Hard Wired: A Jon Reznick Thriller (Jon Reznick series Book 3)

by JB Turner

  "You done?"

  "Yes, I'm done."

  "Two things. My friend did not drink. A drop did not pass his lips as an adult. He hated the stuff."

  "Stamper read over the police and forensic reports. Your friend was DUI."

  "It's a lie."

  "Look Jon, you're taking this personal."

  "Damn right I am. I believe that he was murdered . . ."

  "Jon . . . please."

  "His car was tampered with. I need you to find out who Frieveson Electronics in Arlington are."

  "I can't do that, Jon."

  "I need a favor. That's all I'm asking."

  "Jon, I'm not going to do that. We have an arrangement."

  "That's what I thought, too."

  "But it doesn't involve personal obsessions."

  "Okay, I get the message. You don't want to know."

  The line went dead.

  SEVEN

  Reznick's mood was darkening just like the sky above Jacksonville in north Florida. He headed off I-95and found a diner nearby. He sat down in a corner booth overlooking the parking lot and ordered a coffee with pancakes smothered in maple syrup. He wolfed it down as he pondered his options. He felt pangs of anger after his chat with Meyerstein. He had been convinced she would help him.

  Reznick gulped the rest of his coffee, enjoying the caffeine fix. He began to feel more focused.

  The waitress went by and refilled his cup.

  "Thank you," he said.

  "My pleasure, sir," she said. "You just stopping by?"

  "More or less."

  "You have a nice day," she said, flashing him a pearly smile before she served the next table.

  Reznick reached into his jacket pocket for some money to pay for the check and pulled out the business card the hacker in Overtown had given him. He quickly put it away and left a twenty dollar bill.

  He went out into the parking lot and looked again at the card. Then he called the number. Three rings and the hacker answered.

  "Don't recognize this number, but I'm guessing I must know you."

  Reznick said, "I need a favor."

  "I don't do favors. But I recognize that voice from yesterday, Jon."

  "I need your help again."

  "Cost you."

  The glare from the sun was fierce and Reznick shielded his eyes. "One thousand dollars cover it?"

  "Maybe. But first . . . you need to transfer the 1k to my account."

  "Not a problem."

  "Man, I love your attitude. It's so fucking refreshing. I need to get me some of what you're taking, right?"

  Reznick said nothing.

  "What do you want?"

  "I need everything you can on Frieveson Electronics in Arlington, Virginia. I also want you to try and trace the following consignment number and serial number on a transreceiver part."

  "What the hell is that?"

  "Microchip used in a car's computer."

  "We're talking about your friend's crash again, aren't we?"

  "Can you help me?"

  "I like you, Jon. You're clean nuts, that's for sure. But I like you."

  Reznick gave the consignment and serial number.

  "Gimme an hour. But before you get it, you transfer the money, right?"

  A soft click signaled the end of their conservation.

  A minute later Reznick received a message with the hacker's bank details.

  He headed inside to the diner's bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him. Stubble on his face. He had always had an aversion to being unshaven, apart from when it was necessary for a job. But the look reminded him so much of his father, when drinking had taken hold. The same malevolent stare. The couldn't give a shit if he lived or died glare.

  He pulled out his cellphone and logged into his online banking and transferred the thousand dollars to the hacker's account.

  He left the diner, got in the rental car and headed north.

  Just over an hour later, as he crossed into Georgia, his cell rang.

  "Got something for you," the hacker said.

  "Yeah, what've you got?"

  "A couple of interesting things."

  "Shoot."

  "The microchip in his car was part of a consignment of one thousand transreceivers which had to get special documentation and clearance from the State Department before they were exported."

  Reznick's senses were all switched on. "I need more details about the shipment."

  "I'm going to find this out. But it'll take another hour and another thousand."

  "You hustling me?"

  "Gotta make a living, man. Do you want the information or not?"

  "I'll wire another thousand but that's it. And I better get the information I'm looking for."

  "Wire the thousand and I'll get your information by the close of business."

  EIGHT

  Meyerstein stared out at the storm clouds rolling across the sky outside her 7th floor office in the Hoover building in DC, still troubled by the earlier call from Reznick. She had been trying to finish reading an update on the disappearance of a Doomsday Cult member but her thoughts were drifting back to the incident in Miami.

  Her phone rang.

  "Meyerstein," she said, expecting to hear Roy Stamper on the other end.

  "Martha, you wanna pop through?" The voice was that of the FBI's Director.

  Meyerstein's heart sank as she knew what it would be about. "I'll be right there, sir."

  She freshened up her make-up and fixed her hair before she left her office. As soon as she arrived at the Director's office, his long-serving secretary ushered her in.

  O'Donoghue was sitting behind a large teak desk. "Take a seat, Martha."

  Meyerstein sat down and smiled across at him.

  "I don't like surprises, you know."

  "I'm sorry, sir, I don't quite follow."

  "I just got off the phone from Senator Santos from Miami, and that was after a rather terse conference call with the Chief of Miami-Dade Police."

  Meyerstein inwardly braced herself, knowing what he was going to say.

