Hard Target (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  The man shook his head. “No, man.”

  “Give me a name. Who hired you? And you can live, which is more than can be said for your friend here.”

  The man made the sign of the cross. “Luis Molena, so help me God.”

  “Tell me about Luis Molena.”

  “He lives here in America. That’s all I know.”

  Reznick kept his gun trained on the man as he rifled through the big guy’s jacket pockets with his spare hand. He pulled out a cell phone. “Luis Molena, huh? Passcode?”

  “Nine, four, two, eight.”

  Reznick entered the passcode. He began to scroll through the messages. “A lot of instructions. It appears you were directed to Miami, after all. You involved in the raid on the warehouse, huh?”

  The man bowed his head.

  “You’ve been very busy boys.”

  Reznick scrolled some more. He saw video footage that had been messaged from the cell phone. He pressed play. It showed the men in masks at the Miami warehouse, flashlights on, before they shot Fernandez dead. He replayed the footage and showed the kneeling guy. “Is this a little trophy? This for your amusement, motherfucker?”

  The man bowed his head lower.

  Reznick pistol-whipped the guy until he passed out. He sent the footage from the other guy’s cell phone to Trevelle. Then he called the young hacker and explained where he’d gotten it. “You get that footage?”

  “Copy that, Jon. Safely received. That was on their phone? They filmed themselves killing Fernandez?”

  “I’m sorry, man. Listen, you need to send that to Martha Meyerstein. Right this minute. I’ve got two of the people I believe are responsible.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Tell me, how is Rosalind?”

  “She just woke up. She’s jumpy.”

  “Listen, I’m going to be back in the next half hour. Things have gotten a bit messy here.”

  “Messy, what do you mean messy?”

  Reznick stared down at the two men lying motionless on the ground. One dead, one unconscious, blood pooling and congealing around his feet. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me. Did you kill them?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  A silence stretched between them. “Oh man, that’s not good. I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t want blood on my hands.”

  “It’s not on your hands. It’s on mine. Sit tight. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “Do you think there are others out there, Jon?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Listen, I’ll see you soon. We need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “How we’re going to get Rosalind safely to the committee tomorrow morning.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Reznick pulled off the dead guy’s belt and used it to tie the unconscious guy’s ankles together. Tight. Then he used the unconscious guy’s belt and pulled his hands behind his back, hog-tying him. The fucker wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a while.

  The cell phone he’d taken from the other guy started ringing.

  Reznick pressed the phone to his ear and took the call. “Yeah?”

  A silence before an electronically distorted voice spoke. “Well, this is interesting.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You don’t really expect me to tell you that, do you?”

  “Identify yourself.”

  “All in good time. I had hoped one of my operatives would have picked up.”

  “Not available.”

  “I warned my men that you were in town. But it appears they didn’t heed my warning. One step ahead, Jon. Good for you. You’re very resourceful.”

  “I asked who you are. And why are you using a voice changer to disguise your identity?”

  “So many questions. I like that about you, Jon. It shows you’re curious. And intelligent. Intelligence is a good thing.”

  “So are you going to get to the point?”

  “I want to talk.”

  “Don’t think we have much to talk about.”

  “I have to disagree with you there. I want to talk about you, Jon. And about what I can do for you.”

  “Forget it.”

  “And in return what you can do for me. I’m a pragmatic man. There’s a lot to be said for pragmatism in life. It pays to be accommodating. No matter who you’re dealing with. No matter the hand you are dealt.”

  Reznick sighed as he paced the room. “One of your guys is dead. The other is out of it. Like I said, not much to talk about.”

  “A minor inconvenience. Listen, here’s my point. I’ve made a few inquiries about you, Jon. And I think you’re the sort of man I need.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “I pay very, very well. You won’t ever have to worry about money again.”

  “Not interested.”

  “I admire your pride. Really, I do. We’re from the same sort of background. Blue-collar, working-class Americans. A dying breed. I know a lot about you. And about your father.”

  “You don’t know anything about me. And you sure as hell don’t know about my father.”

  “Afraid you’re wrong there. I’ve even got your father’s file in front of me. A tough guy, apparently. Just like you. But you don’t want to end up like your father.”

  Reznick felt a seething rage inside him ready to explode. He knew the guy was fucking with him. But talk about his father was off-limits for anyone. He loved his father. When he looked at him, looked into his eyes, he saw the type of man he really was. Integrity. Honor. A fierce sense of independence. And pride. The man who had returned from Vietnam and built a family home by Penobscot Bay. But also the tough guy who went to work the day after his wife’s funeral. A working man. A man who had fought all his life. Who had instilled in Reznick a strong work ethic. What it means to be a man. His father was one of a kind.

  “I want to help you, Jon. And I want you to help me.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Don’t make the mistake your father made. He died a virtual pauper. An alcoholic. There’s no honor in poverty.”

  Reznick felt as if a knife had been plunged into his chest. He felt the ripples of rage burning deep in his soul. But he knew he shouldn’t respond. He should just get the hell out of there. But something within him felt compelled to defend his father’s name. He knew the guy was trying to get under his skin. He got that. But he would not put up with any shit talk about his father, and certainly not from someone who didn’t know him.

