Hard Kill (Jon Reznick Thriller Series Book 2)

by J. B. Turner

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Nope. Apparently Ford saved this SEAL’s life.”

  “What?”

  “Dr. Adam Ford was Captain Adam Ford, assigned to Special Forces operations as a lead medic. But he was funded through college by the CIA.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “No, Martha. But there’s no record of it at all in official files. Incredibly high IQ—148. Fast-tracked. Took a shake-and-bake, month-long army course. Operated in a support capacity. But that’s not all. He’s a crack shot, a sniper, and super fit. Classic SEAL material.”

  Her mind was struggling to take it all in. “Slow down, are you saying—”

  “The guy I spoke to said his fitness levels were remarkable and he fit their profile. He didn’t shoot his mouth off. He blended in. Analytical thinker. Problem solver. Very value-oriented, patriotic—so much so that he put service above self. But he was as cold as they come.”

  “Ford is CIA?”

  “Yes, he is. The guy said that Ford was afforded great cover when he entered war zones as an NGO medic. But he was feeding back information all the time from field hospitals, contacts he established, enabling the CIA to build up a picture of things on the ground, without any fingerprints.”

  “Shit.”

  “There’s more. The man in charge of recruiting Ford was . . .”

  “Black.”

  “Got it in one. General Robert Black.”

  “Christ . . . how didn’t we know about this?”

  “Who the hell knows? One final thing. And this is where it gets really, really unsettling.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “Firstly, Ford was adopted by a childless couple in DC.”

  “Yeah, I think I read that. So?”

  “Just bear with me. His natural parents died when he was a baby. Car crash. He was adopted by an older couple in DC. They died when he was at college. His adopted mother was called Alice Ford. His adopted father was Peter Ford.”

  “Roy, I read that. So?”

  “We started digging further back. There were incomplete records, and that’s what’s taken us so long. It’s been a nightmare trying to piece it together. But we’ve got it, and we’ve connected the dots. It hasn’t been easy, let me tell you. Do you know who Peter Ford’s second cousin was?”

  “Roy, you wanna quit playing games and tell me?”

  “The second cousin was a woman named . . . Esther Beveridge.”

  “And?”

  “When she married, she became Esther Black.”

  Meyerstein’s blood ran cold. “The general’s wife.”

  “We’ve triple- and quadruple-checked this, and gone over and cross-checked the records, both paper and computer—incomplete records held by the Children’s Bureau and numerous other agencies. Robert Black saw the boy had a high IQ. But he also saw the kid was manipulative, superficial, charming, and unable to relate to others. And he referred him to a CIA psychologist. The boy was deemed to be a highly intelligent psychopath. But this has all been hidden away, out of sight.

  “The records show that the boy was a bed-wetter until well into his teens and was often setting off fires in the community where they lived. Esther Black asked her husband to see if he could help with the boy. And it was from there the connection between Black and Ford was formed, unseen all these years.”

  Meyerstein was struggling to take it all in. “You think Ford’s primed to carry out an attack?”

  “He’s the one. I’m sure of it.”

  Forty-One

  Half an hour later, Reznick’s mood was darkening. He was sat buckled up in the back of a speeding SUV, as he and four Feds headed across the 59th Street Bridge into Manhattan. Through the steel struts and beams, he saw the Midtown skyline, the smokestacks, the Empire State, the city lights.

  Gritz was sitting in the passenger seat. He turned and looked at Reznick. “How the fuck did we allow this to happen? He might still be in Queens, for all we know.”

  Reznick said nothing, not wanting to engage in conversation. His mind was still racing, thinking about the information contained within Stamper’s report on Black.

  Gritz scanned his iPad to read the latest update. He shook his head. “We don’t even know if he’s in Manhattan.”

  Reznick’s nerves were twitching. “That’s where he’ll be headed. Manhattan is the epicenter of all things New York. To the rest of the world, Manhattan is New York.”

  “This false flag is bullshit. Are we seriously to believe that Black would have authorized such actions? Are you kidding me? This is goddamn treason.”

  “You need to read Roy Stamper’s report. It’s all there about Black. He’s CIA. He was responsible for drawing up a false flag plan based on Operation Northwoods, and Ford is the triggerman for this operation.”