  "What the hell is going on down there, Martha? They're thinking the FBI sent Reznick to break into their impoundment lot."

  Meyerstein knew that inter-agency rivalries meant that Reznick's connection with the FBI would be used to score points. "Sir, I'd like to reassure you that . . ."

  "I don't want reassurances, Martha. I want answers. I want to know what the hell is going on. Is that asking too much?"

  Meyerstein shifted in her seat. "This is what we know. A former Delta operator who'd served alongside Reznick, a guy called Charles 'Tiny' Burns, was killed in a car crash down in Miami. Wife and kid killed too. Accident investigation by Miami-Dade police showed he was DUI." She sighed. "Reznick believes the car was tampered with and he broke into the impoundment lot. He called me . . . "

  "He called you? Where the hell is he?"

  "I don't know. I told him he was being irrational. Upset at his friend's death."

  "Questions are being asked, Martha. And I'm going to have to answer to this."

  "Sir, I'll take the flak, if that's what's required."

  O'Donoghue sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll deal with that side of things. As of now, you need to focus on finding Reznick. I can't have this guy careening around goddamn Miami or wherever he is. Miami-Dade has an APB out on Reznick. I want us to deliver him."

  Meyerstein nodded. "I'll get a team together. We'll work it out as we usually do."

  "What's his next move?"

  "This is Jon Reznick we're talking about. Take your pick."

  "What's he been doing the last few months?"

  "Reznick?" Meyerstein shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. I don't keep tabs on him."

  "Well you should. We need to know these things. If we have a relationship with him, Martha, and we need to keep him in our back pocket."

  "I'll find him.
We've done it before. With Luntz in Miami."

  "Just find him. Dismissed."

  NINE

  Reznick was sitting in a newly stolen car in a motel parking lot in North Carolina – just off I-95 – when his phone rang. The caller display was one he recognized.

  "Mr. R, howya doin'?"

  Reznick took a few moments to place the voice. "Overtown, right?"

  "You got it. Listen, I wanted to give you a heads-up, man."

  "A heads-up on what?"

  "Lot of radio chatter."

  "What?"

  "People talking about you. Cops, Feds, you name it. They say you're wanted."

  Reznick said nothing.

  "They really got the hots for you."

  "No kidding."

  The hacker laughed. "Listen, don't sweat it. But I think it's only a matter of time before they get to you, man."

  "We'll see."

  "Listen, I got something. Consignment details."

  "And?"

  "Took a lot of digging around the State Department. But I got it."

  Reznick was getting impatient. "What?"

  "You wanna know where the parts were destined for?"

  "Look son, cut to the chase."

  "The chips were destined for Tehran."

  Reznick knew exactly what it meant. His mind began to race. "Are you sure?"

  "A car factory in Tehran."

  Reznick could see what had happened. In that fleeting moment, he believed he knew what had happened and why. "Interesting."

  "You're goddamn right it's interesting. So how the hell did it get into your dead friend's car?"

  "Listen to me. You don't mention this to anyone."

  "I got it."

  "Tell no one."

  "I hear you."

  "That's us all square."

  "Pleasure doing business, man."

  "Wait."

  "You need anything else?

  Reznick said, "Maybe. But it would involve something that might attract heat on you."

  "I can look after myself. So what do you want?"

  "I want you to find someone."

  "I'll need 5k before I can move on anything else."

  "I'll transfer 3k now and 2k when you deliver."

  "Cool. So who are you looking to find?"

  "I want you to pinpoint someone but without leaving any electronic footprints."

  "I can do that."

  "This is sensitive. The person I need to speak to won't be listed anywhere."

  "Sounds pretty straightforward."

  "She works for the FBI."

  A long silence opened up down the line. "This just got a helluva lot more interesting, Mr. R."

  Reznick said, "I've got a cellphone number. Now this number I don't want you to store the details anywhere. Can I trust you on that?"

  "You're the client. You get what you want. I've got a photographic memory anyway, which comes in helpful."

  "Okay, listen to me. This number . . . It's DC, I'm sure of it. I want you to trace where the person that has this phone, resides."

  A long silence opened up before the hacker spoke. "You're not gonna kill this person are you?"

  "Shut up and listen." Reznick gave the cellphone number he had imprinted on his brain.

  "We're rolling."

  "How long?"

  "With normal technology it would only take a few minutes. But this is configured in a different way. It might take some time. Leave it with me."

  The kid hung up.

  The first thing Reznick did was transfer the three thousand dollars to the hacker's account.

  Thirty minutes later, Reznick was headed north. He considered perhaps calling the hacker from a gas station further up the freeway to make sure he had got the money. But the kid might not like being disturbed.

  He decided to keep on the move. He drove on in the stolen car for thirty miles before ditching the wheels and stealing a Nissan pick-up in a quiet residential street just off the freeway. It wouldn't be until dawn that the owner discovered it missing.

  Ten minutes later as he headed along I-95 north, his cell rang.

  Reznick said, "Yeah?"

  "I've got the address."

  "Give it to me. Remember I don't want this recorded anywhere."

