Hard Target (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  Reznick checked his watch. “Two hours.”

  “You gotta love this job.”

  Reznick’s earpiece buzzed, and he stepped away from the Feds to get a bit more privacy. “Hi, Jon, it’s Martha. You’re up early.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Still in my office.”

  “All night? Do you ever sleep?”

  “Not as much as I want.”

  “Why the early start?”

  “Lot of stuff happening overnight. We’re interviewing the son-in-law of Max Charles. Very slippery character.”

  “You guys using the immigration card as leverage?”

  “Got it. We told him we want to know everything. And in return, we could come to an arrangement. Time in white-collar prison in the US in exchange for telling us the full story.”

  “How did he react?”

  “Not well. But his lawyer is confident we can turn him around. Just a matter of time.”

  Reznick was impressed. “It seems to be coming together now.”

  “It’s about time.”

  “What about Max Charles?”

  “A bit more elusive. We believe he’s still in DC. We’re already in his office in Manhattan, couple of his team arrested. The net is closing in on him.”

  “It’s not over, Martha. The operation would be heavily compartmentalized. Need-to-know basis. Different cells with different jobs. One handler. Who knows, maybe two just in case?”

  Martha sighed. “We’re bringing Dyer in the moment this is over. I’ve got twenty people inside the Hart Senate Office Building.”

  “What about outside?”

  “Blocking off access roads. She’ll be protected from the moment she steps out of her room.”

  Reznick said, “Speaking of which, I’m going to head upstairs to make sure she’s up and ready.”

  “You got the route we want you to take through the hotel?”

  “I’ve also got two alternate routes just in case.”

  “Jon, I’m glad you’re going to be with her. Keep in touch. And we’ll be watching.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Once the Fed outside Dyer’s door had electronically scanned the ID badge on the lanyard around the room service attendant’s neck and confirmed her identity matched the hotel’s employee database, a female Fed frisked the woman for weapons.

  The Fed knocked again. “No problem, Rosalind.”

  Dyer opened the door, and the woman wheeled in the trolley. On it was a tray with a mug of black coffee, different packets of sugar, toast, and marmalade.

  “Morning, ma’am. You ordered breakfast?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m starving.”

  The Fed shut the door.

  Dyer handed the woman a ten-dollar tip. “Muchas gracias, señorita.”

  The woman gave a slightly subservient nod. “Thank you, señora.”

  Dyer sprinkled the sugar into the mug of coffee. She stirred it and picked up the cup. She took a sip as the woman placed the tray on the writing desk.

  “This OK, señora?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Do you want me to tidy or clean your room just now, señora?”

  Dyer smiled. “No, thank you.” She sat down at the writing desk and spread some marmalade on her toast. She took a bite. It tasted delicious. Then another bite. She didn’t realize how ravenous she was. The taste of tangerine was sweet on her tongue.

  She picked up the remote and turned up the sound of Fox News. It was reporting on the Dow Jones.

  “Anything else I can get you, señora?”

  Dyer tried to turn around to answer, but realized she couldn’t. She felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over her. Her eyes felt heavy. She felt paralyzed.

  “Excuse me, señora, what was that?”

  Dyer tried again to turn her head but couldn’t. The room seemed to tilt on its side. She looked at the reflection on the TV. She felt incapacitated but strangely awake. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the room service attendant. Dyer tried to speak.

  The woman was smiling, standing over her, putting on forensic gloves, syringe in hand.

  Forty

  Reznick was waiting to take the elevator to the seventh floor. He pressed the button repeatedly on the ground floor, still waiting two minutes later. Eventually, the door opened and he got in. He rode the elevator up. A short while later the doors opened, and he headed down the carpeted corridor to the suite at the end.

  Two Feds, a man and woman, were sitting on wooden chairs on either side of a small table with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. “Morning, Agents. Nice and quiet overnight, I’m assuming.”

  “All good. Breakfast was just delivered a few minutes ago.”

