Hard Kill (Jon Reznick Thriller Series Book 2)

by J. B. Turner

  “Where’s he going to be sitting?” Reznick asked.

  “We’re working on that.”

  Reznick pulled on a white Nike baseball cap. He’d been teamed up with a young FBI agent, Tom Blake—a muscular, preppy-looking kid. “OK, son, let’s do this.”

  “You got it,” the Blake said.

  They disappeared into the crowds headed for the stadium, the smell of sweat and cigarettes mixing with the sound of laughter and excited chatter. A few minutes later, they were in a huge line at the South Gate, directly in front of the Unisphere. Fifteen minutes later, they were ushered inside the stadium by the security director, and into a crammed concourse.

  Reznick and the kid headed up an escalator. His earpiece buzzed into life. “Jon, Ford has just gone through the gates. He’s headed for the expensive courtside seats, where you’ll be sitting.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “You’ll be situated behind the baseline on the south side. You’ll be handed a courtside ticket from an usher. He’s a Fed, Special Agent David Jackson. Big guy, can’t miss him.”

  “OK, got that,” he said as they made their way through the concourse as the crowds headed toward their seats for the match.

  The Arthur Ashe stadium towered high, the promenade seats mostly empty. But in his area it was a lot busier.

  A huge usher stepped forward. “Tickets, please,” he said, slipping the tickets into their hands. He flashed them a smile. “Enjoy the game, guys.”

  They walked toward their assigned seats. The kid sat down about ten yards away, and Reznick headed farther down the steps to his row. He squeezed past a chicly dressed woman and her impeccably attired partner, who was wearing a sky-blue suit, speaking into a phone. Reznick sat down on his seat at the end of the row, eight seats from the front.

  “Jon,” Gritz said into his earpiece. “Three down from you. You got a fix?”

  Reznick scanned the row and saw Ford wearing brown tortoiseshell sunglasses, a US Open Panama hat, white polo shirt, and khakis, talking into his cell phone.

  “Have we got that number?”

  “Must be using a new, untraceable phone. Fuck!” Gritz sighed down the line. “The section to your right. Can you see Special Agent Blake?”

  Reznick turned around and saw Blake, pretending to read the New York Times. “Got him.”

  “OK, take it in turns. If Ford gets up, you follow him. Then alternate that with Blake. We’ve got plenty of cover beside the restrooms, and agents working in the burger vans and even the Heineken stands.”

  “Nice.”

  Gritz gave a throaty laugh. “We’re keeping a nice overview of the area, Jon, and I’m watching you on a monitor. We’re all set up.”

  Roars from the restless, noisy crowd. “Keep me posted.”

  The crowd whooped and hollered and high-fived as points were scored, and eventually sat down as the players took a two-minute break.

  Reznick turned around and stole another glance at Blake. Then he looked over at Ford and saw he was still on the phone. It had been ten minutes.

  The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he felt. It was a risky strategy to allow Ford free rein. But as he sat in the middle of this stadium in New York, the anniversary of 9/11 a couple of days away, he did see the logic of letting the operation continue.

  The sun had dipped behind the stands. His shirt was sticking to his back. He drank some cold water from a bottle. It felt good. He poured some down his neck, which felt great.

  Ford eventually ended his call and put the phone into his pants pocket. He lifted a pair of binoculars and focused on the action for a minute or two, despite having no need for them as he was sitting so close. Reznick watched as Ford pointed the binoculars higher, toward the nosebleed seats opposite.

  His earpiece buzzed into life. “You see what he’s doing, Jon?”

  “Yup.”

  “You see the game fine?”

  “Great line of sight. Perfect view of both players. Unless you’re nearly blind, no need for binoculars. No one around here has them. Anything or anyone of note in that area?”

  “It’s nearly empty.” Reznick stood up as a fat guy squeezed past. “Unless he’s just curious.”

  The earpiece went quiet as the crowd cheered another point.

  Reznick caught sight of a roaming Heineken vendor with a portable keg in a backpack, dispensing beers.

