs, ands, or buts. Despite what happened to her lawyer.”

  “Tough choice.”

  “So, are the Feds really going to arrest her and stop her from giving evidence if they find her before then?”

  “She’s a whistle-blower. We know what happens to NSA whistle-blowers. It never ends well. That’s the reality. The FBI has already raided her home. They believ
e she stole classified documents. National security concerns. It’s way out of control.”

  “That’s bullshit. They throw that at everyone.”

  “I know. It’s the stick they use every time.”

  Fifi drank the rest of her coffee and put down the empty mug. She rubbed her face as she yawned. “Do you want some coffee? Toast?”

  “Love that.”

  “I’ll check if Rosalind wants anything too.” Fifi headed to the living room. She came back a few moments later. “She’s sleeping on the sofa,” she whispered. “Don’t want to disturb her.”

  Trevelle nodded. “She needs to rest.” His cell phone vibrated, and he groaned. He didn’t recognize the number. “Yeah?”

  “Trevelle?” A woman’s voice.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Martha Meyerstein, FBI. You might remember, we’ve spoken before.”

  Trevelle signaled to Fifi, and he put the cell phone on speaker. “Yes, we have.”

  Meyerstein sighed. “The pictures you sent. I want to talk about them.”

  “Yeah, good quality, huh?”

  “Were they taken by Jon?”

  “Yes, I can confirm that.”

  “And who else has seen them?”

  Trevelle looked at Fifi. “Just me.”

  “Look, you’re aware that the FBI is currently investigating the theft of classified material, Trevelle.”

  “I’d rather not get drawn into that.”

  “Trevelle, if you are aiding or abetting criminal acts, you will be in trouble. And we’ll find you. You’re going to get dragged into this whether you like it or not.”

  “Ma’am, you should know me by now. I have helped the FBI and Jon Reznick on various investigations he has been involved in. I have never compromised national security. Quite the contrary, I would argue.”

  Meyerstein was silent for a few moments.

  “Ma’am, can I ask you a question?”

  “Depends what it is.”

  “Did Jon show you the footage of my friend being shot dead in cold blood?”

  Meyerstein said nothing.

  “Someone wants to silence not only me, but ultimately Rosalind Dyer. And that’s why we’re taking such extreme measures. The whole thing is a mess. My friend Fernandez was a good guy, and he didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  “Miami-Dade police are investigating. As is the FBI’s field office in Miami.”

  “Anything so far?”

  “I can’t say any more at this stage. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “Ma’am, I’m not going to tell you how to do your job. I will say that we’re trying our best to stay alive. I fear for our lives. Can you appreciate that?”

  “Wouldn’t it be safer if you gave yourself and Mrs. Dyer up?”

  Trevelle looked at Fifi, who raised her eyebrows, as if not quite sure what he should do.

  “I understand that you’re in a scary situation, Trevelle. It must all be overwhelming.”

  “It is!”

  “I get that. And I want to help. I really do.”

  “I need guarantees.”

  “I can’t do guarantees, you know that. That’s not what we do.”

  “What about if I say I’ll hand myself in once Rosalind testifies?”

  Meyerstein paused before answering. “Is that a firm offer?”

  “Here’s the deal. I’ll hand myself in after she testifies to the committee. But you guys need to forget about tracking us down and instead focus on finding the people who are trying to kill us. What do you say to that?”

  “What about Rosalind?”

  “What about her?”

  “If you both hand yourselves in, following Rosalind’s appearance in front of the committee, I can live with that. We can take you both to a safe house.”

  “All we ask is that you find the people responsible. I don’t think this is over. Not even close.”

  Twenty-Six

  Reznick was preparing to leave the Capitol Hill apartment when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

  “Jon, it’s Trevelle. You got a problem.”

  Reznick sighed. “Yeah, I’m well aware of that, Trevelle. I’m working on it.”

  “No, you don’t understand. The two guys. They’re on their way back.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Where the hell are they?”

  “Close.”

  “How close?”

  “One minute away. Maybe less. You need to get out of there.”

  Reznick’s mind began to race. He peered through the blinds to the street below. “I don’t think I’ve got enough time.”

  “So what are you going to do? You can’t just wait there for them.”

  Reznick began to weigh his options. He needed to think rationally. Not emotionally.

  “Jon, seriously, you need to move.”