  The hacker talked slowly as he gave the address to Reznick. "Hasn't moved in three hours. Must be in the house. Residential area."

  "Good work."

  "Take care, man."

  TEN

  The first tinges of a tangerine dawn appeared on the horizon as Reznick pulled up one block from the house in a tree-lined Bethesda street. He switched off the car's lights and engine. Tiredness washed over him after the huge drive through the night. He stretched and popped a Dexedrine, washing it down with a can of warm Coke he'd picked up at an all-night diner en-route.

  His gaze wandered round the neighborhood. Large comfortable homes in one of DC's smartest suburbs. In the distance, he saw a pre-dawn jogger, head down, going in the opposite direction.

  Over the years, Reznick had visited Bethesda more times than he cared to remember. And it was always to the same place. The Walter Reed National Military Center, which he knew as the Bethesda Naval Hospital.

  He had lost count of the number of visits to Delta buddies who had been injured and were recuperating at the hospital. He remembered looking into the eyes of a guy he had served with. Jimmy 'Mac' McCulloch had both his legs blown off after an IED detonated on the outskirts of Fallujah. Tears welled in Mac's eyes as he saw Reznick again. They didn't talk for a few minutes. Reznick just sat at his bedside, held his hand and said a silent prayer. It was as if both of them knew words were pointless. Empty.

  There were others. Delta guys who had been shot up bad, bullets piercing necks, cheeks and God knows where. But each and every one of them faced their personal hell with a quiet courage. No histrionics.

  The relatives and loved ones and wives and girlfriends were another matter entirely. He understood why. The man they'd married, the brother they'd grown up with and the son they'd raised had gone. The gut-wrenching emotion spilled out each and every time they visited the hospital. The anguish. The pain. The personal hell and private suffering they bore.

  Reznick had been one of the lucky ones. He had returned in one piece, no limbs missing. But he was missing something. Something that couldn't be seen. Somewhere deep inside him, a part of his soul had died. Destroyed in the carnage and blood and filth and dirt of Iraq. He'd lost too many friends.

  Reznick's father had been the same. His war, Vietnam. He had been outgoing liked a beer, and to fish and hunt at weekends. But when he returned, everyone noticed. The long silences. The days on end when he didn't leave his bedroom. The days when he disappeared and drank himself unconscious. The days when he pressed a gun to his mother's head when she told him off for his drinking. It wasn't his father. Not the father he knew. He had returned home broken, consumed by guilt at living and seething that his friends had died. But time began to heal, and his father landed a job at a fish packing plant in Rockland. He hated the work. The drudgery. The shit money. The insecurity. But he did it because he had to.

  Reznick admired him more for that than anything else. As a boy he watched from his bedroom window as his father returned home from working overtime, after a fourteen hour day, his father driving up the dirt road to their home, a tired look up at his son waiting for his return.

  Even after his mother died, Reznick's father didn't buckle. He came close. But he never did. He took the pain, the emptiness and channeled it into his shitty job, but when he had time, it was fishing and hunting with his son. Learning to gut rabbits. Hunt deer. Fish. Shoot. He learned it all from his father. What it meant to be an honorable man.

  The sound of a door slamming shut at the house across the street snapped Reznick out of his reverie. He watched as FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein emerged carrying a brown satchel and handbag.

  She opened the passenger seat of her black SUV and put her bags
in before she walked around to open the driver's door.

  Reznick got out of the car and jogged down the street, slowing down to walk up to her as she opened her door.

  Meyerstein spun round and clutched her chest in fright. "What the hell?"

  Reznick couldn't resist a smile. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

  Meyerstein shut her door and stared at him. She clearly wasn't amused. "What in God's name are you doing here?"

  "We need to talk."

  Meyerstein "You don't just turn up on someone's doorstep. How the hell do you know where I live?"

  "I need your help."

  Meyerstein gave a rueful smile. "You need my help? Jon Reznick needs my help? Hah, do you know that the FBI are looking for you?"

  "Well they found me."

  Meyerstein rolled her eyes. "Jon, I don't know what is going on with you . . ."

  "I'll tell you exactly what's going on with me. I need your help."

  Meyerstein sighed. "Jon . . . you're not making this easy for me."

  "Listen to me. This is the second time I've asked for your help. I will not ask a third time, do you understand?"

  Meyerstein said nothing.

  "You needed my help before. Your scientist and the last time . . . the missing diplomat. And I answered your call both times."

  "Are you saying I'm obligated to you?"

  "That's exactly what I'm saying."

  "That's not the way it works between us Jon."

  "Doesn't it?"

  "You know damn well it doesn't."

  Reznick looked away and shook his head. He had expected better from Meyerstein.

  "Look, this matter with . . ."

  Reznick turned round to face Meyerstein. "His name was Charles Burns, if you must know. I fought with him. I knew him as well as anyone. And I need your goddamn help."

  Meyerstein's gaze fixed on him for a few moments. "I don't think talking this over in the middle of a goddamn Bethesda street at the crack of dawn is the time or place, Jon, do you?"

  "You wanna suggest somewhere else?"