Hard Target (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  Dyer nodded. “I guess I’m trusting in luck. And faith.”

  “Faith you can rely on. But luck? Luck runs out. And I fear for you.”

  She closed her eyes for a few moments, and Reznick saw a way to try a different path. One that would allow her to maintain her integrity. “I’m not going to desert you. I just want to find a different way.”

  Dyer looked at him long and hard. “OK. Currently, I either testify tomorrow or I cut and run. But you’ve got a different plan?”

  “Maybe. Just hear me out. You said you want to sit in front of the chairman and tell him your story. Tell what you know. The corruption. The billions of missing dollars. And the seven dead accountants and auditors. Right?”

  Dyer nodded.

  “Then why don’t we take the documents and hand them over in person.”

  Dyer looked bemused. “That’s what I was going to do tomorrow.”

  “No, I mean, turn up to the chair of the committee’s house, his private home.”

  “His home? You can’t do that. Besides, we don’t know where he lives.”

  Reznick grinned. “Yeah, but guess what? I bet our hacker friends next door do.”

  Thirty-Two

  Three minutes later, Reznick—thanks to Trevelle and Fifi—had found the home address of the chair of the Senate Armed Services Committee. He lived in a gated mansion on the outskirts of McLean.

  “That could be problematic,” Reznick said. “I mean, getting to him. It can be done. But it’s problematic getting access in such a tight time frame.”

  Fifi was tapping away at the keyboard. “Let me just check something for a minute. Hang on. Well, that’s interesting.”

  “What is?” Trevelle said.

  “He isn’t there.”

  Reznick shrugged. “OK, so where is he?”

  “Not surprisingly, the senator is here in DC. And he is . . . at the Hay-Adams. Very nice. Five-star deluxe.”

  Reznick said, “We need to be more precise. Is he having a drink at the hotel? Does he have a room at the Hay-Adams? Perhaps he has a place here in DC?”

  Trevelle was nodding, chewing gum, tapping away at his keyboard. “So let’s see if that’s the case . . . What do you know, he does have a place here in DC. Apparently right here in Georgetown. Thirty-Second Street Northwest. Two-bedroom townhouse. That would make sense during the week.”

  “Around the corner, virtually,” Fifi said.

  Reznick nodded. “OK, now that is good to know.”

  “So are we going to wait till he gets home before we speak to him?” Rosalind asked.

  “I don’t know,” Reznick said. “Maybe we should sit tight for now. Not make any moves till nightfall. But we don’t want to wait too long.”

  Fifi said, “I’ve got an idea.”

  “What kind of idea?” Reznick said.

  “How about I check out his Georgetown place, just around the corner. Just so we’re sure where it is.”

  Reznick didn’t think that was such a great idea. “It would be better just to sit tight.”

  “Got another reason. I’m out of cigarettes.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “I’ll just pick up some cigarettes, get my bearings on where the house is . . . what’s the number?”

  “1651 Thirty-Second Street Northwest.”

  Reznick shook his head. “Sorry, but this is not a good idea. We can’t have people wandering in and out. It’s not a sorority house. We need to sit tight.”

  “You sound like my mom.”

  “Smart mom.”

  Fifi rolled her eyes just like Reznick’s daughter did. “Hang on,” she said, “there’s a pizza delivery company. They do cigarettes. How about I order pizza, and I can get my cigarettes delivered?”

  Reznick grinned. “They deliver cigarettes? And pizza?”

  “You gotta love America.”

  Thirty-Three

  Charles sat with his eyes closed in a rear pew. He was attending mass at St. Patrick’s, a Gothic cathedral in downtown DC. He always attended when he was in town, business permitting. And today, of all days, as his men closed in on Dyer, he felt in need of divine intervention.

  He was a devout Catholic, just like his mother. He loved the spirituality and God-fearing sermons. He loved the sanctity of the church. A place that had stood, carved in granite, unmoved by time and fashions.

  The words of the priest washed over him and the rest of the congregation. About redemption. And the blood sacrifice of Christ.

  Wherever he went in the world—El Salvador, Guatemala, Mexico, Spain, Italy, Germany, the UK—he attended mass. He had been a deeply religious man all his life. He remembered the catechisms. He remembered the quick slap on his head from his mother or a priest if his words were wrong. But eventually, he got it. They were engrained on his very soul. Into the fabric of his being.

  He understood the power of prayer. It gave him his belief. His inner strength. His core.

  Charles’s thoughts turned back to Rosalind Dyer. She posed a real threat to Franklin Ross, a man he’d known for more than thirty years. A man who shared Charles’s values. But perhaps more importantly, it wasn’t just for personal reasons that he wanted to insulate Ross and those on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Dyer was threatening to expose the way the machine of government, the machine of war, and the machine of commerce blended and merged as one. The nexus of power. The American people didn’t need to know any of that. Dyer was threatening to expose a thread woven into the very fabric of American foreign and domestic policy. The sway of money. How people were bought and sold. Americans had an idea that Washington and their elected representatives had been compromised decades earlier by corporate interests. And it was true. But what they didn’t know and shouldn’t know was how their senior military officers, who were supposed to serve the country, had been groomed for years by corporate donors and foreign governments. Middle Eastern money. Saudis throwing hundreds of millions around left, right, and center. Lobbyists holding sway over the military-industrial complex. It was real. It was pervasive. And no one needed to know the true extent.