  His earpiece crackled into life again. “Don’t even think about it, guys,” Gritz said. “Might be tempting. But let’s focus.”

  Reznick smiled as more shouts, clapping, and stamping announced a point won. The smell of hot dogs and fries wafted over from a couple of huge kids sitting with their plump mother, who was sporting a diamond-encrusted watch. The place was like a zoo.

  Half an hour later, Ford got up from his seat and headed up the stairs toward an exit.

  “Blake, you take this,” Gritz said.

  Blake waited a couple of moments before he headed out to the concourse.

  Gritz’s voice. “Yeah, we got him.” A long pause. “Blake’s on his tail. He’s on the escalators and is now entering the Aces restaurant on the club level, between gates three and four.”

  Over the next thirty minutes, as Reznick sat amid the hubbub, he got updates from Blake and Gritz on Ford.

  The doctor dined alone. He drank chilled sparkling water with a slice of lemon, ate some sushi, and then had some strawberry frozen yogurt. He paid the bill with an American Express card.

  A full forty-five minutes after Ford had left, he returned to his seat. He was immediately back on the phone.

  Reznick saw one of the players fluff a shot, and groan and scream out loud. He felt like doing the same.

  The noise levels cranked up a notch, the floodlights on and the action on the court hotting up. The stadium was now in shadow, but the humidity was high.

  Reznick swigged some more water as the interminable match dragged on.

  The voice of Gritz in his earpiece. “Jon, stretch your legs for ten minutes. Blake’s got it covered.”

  “I’m looking at the back of the guy’s head. Where are you?”

  “Suite one ten, northeast of where you are, but behind courtside seats. Watching you and Blake right now. You wanna move?”

  “Yup. I can’t see shit.”

  “Get yourself freshened up, and one of my guys, Special Agent Curtis Montgomery, will wait for you outside the bathroom and bring you here.”

  “OK, I’ll see him in a few minutes. Get someone to cover my spot.”

  “Leave it to me, Jon.”

  Reznick went to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. He bought himself a large Coke from a concession stand and guzzled it down. The caffeine fix and sugar rush felt good. More alert. Then he spotted Montgomery, who cocked his head, and they headed to the suite where Gritz had set up base.

  A quick knock and they went in.

  Gritz was standing at the far end of the suite, staring through binoculars, as was his sidekick. He turned around.

  “Any movement?” Reznick said.

  Gritz offered his binoculars. “Take a look for yourself.”

  Reznick sat down and scanned the crowds where he’d been sitting. He brought the spectators into focus.

  “You got it?”

  A moment later, Reznick got a fix on Ford. “Yup.” He focused on Ford’s face for a few moments. “What the hell you up to?”

  The game seemed to go on forever. The crowd got louder. More boisterous. The place was jammed.

  Ford got up and climbed the steps to the exit, disappearing from sight.

  Reznick’s throat felt parched, and he swigged some water from a bottle. “Where’s he going?”

  A moment later, the voice of Montgomery in his ear. “We’re on it. He’s in the bathroom again. I got him.”

  Ten minutes later, Ford was back in his seat. Montgomery said, “OK, guys, probably nothing, but Ford just put in some contact lenses in the bathroom. This doesn’t tal
ly with his medical file. Twenty-twenty vision, by all accounts.”

  “Interesting,” Reznick said.

  Montgomery said, “We also didn’t see him take any old lenses out, although this might point to him wearing prescription sunglasses.”

  Reznick looked at Gritz, who was shrugging. “OK, copy that.”

  “That’s an anomaly,” Gritz said.

  Reznick watched as Ford slid his shades into his shirt pocket. “Maybe.”

  Half an hour later, Ford got up from his seat again and headed up the stairs to the nearest exit.

  Gritz said, “He’s on the move, people. Guy’s got ants in his pants. Montgomery, you’re on this.”

  Montgomery’s voice. “Got him.” A long pause. “He’s picking up a coffee. Heading back to his seat.”

  A few minutes later, Ford returned and sat down. He blew on the coffee and inspected the side of the cup.