  Reznick felt as if his guts had been ripped out. “What? Room service?”

  “Yeah, she ordered breakfast.”

  Reznick thought he was going to throw up. “Guys, are you kidding me? The door doesn’t open to anyone. That’s the rules.”

  They looked at each other, and the male agent shrugged. “No one told us.”

  “What are you talking about? That’s bullshit.”

  “We came on at two. We were told she doesn’t leave the room. Only photo ID staff on this floor. And the client opened the door this morning. Nothing out of place.”

  “And the room service attendant?”

  “She’s just left the room. We checked her credentials. They were fine. And we searched her.”

  Reznick had a bad feeling. He knocked sharply on the door. “Rosalind, it’s Jon! Open up!”

  No answer.

  Reznick knocked hard three more times, feeling anxiety rising within him. “Rosalind! It’s Jon Reznick. Open up!” He tried the door, but it was locked. He turned to the Feds. “You got a card to get into the room?”

  “No.”

  “Out of the goddamn way.”

  The Feds got up and took a couple of steps back. “What the hell are you going to do? I think you’re overreacting.”

  Reznick had seen enough. He took two steps back before kicking the door hard. It burst open and Jon ran in.

  The TV was on. Rosalind was sitting slumped at the writing desk, head hung low, fully dressed. A tray of food and a cup of coffee were on the writing desk. He grabbed her wrist and checked her pulse. “No! Come on! Come on!” Nothing. But her skin was warm. He turned around. “Call 911! Get paramedics! She’s not breathing. And seal off the hotel! Now! Get the manager! And get that fucking room service woman!”

  The Feds got on their cell phones, frantic, calling for emergency help. “Target down!” one shouted. “Not breathing. Seventh floor.”

  Reznick lifted Dyer up and placed her on the floor. He frantically began to do chest compressions. But he knew it was too late. “Wake up, Rosalind!” he said, pressing harder and harder down onto her chest. “Come on, Rosalind!”

  It seemed like an eternity before the duty manager, three Feds, Trevelle, and security burst into the room. A female security guard kneeled down and signaled for Reznick to stand aside as she continued CPR. Trevelle was holding Rosalind’s hand, tears streaming down his face.

  “She’s not responding,” Reznick said. “I’ve tried that.”

  The female security guard kept at the CPR. “Come on, honey,” she said. “You can do it.”

  Trevelle turned and looked at Reznick. “What the hell happened, Jon?”

  “Someone got to her. Room service woman.”

  Trevelle sobbed, still holding Rosalind’s hand. “She can’t die,” he said. “Not now. Not today.”

  The Feds were on their radios, cheeks flushed.

  Reznick pulled the manager aside. “I work for Martha Meyerstein, FBI assistant director. Where is the room service attendant?”

  The manager got on his cell phone and spoke with an assistant duty manager. “Find her! Now!” He ended the call. “Apparently she went outside for a cigarette. But she’s gone.”

  Reznick stepped out of the room and tore down the corridor. He was headed down
in the elevator when his earpiece buzzed.

  “Jon, what the hell is going on there?” Meyerstein said.

  “Rosalind is dead. Repeat, she is dead. Room service woman delivered breakfast. Find her!”

  Reznick ran into the hotel lobby and signaled for one of the Feds to join him. He pointed at the guy by the door. “A woman in a hotel room service uniform. We need to find her!”

  The earpiece buzzed again. “Jon,” Meyerstein said, “three minutes ago, the room service attendant was picked up in a silver Mercedes SUV down at the rear of the hotel. They’re already on the move. They’re headed west on the E Street Expressway.” She gave him the license plate number.

  Reznick ran out of the hotel with one of the Feds in tow. An FBI Lincoln screeched to a halt outside. He slid into the front passenger seat, the young special agent in the back. “E Street Expressway going west! Now! What the fuck are you waiting for?”

  The driver nodded and they sped off.

  Reznick pulled out his Beretta and ran his thumb along the grip. “Motherfucker!”

