by J. B. Turner
“I feel sick. I want to see my kids. My mother. I want to call them.”
“Not possible.”
“What do you mean, not possible?”
“There can be no contact till this is over.”
“And when will that be?”
Meyerstein said nothing.
“See … you don’t know yourself when this whole thing will end. I could be stuck here for months.”
“That’s not going to be the case, Kathleen.”
“Well, how long?”
A silence opened up down the line. “Maybe a few days. Maybe a week or so.”
“I’m going out of my mind here.”
“Listen, how about we get a new doctor sent round, and he can get your mood lifted – how does that sound? It might be what you need. Do you suffer from anxiety?”
“Yeah. Big time. And this isn’t helping.”
“Leave it with me. I’ll get a doctor and maybe he can help you out.”
Burke felt tears spill down her face. “I’m sorry … you must think I’m pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic, Kathleen. This is a terrible situation you’re in. But we’re here to help you. And protect you and your family. Don’t ever forget that.”
NINETEEN
Matt Pearce pulled up a block from the waterfront house where the Feds had Kathleen Burke. Exterior security lights, and lights on upstairs. He switched off his engine and checked the GPS tracking app on his iPhone. It showed Burke inside the smart house with a Lincoln parked outside. He took a note of the license plate and relayed that back.
He wondered who was inside with her. Was it friends? Boyfriends? Was it their car outside? His instructions had been simple. Find her. Watch her. And then kill her.
He knew he had to comply with the request. It was made by Hunter Cain no less. He’d served time with him, along with his brother, in Leavenworth. Aryan Brotherhood had certain codes of honor. Blood flowed. And it always flowed with the AB. He knew if he didn’t carry out the order, he’d be killed himself. As would his brother. No ifs or buts. It was just the way it was.
And that was fine. He knew they’d be there for him.
Since he’d been released, he’d killed three people on orders from Cain. A former AB guy who had turned informer. A Texas skinhead who hadn’t carried out a planned hit. And a black guy dealing methamphetamines to white kids in a trailer park.
He hadn’t thought twice about any of the hits. It was AB business. And that’s all he needed to know.
He wondered how he should execute her. Would he break in and just blast her? Stab her when she went to the pharmacy for her meds?
The more he thought about it, the more excited he got.
He felt his guts tighten and his heart start to race. The endorphins were kicking in. He sensed this was going to be a good one.
His cellphone vibrated in his shirt pocket, snapping him out of his reverie.
“Matt, you in place?” The voice was Hunter Cain.
“Maybe fifty yards or so from the house, bro.”
“Any sign of her?”
“Too early. Just got here.”
A long sigh down the line. “Okay, good work. I owe you one for this, buddy.”
“The car outside. The Lincoln.”
“Yeah.”
“Feds.”
Cain took a few moments to answer. “You reckon you can handle this?”
“It’s all in hand, bro.”
“Want it dealt with real quick.”
“How quick?”
“Sooner rather than later.”
“Leave it with me.”
The line went dead.
TWENTY
Reznick was in the back of an FBI Lincoln headed down I-95 when Meyerstein’s cellphone rang. She covered the mouthpiece and clicked her fingers to get his attention. She whispered, It’s him.
He knew exactly who it would be.
Reznick took the cellphone from her. “Yeah, who’s this?”
A long silence opened up before a man spoke. “Jon Reznick … well, I’ll be damned.”
Reznick recognized the voice and accent immediately. “Hunter, how you doing?”
“How am I doing? I’m doing great, man. I got a message from a woman to give you a call. Didn’t realize you were employed by the FBI now … you’ve changed, man.”
Reznick stared out of the window. “I heard you got out and I was wanting to talk.”
Cain sighed long and hard. “Sorry to say, bro, don’t believe a goddamn word you’re saying. Wish it wasn’t so. But, hey, it happens to the best of us, right?”
“Hunter, hear me out. You didn’t just escape prison to enjoy the Florida sun, did you?”
“Are you fucking judging me? Are you casting aspersions on a former Delta buddy? You working for the government? Are you kidding me?”
“I’m not working for the government. I’m working with them to ensure that whatever it is you have in mind doesn’t escalate.”
“Jon, I’ve never had no beef with you, man. I love you, man. Like a brother, you know that. But sometimes, just sometimes, a man has to take sides.”
“It’s not about sides, Hunter. It’s about doing the right thing.”
“The right thing, huh?”
Reznick looked at Meyerstein, who was leaning forward and whispering in the lead Fed’s right ear. “I just wanna talk.”
“Jon, the time for talking ended a long, long time ago. You know that better than anyone. I know what you think of the government. The country. You think it’s going to the dogs, don’t you?”
“I think we need to do a lot of things a helluva lot better. And, yes, we need to keep the hell out of people’s lives.”
“Jon, you’ve spoken to my girlfriend, right?”
“Yes I did.”
“Jon, I want to be really upfront with you. I’m going to kill her. And I’m going to kill anyone who gets in my way. And that goes for you!”
