Hard Kill (Jon Reznick Thriller Series Book 2)

by J. B. Turner

  “You feel better?” Stamper said, pointing to a room-service burger and fries.

  Reznick nodded and began to wolf down the food. “I could get used to this life. Is this how the Feds slum it?”

  Stamper rolled his eyes.

  “So, what’s the latest?” Reznick said, wiping ketchup off his chin with a napkin.

  “We’ve activated the microphone on his BlackBerry. His whole conversation is being recorded.”

  “What’s he said so far?”

  “Talked about his work, his love of rowing, asked about his godchildren, said nice things to them.”

  “Nothing bad?”

  “Absolutely not. The only thing of note is that Ford was told about an opening at Lenox Hill Hospital and asked if he was interested.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Said he’d think about it, but he thought it was too early in his career. He wants to gain another couple years’ experience with his trauma team in DC.”

  “Answer me this. Don’t you think it’s strange there was no laptop or anything like that in his home? I would’ve thought a highly educated, professional guy would need a computer to write up notes, email friends . . . you know what I’m talking about.”

  Stamper raised his eyebrows. “Maybe.”

  “Do you have a laptop at home?”

  “Sure.”

  Reznick nodded. “So do I. So does every goddamn person I know. So where the hell is his?”

  “Well, he can email from his BlackBerry. Perhaps he’s got an iPad, I don’t know.”

  “Well, if he has, where the hell is it?”

  Stamper stayed quiet.

  “Look, I don’t mean to bust your balls over this, but it is an anomaly.”

  Stamper ran a hand through his hair. “Look—”

  The radio crackled, cutting Stamper short. It was the FBI surveillance team, parked in a car outside the townhouse.

  “Our boy’s on the move,” a female voice said.

  A few minutes later, Reznick and Stamper were inside a new SUV, being driven uptown.

  Stamper said into his cell phone, “He’s heading north through Manhattan. We’re heading across the Harlem River to the Bronx. We’ve got three cars on it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Reznick craned his neck and looked at the traffic bunching up ahead. He caught sight of Ford’s convertible doing a steady fifty-five. “A drive in the sun after driving all night. This guy sleeps less than me.”

  “Bruckner Expressway, heading north. Where’s he taking us?”

  It wasn’t long before the landscape turned industrial. Then it was down to a crawl through a low-income neighborhood. Abandoned cars, boarded-up shops and houses. Graffiti scrawled on tenements.

  “Where the hell is this?” Reznick asked.

  The driver turned around. “Hunts Point. I used to work in New York—I know the area. It’s wall-to-wall garbage. Better than it used to be, but the place is diseased.”

  Reznick stared out at the urban decay. Living, existing, and dying in a few dilapidated square miles. He remembered it was the same area an old Delta buddy had been brought up in—Charles “Tiny” Burns. Tiny had vowed he’d never return.

  They headed past the few commercial and industrial areas that were still intact.

  Stamper stared out of the window. “It’s a place Adam Ford isn’t likely to be stopping, that’s for sure.”

  They drove along the expressway through the Bronx, the views still brutal. A hopeless wasteland. Eventually, they found themselves heading into working-class Baychester, in the northeast section of the borough.

  Then they crossed the Hutchinson River parallel to the railroad tracks, and it all changed. The gray and concrete gave way to the lush greenery of the suburbs. A golf course on the left, water on the right.

  The driver said, “He’s taken Exit Fifteen. He’s now making a right onto Boston Post Road.”

  The car slowed down as they reached a stoplight. A few moments later, the light turned green, and they followed Ford when he turned right onto Pelhamdale Avenue.

  “Seems to be heading for Pelham.”

  “What’s in Pelham worth talking about?” Reznick said.

  “Commuterville. First stop in Westchester—really nice place. Great schools. Guy that wrote Primary Colors lives here. Read that one time.”

  Stamper was snapping his fingers, as if to help remember. “What’s his name . . . Joe Klein?”

  The driver nodded. “Yeah, Joe Klein. Worked for Clinton.”