  There was too much at stake.

  Charles saw Dyer the same way he saw traitors like Edward Snowden, Daniel Ellsberg, and Chelsea Manning. Divulging national secrets. People like Snowden, now hiding in Moscow, protected by the Russian security services 24/7, were all criminals.

  All had been trusted to work within the intelligence community. To have access to sensitive information. And they’d chosen to leak to the American public secrets they thought were important to expose, rather than consider the serious consequences of their actions.

  They were all misguided idealists. Fuck it, he hated them all.

  The mass finished, the smell of incense heavy in the air, the words of redemption echoing around the old stone walls.

  Slowly Charles opened his eyes. He felt invigorated. Cleansed. He filed out of the church along with all the other worshippers. Shards of harsh sunlight pierced through the trees, and he put on his sunglasses, walked over to his car, and was ushered inside by his chauffeur.

  The car pulled away, and Charles turned his cell phone back on. It rang almost immediately.

  “Is it OK to talk?” It was Steve Lopez, his director of operations. “Been trying to contact you.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “We’re working on a new plan. We’ve got the team now in place, in DC. And we can see how we’re going to do this.”

  “Have you found the target?”

  A beat. “We’ve narrowed it down.”

  “How long till you pinpoint where she is?”

  “We’ve managed to find a Gmail account the target’s husband uses. And from there we got into his phone. Also their daughter’s. They’ve both sent messages, so it’s just a matter of waiting for the target to reply, and then we can narrow down her location using cell tower triangulation, among other things.”

  “I’m heartened by that. Very heartened. So we’re closing in.” />
  “We will know where she is within the hour. Hang on . . .”

  Charles waited impatiently as he was driven back to his suite at the Four Seasons.

  “Interesting,” Lopez said. “She’s 100 percent in the Georgetown area of DC.”

  Charles felt his old heart begin to beat a bit faster. He was tempted to join the team when they went to neutralize the target. He loved the thrill of the hunt. The waiting. And the kill. “How long till we find the exact location?”

  “Not long.”

  “Find her. Time’s running out.”

  Thirty-Four

  Reznick was looking at a street map of downtown Washington, DC, on Trevelle’s MacBook. It showed the area around the Hay-Adams. He wanted to see the best way to approach the hotel.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Jon, it’s Martha.”

  Reznick moved across to the other side of the kitchen and leaned against the counter. “Hey, how are you?”

  “Worried.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “Don’t mention this to Rosalind. Perhaps I shouldn’t even tell you. But under the circumstances, I feel I have to. Besides, I trust you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Max Charles . . . the guy you were talking to? He was meeting with the Director a few hours ago, here in DC.”

  Reznick took a few moments to digest the information. It hardly seemed believable. “At the Hoover Building?”

  “Yup. Apparently he’s advising the President’s national security adviser.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Unfortunately not. I checked. I got confirmation from the deputy secretary of Homeland Security of that, and I quote: ‘Max Charles is consulting on several matters of geopolitical importance and national security for the National Security Council.’”

  “How is that possible?”

  “He knows people of influence in the corridors of power. Has for years. And he’s popped up in Washington all of a sudden.”

  “It’s going to go down. He’s in town to make sure this hit happens.”

  “I know.”

  “Martha, that is not good. Does this mean the office of the President has contracted Max Charles’s firm to silence Rosalind Dyer? At the very least, the national security adviser must know the sort of work this man does.”

  Meyerstein said nothing.

  Reznick began to pace the kitchen. “If Max Charles is that far on the inside, neither Trevelle nor Rosalind is safe. And there’s no way the FBI can guarantee they will be.”

  “I give you my word they will be safe. But I can’t protect them without knowing where they are. Without getting them to a safe house. Right now. Tonight.”

  “Rosalind is determined to testify tomorrow.”

  Meyerstein sighed. “Is that her final decision?”

  “Yes, it is. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you soon.” Reznick ended the call.

  “Hey, Jon,” Trevelle said, “you’re wanted upstairs.”

  “What is it?”

  Trevelle hesitated for a moment. “Fifi messaged me. She wants you upstairs to take a look for yourself.”

  Reznick found Fifi upstairs in a back room, the blinds drawn, an iMac showing multiscreen images from the townhouse’s security cameras. “Check this out.”

  “What?”

  “Have a look at what the security cameras are showing from the front.”

  Reznick pulled up a seat beside the monitor. Pin-sharp color footage captured the view from the front door. He scanned down the street and saw a Lincoln SUV with tinted windows. A guy wearing a leather jacket was talking into a cell phone. “How long has he been there?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Reznick got up and retrieved his binoculars from his backpack. He cracked open the blinds and scanned the scene. “Florida plates.”

  “What does that mean?” Fifi asked.