“Hunter, this doesn’t have to go down, whatever it is you’re planning.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Jon. This has to go down. Why? Because Americans need to realize that we’re no longer in charge of our country. It’s the government. It’s the banks. It’s the institutions. The little guy doesn’t stand a chance. We need to try and reclaim back what is rightfully ours.”
“Hunter, I don’t disagree with anything you’ve just said. But once you cross a line into killing innocents, you’ve lost the right to your point of view.”
“Jon … be under no illusion. I’m going to kill my girlfriend. And I’m going to make people sit up and take notice of what’s happening to our country, right under our fucking noses.”
“Why won’t you meet up and talk it over?”
“Man, you’re just a patsy. A government patsy, Jon. I love you, man. But I’m gonna kill you too if you get in my way.”
Reznick said nothing.
“Don’t fuck with me, man. Don’t ever fuck with me.”
Then the line went dead.
TWENTY-ONE
Meyerstein stared out of the window of the SUV. She felt a renewed sense of trepidation after the call from Hunter Cain. The investigation was slipping out from her control. The pressure from above – the director of the FBI and the director of Homeland Security – only added to a sense that she hadn’t got a grip of events. Things were sliding.
When they pulled up at Pompano Beach for a coffee break, Meyerstein headed out onto the sands alone. She began to walk and walk as the breakers crashed onto the shore. It felt good to get the warm sea air and the sun on her skin. What she wouldn’t give for a two-week vacation. She never seemed to find the time.
The more she thought of it the more alone she felt. She was surrounded by people all throughout the day. But it was work. Constant. From sunup to sunset. Relentless. Sometimes around the clock.
She thought of her family being looked after by
her mother at her house in Bethesda. On the surface it was idyllic. The great job. The great house. The beautiful children. But since her husband had left her, she’d noticed a sadness seep into her thoughts. She was getting more and introspective. She didn’t want to enjoy lunches with friends. She was immersing herself so much in work that she wasn’t giving herself or her family any time.
She remembered her father saying that one of his biggest regrets was never finding the time to be a father when Martha was growing up. Instead, the would-be partner in a powerful Chicago law firm was working sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. He didn’t have time for family. He drove himself hard. To the top. But he also missed out on the great things children do. School Christmas plays, fun days at the beach, weekends at home. Even in his sixties, he was still doing seventy-hour weeks. It was almost like he was scared to slow down in case he lost his position in the firm. She wondered if that was her problem. If she slowed down there would be someone else to take her place.
Meyerstein could see she was becoming more and more like her father. She took out her cellphone and punched in her home number. Her mother answered. It was good to hear her soft voice. Yes, the kids were great. They were at school. When was she coming home? Hopefully soon. She ended the call and punched in her father’s cellphone number. He answered on the fifth ring. “Hey, dad, how’s it going?”
“Martha, honey, I’m great. Mom’s missing you. Are you okay?”
Meyerstein felt her eyes fill with tears. She missed hearing his voice. “Dad … I’m good, thanks. Work’s just kinda, well, you know …”
He went quiet for a few moments as if waiting to pick the correct words to use. “Martha, I can hear in your tone of voice something’s wrong. I can hear it, honey. Because I know you. Tell me what’s wrong. I’ve got all the time in the world for you today.”
Meyerstein dabbed her eyes and shielded them from the sun. She turned round. In the distance Reznick was standing outside the SUV, drinking a coffee, looking in her direction. She gave a wave of acknowledgment and he did the same. She turned round and stared out over the ocean. “I’m getting a lot of heat.”
“What kind of heat?”
“The kind of heat that involves using the services of a certain operative.”
“You talking about Mr R?”
Meyerstein smiled. “The very one.”
A long sigh down the line. “Martha, you’ve told me quite a lot about him. And I’ve thought about that. You’ve told me about what he’s done for you. And I’ve got to say, I admit I’ve never met him, but I think you’ve deployed him judiciously.”
“My bosses don’t feel the same way. They’re threatening me with ‘it’s either you or him.’”
Her father sighed down the line. “What do you want to do?”
“I know what he can do. I know what he can bring. And I know he crosses lines, boundaries and God knows what else. And this can be problematic.”
“Is he breaking laws?”
“He has.”
“Not good.”
“I know. Thing is, his actions, they break some federal laws, but he’s helped us get a handle on a developing situation.”
“You talking about a few eggs getting broken, sort of thing?”
“Precisely.”
“The problem is, once you start ignoring illegality, before long it becomes the norm. Besides, you’re in the law-enforcement business, right?”
“Broadly speaking, yes.”
“Martha, want my advice?”
“Sure.”
“You gotta draw a line in the sand with him. Have that conversation. But then move on.”
“But my boss, he doesn’t see it like that. I believe they’re not bluffing when they say they’ll get rid of me. I’ve taken years and years of damned hard work to get where I am.”
“I know that better than anyone, Martha. So, my question to you is, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to have to think long and hard about that.”