  Reznick peered up ahead. “So, where exactly is Ford headed?”

  The driver kept up his running commentary. “OK, he’s made a right onto Shore Road . . . Now a left onto Travers Island.”

  Up ahead, a huge whitewashed building with a terracotta roof. Beyond that, Long Island Sound, water glistening in the summer sun.

  Stamper checked the coordinates on his cell phone. “New York Athletic Club. Very ritzy.”

  “Who’s monitoring his cell phone to pick up any conversations?” Reznick asked.

  A navy Suburban pulled up in the club’s parking lot. “They are. If there was anything, they’d let us know. We’ve got a feed coming back to us. Actually, switch it on, Josh. We can monitor it ourselves.”

  The driver leaned over and flicked a switch on the dashboard. Stamper spoke into his radio. “Jerry, can you get two of your guys to do a recon? Find out where he is, eyeball and report.”

  “Yeah, got that, Roy.”

  Reznick said nothing. He would have preferred four guys down at the river for the recon. But Stamper had operational control of the surveillance operation. Reznick figured the last thing Stamper or any of the Feds needed was him griping about what they should or shouldn’t be doing. Instead, he just sat in the back seat, eyes on the entrance to the upscale building.

  A few moments later, they heard Jerry’s voice again. “Roy, he’s headed to the nearby boathouse.”

  “Jerry, is he with anyone?” Stamper said.

  A crackly voice. “Negative, Roy.”

  “Your guys able to get into position to get a picture? I don’t want us all to be milling around.”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, a video message came through on Stamper’s iPhone. Shaky but HD-quality footage of a tall man wearing a Lycra rowing outfit, Yale baseball cap, and wraparound shades. His white teeth clenched as he pulled hard in the sleek single scull.

  Stamper shook his head. “What a waste of time. He’s out there enjoying a beautiful day, and we’re fucking around.”

  It was nearing the end of the day—the sky burnt orange and the shadows long—when Ford emerged from the clubhouse after an early dinner. He wore sunglasses, his hair neatly combed and gelled, and sported knee-length shorts, a navy polo shirt, and loafers. He climbed back into his car and sped off, unaware he was being watched.

  Stamper called Meyerstein and gave her the update. He listened and nodded, and ended the call. He didn’t say a word for a few moments, then let out a long sigh. “Goddamn.”

  “What is it?” Reznick asked.

  “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “They’ve just fished the partial remains of a body out of the Everglades.”

  “And?”

  “They got a head. That’s all. But they’re sure it’s O’Grady. Bullet through the back of the head.”

  “Oh shit,” Reznick said.

  “Forensics is speculating that the body was thrown in. A gator ripped it to pieces, only the head remaining. Then, when it became swollen with water, it floated to the surface.”

  “Motherfucker. Who found him?”

  “Airboat captain.”

  Reznick closed his eyes.

  “Meyerstein is ordering us all back down to DC.”

  “And what about Ford? We just forget about him?”

  “He’s clean. He’s a preppy surgeon. He’s never even had a traffic ticket in his life.”

  Reznick stared out of t
he window as the deathly pallor of the Bronx sped by. He turned to Stamper. “Can I speak to Meyerstein, please?”

  “Look, Jon, the decision’s been made. Now is not the right time to speak to her, trust me.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  Stamper sighed, and eventually relented. “Reznick wants a word.” A brief pause. “I’ll pass him over.” He handed the cell to Reznick.

  Reznick got right to the point: “I think it’s too early to cut and run on this guy.”

  “There’s nothing on him, Jon. I want everyone back to DC. I’ve pulled the plug on Ford.”

  “I think you’re being hasty.”

  “Why are you getting so worked up about this guy?”

  “My gut instinct.”

  “That’s not a rationale for keeping the focus on Ford.”

  “Meyerstein, there’s something setting alarm bells ringing in my head. I don’t think we should let him out of our sight. And I don’t think electronic surveillance can cover all the bases.”

  “I’ve made my position clear, Jon.”