  The driver glanced anxiously at him and accelerated hard, racing through predawn traffic, jumping red lights.

  The earpiece buzzed. “Jon, we’ve tagged her, so we’ll have a continuous fix on her and the vehicle.”

  “That’s a start. Where exactly is the vehicle?”

  “They’re on I-66 westbound and approaching the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge.”

  The driver glanced in her rearview mirror. “Shit.”

  Reznick said, “What is it?”

  “Right behind us. We got a tail. I don’t like it.”

  Reznick turned and looked through the back window. A Humvee was closing in. He could make out a couple of silhouetted figures inside. “How long have they been there?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Guess.”

  “Shortly after we left the Hay-Adams. I’m sure I saw them a few moments after picking you guys up.”

  Reznick snapped. “So what are you waiting for? Hit the gas!”

  Forty-One

  Forty miles from DC, the Gulfstream was waiting outside the terminal at Manassas Regional Airport in Virginia.

  Max Charles was wearing shades as he walked through the terminal with Malcolm Black. He wore a single-breasted gray Zegna suit, a white shirt, a black tie, and shiny black shoes; his longtime confidant preferred jeans, sneakers, and a black hooded sweater.

  They stepped out of the terminal and took the short walk to the steps of the plane, whose engines were already running.

  Charles went first, Black close behind. He took his usual seat at the table in the middle left of the plane. A satellite phone and laptop were on the table waiting for him. He took a few deep breaths and sighed. He felt elated. Relieved. Euphoric, even. The job had been done. The job his company had been paid $23 million to carry out, on delivery. And with a $10 million personal bonus for Charles.

  Black served up a club soda with ice as they waited for the final passengers to join them. His confidant sat down diagonally across the table from Charles and smiled. “I think we’re good.”

  The engines were revving as the pilot went through the preflight checks.

  Charles sipped his drink. He didn’t like tempting fate. He looked across at Black, who was sending messages from his cell phone. “I hope so. Are we 100 percent sure Rosalind Dyer is dead?”

  Black nodded. “Jamie has been scanning police radio and all 911 traffic in DC, and we have three confirmations from cops and 911 controllers. Dyer was dead on arrival. Heart attack. Stress. That’s what they’ll say.”

  Charles grinned. “Triple bonus for you, as promised. Buy that new wife of yours whatever she desires.”

  Black rolled his eyes. “I’d be broke if I did that.”

  “Tell me about the girl who carried out the wet work.”

  “As cold as they come. Very plausible. Appears warm and friendly. Second cousin of one of the Miami crew. Also the pilot’s sister. But she’ll kill you as soon as she looks at you.”

  “Sure it wasn’t your ex-wife?” Charles joked.

  The aide laughed. “Actually, now that you mention it . . .” He looked at his watch. “We really need to get moving.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re cutting it tight.”

  Charles’s satellite phone rang, interrupting the conversation. “Yes?”

  “Sir, we have a problem.”

  Charles shook his head. “I don’t want to hear about problems. I want to hear that the target is dead.”

  “Affirmative, target is dead. DOA. Repeat, target is neutralized.”

  “Wonderful. So what’s the fucking problem?”

  “We’ve got a tail.”

  “What? How is that possible?”

  “Fuck knows. But they’re after us. I think they’ve locked on to us. You wanna know who?”

  “Of course!”

  “Reznick.”

  “Christ, gimme a break. OK, you need to go to plan B.”

  “Copy that, sir. Plan B. Understood.”

  “Stay safe. And get the hell out of there.”

  Charles ended the call, feeling a burning sensation in his stomach. He popped a couple of Zantac to calm his ulcer. “Never a fucking break.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “They’ve got a tail. It was supposed to be a simple drive to the airport. Nice and smooth.”

  The aide nodded. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Relax, we got that covered.”

  “We better have. Jon fucking Reznick is on this.”

  “He couldn’t stop us neutralizing Dyer.”

  “Very true. So what is plan B?”