  “Don’t be like your father, Jon.”

  “You want me to take the bait, right?”

  “Our backgrounds are the same. My father ended up just like yours. Broke. Blind drunk seven days a week.”

  “My father, if you really knew him, was a true American. He did drink. Too much. Yeah, we didn’t have much money. But that was never my motivating factor in life. Maybe for you. Never for me. That’s why you and I are different.”

  “That’s how you’ll end up, Jon. But I can change that. You’re resourceful. You’re smart. Hand over that woman, and I’ll make you a very, very, very rich man.”

  The unconscious man was slowly coming to.

  Reznick walked over and kicked the guy hard in the head, knocking him out cold again.

  “There’s a clear choice for you, Jon. A ton of money, in exchange for Rosalind Dyer. Just give her up.”

  “You said there’s a clear choice. What’s the other choice?”

  “Either hand her over or you’ll die along with her. To me it’s a slam dunk, Jon. Take the goddamn money. That’s your best choice.”

  Reznick shook his head. “I’ll take my chances. No deal.”

  A deep sigh came down the line. “Bad choice, Jon. Real bad choice. That your final word?”

  “Final word.”

  “Very well. We’ll find her. And we’ll find you. We’ll choose the time and place.”

  The line went dead.


  Twenty-Eight

  Max Charles put his cell phone back in his pocket and began pacing the presidential suite at the Four Seasons in DC, his firm’s confidant, Malcolm Black, taking notes on a sofa. “The ungrateful dumb fuck!”

  “Having Reznick involved in all this really complicates things,” Black said. “He’s the real deal.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. What I wouldn’t give to have him on our team.”

  “And he turned you down flat?”

  “Not interested.”

  “I don’t like it, Max. Some bad optics.”

  Charles shot him a look. “What don’t you like?”

  “Reznick’s been turning us inside out from the moment the hacker kid approached him. And now he’s taking our operatives out of the game?”

  Charles kicked over the trash can full of shredded paper and candy wrappers. “Motherfucker!”

  “We’ll get them out of there. Don’t worry.”

  “Extraction team en route?”

  “They’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Charles felt his blood pressure rising again. “Reznick will be long gone. He’s running circles around us. Soon the Feds will be swarming the place. Or the cops. What is so fucking difficult?”

  “The good thing is they weren’t the team for the hit. We’ve got the Miami A-team in town now,” Black said.

  “The location has been compromised. How are they going to take this woman out? It’ll take too long to get another apartment, and the hearing is tomorrow. The weapon and ammo will be gone too. I guarantee it.”

  “Team A is drawing up a plan. We’re going to make sure that we take her down. I think this situation might actually offer us a better chance of getting to her now. A new opportunity.”

  Charles rubbed his face with his hands. “Maybe. What about the B-team?”

  “Ideally, we get them out of there, and our extraction guys will have the apartment cleaned within the hour. But the Feds might be able to piece this together.”

  “Fuck them,” Charles said. “And fuck those dumb Guatemalan fucks for getting their asses kicked by Reznick. Serves them right. And fuck the other bastards who got caught by those shitkicker cops in Maryland. But mark my words, this ain’t over.”

  “I know.”

  “No more fuckups. All I care about is killing Rosalind Dyer.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Reznick drove back to Georgetown, having left the dead Guatemalan and his unconscious sidekick to be picked up by the Feds. He quickly showered and was served a breakfast of pancakes and black coffee by Fifi. “You’ve gone above and beyond,” he said. “Thanks very much.”

  “Jon . . . ,” Fifi said. “Are you . . . ?”

  Reznick was wolfing down the pancakes. “What?”

  “Trevelle said you kill people. Is that true?”

  “I do a lot of stuff. It’s not something I really want to talk about.”

  “Do you think those guys are going to turn up here?”

  Reznick shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I said before, if you want to bail, or get us out, I understand.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but that ain’t gonna happen. I stick around.”

  “OK, appreciate that. But I was thinking it might be wise to move Rosalind anyway.”

  “Just as a precaution?”

  “The capabilities of this crew shouldn’t be underestimated. I don’t know for sure if I was followed. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t. But I think it’s best to move one last time. So you won’t have to worry about us.”

  “I don’t mean for her to leave. Or you. Or Trevelle. I’m just glad I can help.”

  “Hey, relax, I know that. But it’s not fair to you either. We’ll be out of here soon.”

  Reznick finished his breakfast and was enjoying his strong coffee. He saw pictures on the kitchen wall of a couple standing in the snow. “That your parents?”

  “My mother and stepfather. In Aspen.”

  “Love Colorado. You get along with him?”

  “My stepfather?”

  Reznick nodded.

  “I think he’s getting used to me. This is his place. But he’s also got an apartment in New York, a place in Los Angeles, and an estate in Westport, Connecticut. You wouldn’t believe the size of that place. Amazing views over Long Island Sound.”

  Reznick whistled.