  “If you want your team back, then great, get them back. But I want to stay. I’ll do it on my own.”

  A long silence opened up between them. Eventually, Meyerstein spoke.

  “Jon, I don’t need this just now.” Her tone was icy.

  “No one needs to know. Just leave me behind—what do you say?”

  A long silence. “Put Stamper on.”

  Reznick handed the phone back to Stamper.

  “Yeah, Stamper here.” He nodded a few times as the glass towers of Manhattan appeared up ahead. “OK, you got it.” He ended the call and turned to face Reznick. “We’re gonna follow him into town. And we’ll drop you off at The Lowell. We’ve paid for the room up until noon tomorrow. I’ll speak to the manager and let him know that you’ll be staying until then.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that? Who the hell knows?”

  Eight

  The afternoon’s rowing under a blazing sun on Long Island Sound had left Adam Ford in a good place. He felt exhilarated, and even more focused. A calmness washed over him as he ate a delicious dinner with his friends and his godchildren, Amy and Alexander. Steaks, lobster, a glass or two of French wine—which he politely declined—and Chopin music in the background.

  As he listened to the gentle murmur of polite conversation, his thoughts turned to his trip to the woods. He figured they’d been testing him, to see if he could carry out the cold-blooded killing of a complete stranger. He thought it had all been rather easy.

  The men in the masks hadn’t fazed him. The technical skill to carry out the thousand-yard head shot was beyond most mortals, but not him. He could see that they indeed had it all figured out. And he liked the fact they’d made him prove how committed he was to the task at hand. How single-minded. How unyielding under psychological pressure.

  The sound of his friend yawning snapped him out of his reverie.

  Ford smiled. “Long day?”

  William Rhodes rolled his panda-like eyes, patted his small belly, and gave a weary shrug.

  “Same old, Adam. You know how it is.”

  “Indeed. I’ll be turning in early tonight, I’m afraid. I’m beat.”

  A short while later, he retired to the guestroom. He switched off the lamps and lay back on the bed, as warm air wafted in through the curtains. He’d learned to like William and Sandra and their two children. William had taken him under his wing, back when he was a resident, and had taught him how to be a great doctor. And William remained a useful contact. He was the embodiment of the New York medical establishment. He had influential friends. But Ford could only tolerate three, maybe four visits per year with the family.

  His thoughts shifted to what lay ahead.

  The more he thought about it, the more he wanted the day to arrive. He knew, however, that patience and the predetermined routine that had been laid out in meticulous detail by his handler were vital to ensure he got to his final destination. The whole operation had been concealed beneath layers of protection. It was quite brilliant.

  The priority was the mission.

  He would not fail.

  Ford thought of his father on his deathbed, eyes shining as he awaited his fate. He remembered feeling nothing, but feigning grief. Dad, I love you. I’ll always love you. And I will never fail you. Never. He’d felt it was the right thing to say.

  He remembered his Yale graduation as if it were yesterday: his father’s starched white shirt, and impeccable navy suit and matching tie, his inscrutable demeanor visible from the stage.

  The sound of a blaring horn outside interrupted his thoughts. He got up and—as he had done for the last eighteen months at this time of night—did sit-ups, push-ups, and squat thrusts, before showering in the en-suite bathroom. After brushing his teeth, he drank a glass of cool water.

  Wrapped in a huge fluffy towel, he lay down on the bed, carefully put in the earbuds of his iPod, and switched on his meditation exercises. As he listened to the soothing sounds of the sea, he let his mind wander. The events of the day flashed by.

  He felt himself begin to disassociate.

  Cleansing. Soothing. Cooling. Every ripple of water. Every wave crashing onto the shore.

  Then a voice, a reassuring voice in the background, calm and clear.

  When he woke, he sat bolt upright, struggling to remember where he was, iPod still playing. His iPhone was vibrating on the nightstand. It was 7:08am.

  Ford rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and picked up the phone. “Yeah.”

  “Morning. How are you today? Did you sleep well?”

  “Indeed. Very well.”

  “Remember, you’re playing a part. Never let your mask slip.”