  Reznick knew that running out of the apartment wasn’t a smart move. “Trevelle, do me a favor. You need to activate the alarm system again.”

  “I’m sorry, what? This ain’t the time for games. I’m goddamn serious, Jon.”

  “Listen to me. Activate the alarm.”

  “That doesn’t make sense?”

  “I’m going to stay where I am. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Jon, can’t you just get out the back door?”

  “Negative. There’s no time.”

  Trevelle sighed down the line. “As long as you know what you’re doing, man.”

  “Trust me, I got this.”

  “Fair enough. Jon, you have to stay still or you’ll set the alarm off.”

  “Do it right now.” Reznick looked around the apartment, trying to find a good place to position himself. “Give me twenty seconds before you activate the alarm.”

  “Got it. You’re on the clock. And take care, man. These guys are maybe thirty seconds away.”

  Reznick ended the call and went back through to the living room. He lay back on the sofa, feet up, Beretta drawn.

  A few moments later, he heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Then the front door to the building shut. Reznick lay still, not daring to breathe. The sound of his heart beating hard. Time seemed to stop as he lay in wait.

  The sound of a key scratching the lock in the door.

  The front door creaked open. Voices low.

  The alarm beeped into life for a couple of moments before it was deactivated in the hallway.

  The men were speaking in Spanish as they walked into the living room holding bags of groceries.

  “Freeze, motherfuckers!”

  The men turned and stared at him.

  Reznick got to his feet, Beretta trained on the bigger of the two. The smaller guy dropped his bag, and Reznick shot him in the knee. The guy fell to the ground, clutching his leg, moaning in agony. Blood seeped onto the hardwood floor.

  “Dumb move!” Reznick said.

  The bigger guy was shaking his head. “We don’t want no trouble.”

  “Too late.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Nice and easy, big guy. On your knees, bags down, hands on head.”

  The man complied as his colleague writhed in agony, face screwed up in pain. Cursing and swearing in Spanish.

  Reznick stood over the injured man. “Who sent you? Who are you working for?”

  The man clenched his teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Some crazy fucking mistake, I don’t know.”

  Reznick sighed. “Listen, my friend, here’s how it’s going to work.” He pressed his foot onto the man’s bloody knee, exerting pressure.

  The man clenched his teeth, eyes shut tight, moaning in agony.

  “Simple question, son. Who are you working for?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  Reznick pressed harder with his heel. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. So I’ll try again. Tell me what you know, and you will live. That’s the best and only offer I have. I need a name!
Who sent you?”

  The kneecapped man was shivering as he went into shock. “I don’t know his name. He calls me. He said this woman knows too much. She knows about the other killings.”

  “What woman?”

  “Rosalind Dyer, the investigator. She knows about all the other killings. That’s why they wanted her dead.”

  Reznick nodded. It tallied with what Dyer had told him. “Did you take part in the other killings?”

  “No, sir, I swear.”

  Reznick knew it was probably a lie. “Tell me about Miami.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Were you down in Miami?”

  “Absolutely not. We flew in from California.”

  “Where from?”

  “We’re both from Bakersfield.”

  Reznick nodded. “Who did you serve with in the past? And before you waste my time, I know you’re from Guatemala.”

  “Man, we’re just doing a job. We need the money. Bad. They pay very, very well. My family needs the money. My daughter, for an operation in America.”

  “I’ll ask one last time. Who did you serve with in the past? I’m assuming you guys didn’t just learn how to kill people in the yard behind your favorite cantina.”

  The man began to nod frantically. “Yes. We did serve. Guatemalan army. G2.”

  “What the fuck is G2?”

  “Military intelligence.”

  Reznick stared down at the man. He had begun to put together the pieces of the jigsaw. These were indeed, as he’d thought, contractors. Mercenaries. Guns for hire. Assassins for hire. You wanted someone killed, no matter who they were, guys like this would do it. No questions asked. And with plausible deniability for the US government. “So you live in America?”

  The man nodded.

  “So you left G2. Then what?”

  “We get paid. We do what we have to do.”

  The injured man on the ground suddenly thrust his hand into his pocket.

  Reznick instinctively shot him twice in the forehead. A double tap.

  The big guy on his knees was shaking bad, eyes wide. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  Reznick trained his gun on the guy’s head. “Looks like you’ve come to the wrong place. Are you going to be as stupid as your friend?”