  Reznick stared through the binoculars, focusing on the cup. “White Styrofoam cup. Why is he still inspecting it?”

  Reznick watched as Ford opened his eyes wide for a few moments, as if his lenses were hurting. Maybe a bit of grit or dirt in his eye. But then again, maybe it wasn’t grit. What if he wasn’t used to wearing lenses?

  He focused in on Ford’s face with the powerful binoculars. Clean-shaven skin, glistening with sweat, chiseled jaw and steely gaze. “Green eyes.”

  “What?” Gritz said.

  “He doesn’t have green eyes.”

  “You sure?” Gritz punched in some keys on a laptop and pulled up the medical records. “Yep, color of his eyes is blue.”

  Reznick looked through the glasses for the umpteenth time. “I’m looking just now and see hazel-green eyes. You tell me what you see.”

  A pause. “What the fuck? Green eyes. Who the hell are you, Adam Ford?”

  Reznick sensed something else was afoot. “People’s eyes don’t change color.”

  “Unless he’s wearing colored lenses.”

  “The question is, why? Why the change in eye color?”

  “Jon, I’m not a fucking ophthalmologist.”

  “Neither am I. Run it by your analysts. Put it into the system.”

  Gritz nodded, and relayed the change of eye color to his team.

  Reznick’s mind flashed to the image of Ford inspecting the foam cup. “Something’s going down.”

  Gritz wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “What?”

  “I think Ford’s just been given a hidden message, written on the cup.”

  Thirty-Six

  Ford stared again at the words scrawled in ultraviolet, pale-blue writing, invisible to the naked eye but clear as day through the specially tinted contact lenses. He could barely hear the noise of the crowd as he reread the short message to ensure he wasn’t getting it wrong. The message said simply: Treat yourself to a hot dog and Coke. Then wait. Then proceed to East 81st Street hostel . . . this is your base camp.

  His heart began to pound hard as his mind raced. The adrenaline was flowing, his true intentions hidden from all in sight.

  He looked around and his heart sank. The American public in all their gory glory, unaware of the man sitting among them. His true intentions. Some waddling down the steep concrete stairs, carrying mountains of junk food and watching a sport they didn’t understand or play. Pampered, morbidly obese, chugging back beer, wine, burgers, and whatever shit they could stuff down their throats.

  The Land of the Free of his childhood had become the Land of the Living Dead. A nation of fuckwits, halfwits, and dimwits. People who worked their guts out so they could consume junk food and die premature, horrible deaths. A nation that had long ago given up the ghost.

  He was not one of them. He hadn’t given up the ghost. He was part of a new breed.

  Ford had his orders. This was the moment he had waited for.

  He took in a deep breath, dropped the cup onto the ground, and kicked it away from his seat amid the rest of the trash lying around his feet.

  Ford clapped a winner down the line and jumped to his feet alongside everyone else. He felt like an automaton. A robot. Preprogrammed. He was following orders—to the letter.

  He left his seat and bought a hot dog smothered in onions and mustard, and a small Coke from a vendor. Just like they wanted him to. He knew they wanted him to blend in. It was mission-critical. They knew he despised junk food. But that was a small price to pay.

  His heightened metabolism would burn off the calories almost as soon as they were ingested. He finished the hot dog, wiped his mouth clean with the napkin, and washed it down with the sugary drink. He chucked the paper and cup in a trash can at the end of the row.

  Ford sat down again and wondered if this was what it was like to be high.

  His thoughts turned to the next step. The carefully planned exit from the stadium. Then his journey to the base camp.

  He realized he was on the verge of greatness. But as he’d been reminded time and time again, patience and a clear mind were all that mattered.

  He knew how it would all end. He could almost see it play out in his mind’s eye.

  Ford thought back to the sniper shot that had killed the man called O’Grady. The man who had jeopardized the mission, they said. He remembered the struggle with the ropes. But he also remembered the surge of excitement he’d felt. They had set him a challenge. And it had been carried out. Perfectly.