  “I hear you.”

  “We’re getting close now. Real close to the day.”

  “The day can’t come soon enough.”

  “All in good time, my friend. Stay safe.”

  Nine

  Reznick yawned as the first pink glints of the new day reflected off the windows of the Upper East Side townhouse diagonally opposite, but there was still no sign of Ford.

  Reznick was hunkered down on the second floor of The Lowell. Stamper had arranged a change of room, so that Reznick could continue the surveillance operation on his own. But he was beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t have taken up Meyerstein’s offer to be assigned to watch over the Iranians instead.

  He went through to the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face, and popped a Dexedrine.

  He was alert. Ready for a new day.

  A knock at the door, and room service arrived with his order of strong black coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice, scrambled eggs, and rye toast. The sight and smells of the food made Reznick feel famished, and he ate it in what seemed like seconds.

  Just after 9 a.m., the black townhouse door opened and Ford stepped out with two smiling kids, presumably his surgeon friend’s children. The children carried soccer balls under their arms. Reznick watched as Ford bent down to tie the laces of his sneakers and did some stretching, before heading west, laughing and joking with the kids.

  “OK, doc, where we going today?” he said to himself.

  Was this going to be another runaround?

  Reznick headed downstairs to The Lowell’s lobby, and was greeted by a cheery “Morning, sir” from the day-shift concierge, who opened the door for him and then pulled him aside. “Sir, I need to inform you that your room is available to you for another forty-eight hours, if you wish.”

  “It is? Who told you that?”

  “I was told to pass on that message to you by the general manager. I believe that everything has been taken care of.”

  Reznick smiled. “Who took care of it?”

  “All I know is that it’s taken care of, sir.”

  It had to be Meyerstein. She was giving him more time—playing it cu
te. He admired the way she worked. He could only imagine the pressure she’d been under to find O’Grady.

  He donned his shades, not wishing to dwell on that thought for too long. He headed west along East 63rd Street, crossing Madison, until he reached Fifth Avenue. Turning to look across the street, he saw Ford and the kids a couple of blocks ahead. Reznick jaywalked across Fifth Avenue, and watched Ford escorting the kids into Central Park at East 60th Street. Then they disappeared into the crowds. Quickening his pace, he eventually caught sight of Ford once more. The doctor was walking with the kids by the pond—goofing around with them, occasionally picking them up and high-fiving them.

  Reznick slowed down as they headed along the path. Ford was clearly enjoying the kids’ company, as well as the morning sun, fresh air, and exercise. They crossed the stone Gapstow Bridge, which arched over the northernmost part of the pond, and stopped for a few seconds. Reznick kept his distance, though Ford was clearly lost in the moment, pointing out to the children the huge skyscrapers dominating the vista.

  Ford then led the kids to a wide grassy area and set them up for a game of soccer. Reznick sat down on a park bench that was out of their direct line of sight. For the next hour, he surreptitiously watched Ford kicking a ball about with the kids. Then he got up and walked toward an ice-cream vendor, and bought a cone. He stared across at the buildings towering over Fifth Avenue. His mind flashed to the Towers falling. He imagined his wife’s last moments. The images were seared into him.

  The sound of raucous laughter from a crowd of frat boys brought him back to the present. He glanced back at Ford, who was signaling to the kids to wind up the game. They quickly gathered everything up and headed off. He walked slowly in their direction, mindful to keep out of their front and peripheral vision. He followed them over 65th Street Transverse, past some huge trees, and across Sheep Meadow. Scores of people were on the lush grass—playing catch, lying in the sun, doing yoga.

  Reznick watched as Ford hugged the kids and hauled them toward the Loeb Boathouse. He stopped around a hundred yards or so away from the lake, sitting down on a bench, shielded from the sun by some huge oaks. They boated for an hour, Ford showing off his rowing skills as the sun sparkled on the water, then retreated inside the boathouse restaurant for lunch. Reznick began to realize he really was wasting his time. The guy was clearly very fond of his godchildren.