  “That’s where Trevelle is from. That’s where his friend was killed. This could be the Miami crew. And they’re in town.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “You don’t want to hang around and find out, trust me. We need to move. Fast.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Reznick took out his cell phone. “I want you to do me a favor,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Write down the license plate number.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  “Call 911 with this cell phone. Give them the license plate. And report that you saw a guy with a gun. Give the street. Describe the car. Say it’s very suspicious. That kind of thing.”

  Fifi just nodded. “OK, I’m in.”

  Reznick handed her the cell phone.

  Fifi dialed 911. She gave the street and the license plate. “Black Lincoln. I saw guys with guns. One is still standing outside the Lincoln, waving his gun around. I’m scared. He’s a very dangerous-looking guy. Please send the police.” She ended the call and looked at Reznick. “How did I do?”

  “Very convincing. Now it’s time to move. We need to get the others. Get them out of here, Fifi.”

  Reznick got Dyer and Trevelle in the kitchen and gave them the lowdown on what was happening.

  Trevelle shook his head. “Christ!”

  Reznick looked at them both. “You guys need to move.”

  “What about you?” Fifi said.

  “Head out the back on foot—there’s no way to get the car out of here. You guys need to stick together. Find a cab. Get out of Georgetown. And meet up at the Hay-Adams hotel. You need to move, now!”

  Fifi quickly picked up a wig belonging to her mother, makeup, and dark glasses and stuffed the items into a leather carryall. She led the way down a back hallway off the kitchen and through a sunroom to a garden shaded by live oaks. He watched as they scaled the wall at the rear of the garden and into a neighbor’s backyard. Then they disappeared out onto the streets of Georgetown.

  Reznick went back into the house. He heard the sound of police sirens getting louder. He went up to an attic room, cracked open the blinds, and raised the window. He quickly assembled the rifle he’d taken from the Guatemalans’ apartment and trained the telescopic sights on the Lincoln’s back window. He saw the lights of the police car a block away.

  He took aim, looking through the rifle’s crosshairs. Then he fired two shots into the SUV’s rear window. Glass shattered, and the car alarm went off.

  That would draw the cops to the car like bees to honey.

  Reznick gathered up the shell casings and put them in his backpack. Then he quickly disassembled the rifle and put the parts away. He pulled on the backpack, bounded down the stairs, and headed out into the back garden. He hauled himself over the rear wall and disappeared down a quiet residential street.

  It was late afternoon when Reznick walked into the lobby of the Hay-Adams. He spotted Rosalind Dyer, who was wearing a wig and dark glasses. Pretty neat disguise, he thought. He headed through to the bar.

  Reznick sat down opposite her and ordered sandwiches for four, iced tea, and a bottle of wine. “Nice getup,” he said.

  Dyer took off the glasses and forced a smile. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me. It’s above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “How you feeling?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know. For what it’s worth, we’re here for you. I’ve got to be honest. The sooner you give your testimony and are in a safe house, the happier I’ll be.”

  Dyer averted her gaze.

  “What is it? Family?”

  “Yeah, I miss them.”

  “I’m sure the Feds will have them in a safe place.”

  “I hope so,” she said. She looked at Reznick, who was scanning the customers surreptitiously. “Do you ever relax?”

  “Not often.”

  “You mind me asking you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Where’re you from?”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

&n
bsp; “I always wondered about guys like you. We know what they do in far-off places. But you lead real lives, here, back home. Ordinary.”

  “I’m just a regular guy.”

  “From where?”

  “A little place in Maine. Rockland.”

  Dyer smiled. “Rockland, Maine. What’s it like?”

  “Quiet.”

  “I’ve never been there. Is it near Camden? I visited there once.”

  “Not far. Rockland is mid-coast Maine, fantastic in the summer. The winter? Pretty brutal. But it’s home. I can relax there. I know the place, the people. DC? I can never relax when I’m here.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Got a weird vibe. Don’t know what it is.”

  “Maybe all the politicians. All the policymakers. The aphrodisiac of power seems to warp people’s minds.”

  Reznick smiled.

  “Your parents still live in Maine?”

  Reznick shook his head. “Both passed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “My mother died when I was very young. My father died quite a few years ago. He was a character. A Vietnam vet.”

  Dyer nodded empathetically.

  “He used to come down here to DC. I used to come with him when I was a boy.”

  “Did you visit the memorial?”

  “That’s exactly why he would come down here. To remember his friends who died out there. Just kids.”

  “Maybe the weird vibes are all those memories.”

  Reznick nodded. “Maybe. It all comes flooding back.” He sighed. “A lot of memories. Some not so good.”

  They made small talk for the next twenty minutes. Eventually, Trevelle and Fifi walked in and joined them at their table in the bar.

  Fifi smiled. “So we’re all good.”

  Dyer nodded. “Fine. Thanks for helping out.”

  Fifi looked around at the political caricatures on the wall. “Haven’t been here for a while. My parents hang out here occasionally. Pretty buttoned-up place.”

  Trevelle picked up a sandwich. He began to wolf it down. “Man, this is delicious. Who’s paying for this?”

  Reznick smiled and leaned closer, voice low. “I got this. Now listen to me, where exactly is our guy?”