  Ford’s gaze wandered around the crowd under the full glare of the floodlights. One of America’s great sporting spectacles. Little did they know how tonight would end in the smartest part of Manhattan.

  Thirty-Seven

  In a secure conference room in the FBI’s New York field office in Lower Manhattan, Martha Meyerstein was standing in front of a huge screen beaming back real-time footage of Ford at Flushing Meadows. Watching with her were half a dozen strategic intelligence analysts assigned to the special access program, trying to establish what threat lay over the horizon.

  She felt her mind wandering ever so slightly, thoughts flashing back to the attack on her. The woman’s face. She still felt fragile. Her vision was blurring occasionally, but she didn’t want to alarm those around her. She wished Sam Chisholm and Roy Stamper were with her. She always found it useful to listen to theories and ideas from those she trusted closely, to get a full appraisal of any given situation.

  What she wouldn’t give for them to be here now.

  But Chisholm was convinced he had a lead and had left to meet with a “high-level source,” as he called it, near Battery Park. She hoped he wasn’t on a wild goose chase.

  Meanwhile, Roy Stamper was working out of Liberty Crossing at McLean, chasing down leads on Ford.

  Her gaze fixed on the video from Flushing Meadows. Ford was sipping a Coke, clapping occasionally, looking slightly distracted.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, guys. Has a message been passed to him?” She sighed. “Maybe. But why such an elaborate setup just to pass on a message?”

  A few minutes later, Meyerstein hooked up for a videoconference with Lieutenant General Black and other senior members of the special access program team back in McLean, as she prepared to give them an update.

  Black said, “Martha, we’re watching events in real time, too. We’re in touch with the White House almost continuously, and we still don’t seem to have this nailed down.”

  Meyerstein felt her blood pressure hike up a notch and her cheeks flush. “General Black, the strategic analysis is unequivocal. There appear to be elements in place for a possible attack, no question. We don’t know where and by who, but we are of the view Ford is involved, and we need to know who he’s communicating with. We have surveillance in place. We’re doing everything we can.”

  “And yet, two days before the nine eleven anniversary, we are still no further forward in establishing what network is in place, if any, and who is involved and what the target is. Frankly, it beggars belief. Is this going to be a repeat of the Boston bombings?”

&nb
sp; “Sir, I don’t think we can wait any longer. I say we bring Ford in right now. That’s also the view of Sam Chisholm. I think it is important to—”

  Black slammed the palm of his hand down hard on the table. Papers scattered everywhere. “May I remind you that—”

  A national security advisor put up his hand. “Sorry to butt in, General, but from what we know, and the revelation of this picture of Ford in Chechnya—”

  “We don’t know how authentic that is. Christ, it came via the Russian security services. Are we really to believe what those people say?”

  “General, I know Russia very well. I was stationed there for the best part of a decade. I know how they think and operate. And I must now concur with Assistant Director Meyerstein and Sam Chisholm. We need to bring this guy in, now. We can’t afford any fuck-ups. It might be tenuous, but we cannot take the slightest risk with national security.”

  “What about the network? How are we going to find out who’s involved?”

  Meyerstein spoke up. “General, I appreciate your candor, and your rationale can’t be faulted, but this is a fast-moving situation and we all believe this is a real and credible threat.”

  Black’s face darkened.

  She continued, “Sir, with respect, I would ask that we apprehend Ford right this instant.”

  Black stared straight at her from the screen before looking at those around the table in McLean.

  “We need to be sure. Besides, what we don’t want to do is create a panic or alert others that he’s being taken in. Remember this match is being shown live, around the world.” He let out a long sigh. “So, how about we apprehend him when he leaves.”

  “But, sir, that could be hours. As long as he remains in place, there’s going to be uncertainty. Far better to just get him out of there right now.”

  “As I said, apprehend him when he leaves and the stadium is thinned out. Am I making myself clear?”

  The screen went black.

  Meyerstein felt her anger mount. She wanted to move in on Ford now.

  She had begun to pace the floor of the conference room when the phone on the oval table rang. The caller ID showed it was Sam Chisholm.