  Fifi smiled. “He thinks I should start working for hedge funds or whatever it is he does in Connecticut.”

  “Not your cup of tea? Math and computer guys do well in that industry, I’m told.”

  Fifi rolled her eyes. “I’d rather scoop out my eyes with a spoon.”

  Reznick laughed. “Know what you mean. So tell me, how’s Rosalind been while I’ve been away?”

  “She’s OK, I guess. She slept and seems a bit more rested. Anxious but rested.”

  Reznick got up from his seat. “Thanks for the pick-me-up. I’m going to talk to her.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Reznick headed to the living room. Rosalind was sitting slumped on the sofa, swathed in blankets, watching Fox 5 DC. It was showing interviews with neighbors of her dead lawyer. Reznick picked up the remote control and switched off the TV, then pulled up a chair next to her. “We need to talk.”

  Dyer turned and stared at him, glassy-eyed. “Where have you been?”

  “I had something to deal with.”

  “I’m not stupid, Jon. Have you been meeting with the FBI?”

  “No. I was in touch with them earlier today, though.”

  Dyer stared at him as if trying to determine if she could trust him.

  “You’re worried I’ll hand you over.”

  “A little.”

  “I’m a man of my word.”

  Dyer smiled. “That’s good enough for me. You’ve been very kind to me.”

  “Forget about me. What about you? You’re looking a little better. How are you feeling?”

  “Nervous. Kinda scared.”

  Reznick nodded. “Perfectly natural. I’m glad you had some sleep. You’re going to need to be strong, Rosalind. That is, if you’re going to go through with this.”

  Dyer nodded.

  “Do you need some more sleep or rest before tomorrow? Do you need some medication to help you sleep?”

  Dyer shook her head. “I’ve had an hour or so, and I’ve napped. I’ll be fine.”

  Reznick reached out and held her hand. “The guys I just ran into mentioned other killings. So it looks like they’re aware of this parallel investigation of yours.”

  Dyer looked dumbstruck. “I don’t understand how they could.”

  “These are very dangerous people we’re dealing with. I need to know exactly what you know.”

  Dyer closed her eyes and sighed. “I wanted to wait and tell the committee.”

  Reznick smiled at her. “You can do that too.”

  “I’m tired of it all. I’m scared. Scared of everything.”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “Get me a laptop.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  Reznick went to the kitchen and got the laptop from Fifi. He placed it on the coffee table.

  Dyer reached into her pocket and took out a USB flash drive. She leaned over and inserted it into the side of the laptop. A few moments later, it loaded up. The display showed photos of seven men, biographies underneath each.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just over three weeks ago, I made a connection. You see, I’ve been looking through all the documents from accountants, auditors, and partners in accounting firms who have investigated kickbacks and missing money from Pentagon contracts. Some of it was due to secret accounts, some to outdated accounting systems set up in the 1950s, but there are also structural inefficiencies, corruption, and downright bad practices. The Department of Defense has an annual budget of seven hundred billion dollars. Its real annual budget is in excess of nine hundred billion dollars. And that’s not including secret black
budgets run by the CIA. The drone programs. Do you know a team of twelve hundred auditors costing four hundred million dollars had to admit defeat a couple of years back, unable to sign off the accounts?”

  “That’s outrageous,” Reznick said.

  “There are hundreds of Pentagon accounting silos,” Dyer said. “Money vanishes into budget black holes. No one knows where it begins, where it ends. It’s a national disgrace.”

  “I understand that. But who are these seven guys?”

  Dyer’s next words were barely a whisper. “They’re all dead. These seven men are all dead.”

  Reznick stared at her. “Yeah, but who are they?”

  “Accountants. Financial experts. A couple worked for the government, including the Pentagon and the DCIS. Three were auditors who investigated the accounts closely over the last two years, and two were partners from different accounting firms in DC who were assigned to the case. The latest one was Andrew Boyd. I attended his funeral two weeks ago.”

  Reznick nodded, allowing Dyer the space to tell him what she knew.

  “All seven of them died in different situations over the last three years. A major audit started about then. Then they started dying off. One in a car crash, one from a fentanyl overdose, one from a home invasion. Andrew Boyd drowned. One, a former colleague of mine, is missing. One fell from his balcony on vacation in Hawaii, and one shot himself in the head in the woods near his vacation home in South Carolina.”

  “All made to look like accidents, right?”

  “Exactly. There was a stop-start feeling to my investigation, having to chase down this firm, that expert, interview that witness, and there were innumerable delays and dead ends.”

  “Have you told anyone at the DCIS?”

  “My husband. My lawyer.”

  “Why didn’t you speak to the inspector general?”

  Dyer gave a wry smile. “I’ve lost count of the number of whistle-blowers who have been ruined when they go through official channels. It should work, in theory. But it’s only playing into the cheaters’ hands. I’ve been conducting this whole thing under the radar. The colleague of mine who went missing? I’ve spoken to his wife. We’re friends. And she’s heartbroken. Her husband just vanished. Hasn’t been seen in over a year.”

  Reznick leaned back on the seat. “That’s a lot to take in.”