  “He’s a goddamn doctor.”

  “Yeah, a CIA doctor and a trained sniper.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “That’s the whole point. You need to keep up, Gritz.”

  Gritz shook his head. “The whole thing is a crock of shit.”

  “It makes sense in their world. The end justifies the means. Doesn’t matter who gets hurt.”

  “O’Grady, Froch, Chisholm. How do they fit into this?”

  “It’s all about shutting down those who pose a threat to the operation. The attempt on Meyerstein’s life. And let’s not forget Caroline Lieber is still missing. Almost certainly dead.”

  Gritz shook his head. “I’ve been with the FBI for the best part of twenty years, and I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Just then, Gritz’s cell rang. He answered on the first ring. He nodded. “Get this information out to the other teams now. I want the remaining teams in Queens to head into Manhattan.” He ended the call. “Ford popped into the East 81st Street hostel ten minutes ago, and CCTV images show him leaving three minutes ago, backpack still slung over his shoulder. Step on it, Jimmy.”

  Reznick said, “We staked him out there before.”

  Gritz screwed up his face. “What?”

  “Yeah, we staked him out. He also worked a homeless shelter in the East Village, and a soup kitchen.”

  “So why the hell is he going back there now?”

  Reznick stared out of the window. Yellow cabs crawling by, neon-lit delis, and pedestrians and tourists shuffling around on the sidewalks. Skyscrapers nearly blocking out the inky-black sky. “I think we’re reaching the endgame.”

  “Tonight? No one is saying anything is going to go down tonight.”

  “I’m saying it.”

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “It’s tonight.”

  “Let’s focus on what we do know. He’s on the move. He’s on foot. Let’s assume he’s within twenty blocks of the hostel by the time we arrive.”

  Reznick’s mind was racing. “Why is he returning to that hostel? Unless . . . unless he’s returning for a pickup.”

  “A pickup? Of what?”

  “Final instructions? A weapons stash, perhaps? The hostel must have cameras—”

  Gritz’s phone rang again, and he held up his hand as if to silence Reznick. “You’re in the hostel? Good, we need to know where he went, who he talked with, and if he picked up anything. You know the drill. ETA’s maybe three minutes for us.” He ended the call. “FBI SWAT is all over it.”

  “First thought that comes to mind is: what crowded, enclosed areas are within walking distance?” Reznick said.

  “Hundreds. Bars, restaurants, outdoor cafés. And then there’s Central Park. Fuck.”

  “Are there any VIP functions around this area tonight?”

  “Are you kidding? There are functions and openings and new bars and restaurants and A-listers all over the Upper East Side, three hundred and sixty-five nights a year.”

  “OK, that narrows it down.”

  “Jon, we’re working on an assessment—which is really an assumption—that Ford is going to carry out an attack. W
e just don’t know that.”

  “It’s gonna be around here. Very close.”

  “We’re flooding the place. We’re combing every street on the Upper East Side.”

  “What if he goes to ground?”

  “Where?”

  “What about the Lenox Hill doctor he stayed with? He’s within the radius.”

  “Outer edges. But I can’t see him heading back there.”

  “Worth getting a team there, just in case.”

  “Jon, we haven’t got enough information to storm in there . . . It doesn’t work like that.”

  “So how does it work?”

  “Well, you need legal authorization for a search.”

  “Then get it. Ford is the number one suspect in the city, he’s a terrorist risk, he’s on the loose, and he’s stayed there before. You want me to go on?”

  Gritz flushed red as he picked up his cell and made a call. “I want the go-ahead to get into the townhouse of William Rhodes, medical director of Lenox Hill Hospital. Lives on East 63rd Street.” He nodded. “Let me know when it comes through.” He turned to face Reznick. “Would he be dumb enough to go there?”

  A few minutes later, a member of the FBI SWAT team at the hostel called to say Ford had arrived earlier to say he had to pick up some belongings from a locker, then he’d left in a hurry with a backpack. But after a SWAT search of the hostel, they found ceiling tiles in a bathroom had been removed.

  Gritz shook his head. “What the fuck?”

  Reznick’s pulse quickened. “He’s picked up his cache. He’s going for his target.”