  “Plan B? They dump the car and move to the new vehicle. It’s all in place. Just in case. Like always.”

  Charles pointed at his aide. “What do I always say?”

  “Check. Double-check. And then check again.”

  Charles picked up his cell phone and called the driver of the waiting backup vehicle. “You expecting a pickup soon?”

  “Already en route. I got this.”

  “Get a move on. I want her out of sight and out of the country. And on this plane in fifteen minutes. You’re on the clock. One minute late, and we’re out of here.”

  Forty-Two

  Reznick turned around as the Humvee accelerated hard and nudged their rear bumper. He checked the sideview mirror. The bastard was closing in. And fast. He turned to the Fed in the back. “Get your head down, pal.”

  The Fed slid lower down in his seat, head out of sight.

  The driver said, “Are these guys part of the same crew we’re after?”

  “Guaranteed,” Reznick said. “They’re trying to stop us getting to the car with the girl in it. They’re making sure the target vehicle is unhindered.”

  The driver peered ahead. “I think I lost them. Goddamn it!”

  Reznick knew he had to get their tail off them. And quick. He wound down his window, and a bullet whizzed past. He thumbed off the safety. “Meyerstein!” he shouted into his lapel microphone, “we’ve got someone on our tail! And it seems like we’ve lost the vehicle with the girl in it! Where the hell are they?”

  “Copy that, Jon. The car you’re following is about a mile up ahead. GPS will have the precise details.”

  “Fuck. We’ve got some serious heat on our tail.”

  “Trying to take you out?”

  “No doubt about it. I want them off our tail. I want authorization.”

  “Do what you have to do. Priority is to catch the woman. We’ve got everyone and their dog working on this.”

  A shot was fired, shattering the rear glass.

  “What was that?” Meyerstein said.

  “Rear window shot out, what the hell do you think?”

  The Fed in the back seat was gritting his teeth. “Goddamn!” he said, shaking glass out of his hair.

  “Take them out, Jon!” Meyerstein ordered.

  Reznick unbuckled his seat belt and turned
around. He aimed through the shattered rearview window, through shards of glass, to the driver following them. He could make out a figure behind the wheel. He fired two shots. The Humvee’s windshield exploded. The driver slumped forward, bullet in the head. Then the truck careered off the highway and into a concrete divider in the middle of the road, bursting into flames. “Bingo!”

  The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “God almighty!”

  Reznick flicked on the safety.

  His earpiece buzzed. “What the hell, Jon?”

  “The tail is gone.”

  “So I see. You’re about half a mile behind the target car. A parking garage up ahead.”

  “Copy that.”

  The driver beside him nodded. “Yeah, on it.”

  “Stay safe, Jon.”

  Reznick turned and looked again at the Fed in the back seat. The special agent was brushing fragments of glass off the shoulders of his jacket. “You OK?”

  The Fed just nodded.

  Meyerstein’s voice was in his earpiece again. “Find that car, Jon. And find that woman.”

  Forty-Three

  The drone footage on the big screens on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building showed the blazing Humvee being hosed down by firefighters. Meyerstein turned and looked at the analysts and agent who were watching the footage with her. “Where is that woman? Number one priority! She was in the silver Mercedes. Where in God’s name is the Merc?”

  A young female analyst looked up from her computer. “Ma’am! I think we got it. Footage from the North Highland Parking Garage, level four. Up on the screen. Four miles after they crossed the Potomac. They headed off the freeway. I’ve slowed it down. It’s them.”

  Meyerstein turned and stared. The silver Mercedes pulled up. The young Hispanic woman, who, only minutes earlier, had snuck out of the hotel after poisoning Rosalind Dyer, got out of the car. The image was freeze-framed. She wore dark glasses and a red Washington Nationals ball cap pulled low. “This her?”

  “One hundred percent. Matches the woman from the hotel.”

  “Who is she?”

  “We’re working on it, ma’am. A fake ID and passport were given to the employment agency who supplied her to the hotel.”