Meyerstein turned round and saw one of her team signaling that they were on the move. “Dad, I gotta go. Thanks for that. I love you.”
“Love you too, honey.”
Meyerstein ended the call and turned and headed along the beach to the car. She slid in the back beside Reznick.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” She leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Let’s get down to the FBI field office in Miami. Step on it.”
TWENTY-TWO
Just after midnight, Hunter Cain emerged from the unfurnished apartment on 14th Street and walked across the street to the Deuce bar, a windowless dive. He’d been holed up for the last twelve hours and was getting cabin fever. He walked in and ordered a vodka and Coke. He looked around, saw a smattering of hipsters, alcoholics and a few nice-looking chicks. Rock music playing loud.
Cain ignored it all. Had a timetable to adhere to. A plan. Bit by bit was coming into place. His two accomplices had moved to a separate studio apartment on Washington as arranged. A few minutes later they walked in. He ignored them as Mad Dog ordered a couple of bottles of Schlitz. He caught their eye, turned and headed to the bathroom. It was empty.
A few moments later Pearce came in. He handed the new cellphone to Cain.
“Good work,” Cain said. “Any problems?”
Pearce shook his head. “What time you expecting the call?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“You follow me as soon as I leave the bar, right?”
“Got it.”
Cain returned to the bar as Pearce returned to his position at the far end. He ordered a Heineken. The cold beer felt good.
His cellphone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out.
“Listen and listen good, Hunter. You don’t know me, but I know you. This is how it’s going to work. There’s an alley down the side of the bar.”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“There’s a cab waiting for you. A second one is out front on 14th Street for your two friends.”
“Where exactly are we going?”
“Not long now, Hunter, relax.”
The line went dead.
TWENTY-THREE
Reznick was sitting in the back of the SUV with Meyerstein as they approached the outskirts of Miami. Stamper sat up front with the driver. “How long till we’re at the field office?”
The driver said, “Fifteen minutes, once we get through this goddamn traffic.”
Stamper turned round and looked at Reznick. “Jon, tell me more about Hunter Cain. We’ve been over his records. Military and all that. Prison. But what I’m puzzled at is you had no inkling your old Delta buddy was in jail.”
“Why would I know what he was up to?”
“I don’t know … I thought all you guys stuck together. Thought you were tight.”
“We are. But people don’t keep in touch with everyone they know. Do you keep in touch with all your friends at college?”
Stamper flushed. “No, but college is different.”
“Is it? How is it different?”
“Jon, I’m merely asking a civil question. I wish to God you wouldn’t be so defensive.”
“You wanna know about Hunter Cain? Read his file.”
“I have. But I thought you could enlighten me as to how one of your fellow Delta operators could have gone so badly off the rails.”
“Roy, here’s the thing. We’re trained to kill. It’s sometimes not so easy for some people to switch all that off.”
“Are you condoning him?”
“Don’t be so fucking stupid.”
Meyerstein’s cellphone rang and she put up her hand as if to silence them. “Enough!” She answered the call. “Yeah, Martha speaking.” She scrunched up her face. “Are you kidding me? Seriously? That’s ridiculous.” She ended the call.
Reznick looked at her. “What is it?”
“That was the FBI fie
ld office in Miami. They’ve received instructions from the director that Jon Reznick is not to be admitted to the premises.”
Reznick said nothing.
Meyerstein sighed. “This is getting ridiculous. We’re in the middle of a goddamn investigation and they’re pulling stunts like that. It’s crazy.”
Stamper turned round. “Martha, for what it’s worth, I think …”
“Roy, enough! I need to think.”
Meyerstein tapped the driver on the shoulder. “How far from North Miami Beach to Miami-Dade police HQ?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Let’s get to it.”
As they headed across town, Reznick felt a growing sense of unease. He wondered if Meyerstein was crossing the line and putting herself up against powerful forces within the highest echelons of the American intelligence community. When he tried to raise these points, she brushed them aside. Instead, Meyerstein called in a favor with the Miami-Dade police chief she knew, and they pitched up in a secure meeting room. It was almost like she was wanting the confrontation with the directors of the FBI and Homeland Security.
Reznick was introduced to Lee Jackson, a police officer who specialized in Florida gangs and militias. He had the lowdown on biker groups, Hell’s Angels, Aryan Brotherhood associates and militias across the state. He told them that white gangs had become all-pervasive, especially with the spread of methamphetamine dealing. He told them about biker gangs who owed the militias money. And he told them about a failed hit on a militia associate the previous year.
The image of Mad Dog Pearce was uploaded to a huge TV screen.
“Roy, give me details about exactly when and where this was taken before we open this up,” Meyerstein said.
“This guy is one of Hunter Cain’s most trusted associates. High propensity to extreme violence. Not afraid to mix it with anyone. But, anyway, this was taken at a 7-Eleven at Alton Road and 15th Street, twelve hours ago. As you can see he’s carrying a 7-Eleven bag. According to the manager he bought two sandwiches, two Cokes, two candy bars and two packets of cigarettes.”