  Gritz’s cell rang. “Yup.” He nodded and began to frown. “Yeah, but I thought he was at The Plaza tonight? So what changed? We have him as staying at the goddamn Plaza.” He let out a long sigh. “OK, OK, relax, I hear you. That’s real close to us. But the hotel will be on lockdown. Staff vetted. Let me know if you need us.” He ended the call.

  “Who were you talking about?”

  Gritz said nothing for a few moments.

  “Gritz, talk to me. Who were you talking about?”

  Gritz cleared his throat. “The President and his family are staying two blocks from here tonight. The Surrey. Secret Service has the hotel secured. It’s on lockdown.”

  Reznick’s mind was racing. “What was all that about The Plaza?”

  “Secret Service is a law unto itself. Short-notice change from The Plaza to The Surrey. No questions asked.”

  Reznick ran his hand through his hair, matted in sweat. His mind flashed back to Ford taking photographs in the park. “Shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “When I was tailing Ford, he took pictures of The Plaza. I think he was intelligence gathering. Perhaps checking the line of sight. What if it’s the President who’s the target? And Ford is here now to take out the President at The Surrey?”

  Gritz went quiet for a few moments before he looked at his watch. “Two blocks from here.”

  “Gritz, listen to me. This shit is gonna go down. And it’s gonna go down tonight at The Surrey. So what exactly is on his schedule tonight at The Surrey?”

  “Only one thing. A private meeting with a handpicked group of 9/11 families, survivors, and first responders. There will be no press or media of any sort. No advance notice. A White House photographer will take some pictures and footage, which will be released to the media tomorrow morning. Trust me, the whole street will be shut off so no one can get near when he arrives or leaves. There is no chance of anyone, let alone Ford, getting close to him.”

  “Let’s assume that’s correct. Then it just leaves one option, doesn’t it?”

  “Sniper?”

  Reznick nodded.

  “This is Manhattan. Towers and skyscrapers everywhere.”

  “Let’s get over there, see for ourselves.”

  “Reznick, it’ll be crawling with Secret Service. They don’t like people stepping on their toes.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s just too bad.”

  Forty-Two

  Reznick and Gritz were reluctantly allowed through the cordon on Madison, and stood outside The Surrey on East 76th Street. Secret Service guys in dark suits were checking through last-minute schedules. Meyerstein was already there, talking to the head of operations.

  They walked over to her as she ended the conversation. “We need to talk.”

  The Secret Service guy took that as his cue and moved away to join the rest of his team.

  “Goddamn,” Meyerstein said.

  “What is it?”

  “FBI’s computer team is saying that for ninety seconds, a thirty-five-yard radius of surveillance cameras on the Upper East Side went down. It’s like a corridor from 81st Street.”

  Reznick shook his head. “Jamming. Shit, this is what I was worried about. Does the Secret Service know about this?”

  “They do now. You wanna know where they’ve pinpointed as the fulcrum of the last signal?”

  Reznick turned and looked toward Madison Avenue. Towering over the intersection was a monolithic building with an art gallery at street level. “The Carlyle?”

  Meyerstein nodded.

  “You see what I see?”

  “Line of sight?” she said.

  “Precisely.”

  “Yeah, but that would be a red flag. Secret Service would spot anything moving within a block of here. They’ve got people on roofs and inside that very building. Sniper teams watching everything. Besides, the place will have been swept room by room.”

  “If it were me, that would be my top choice.”

  Meyerstein turned again and looked across at the windows of The Carlyle.

  Gritz intervened. “Reznick . . . the hotel’s been swept.”

  Reznick stared up at the huge windows looking down on one of the busiest intersections on the Upper East Side, and the AC units outside each room. “When people tell me a building has been swept, you know what I think?”

  Meyerstein looked at him as Gritz shrugged.

  “You can never be certain. And that means you check again. I say we go in.”

  Meyerstein cocked her head, and they strode across Madison and along East 77th. A black canopy showed the entrance to the apartment complex.

  “Carlyle House. Apartment complex adjacent to the hotel, but there’s access between them,” said Meyerstein.

  Reznick shook his head. “No Secret Service presence. Nothing.”

  Gritz’s gaze wandered around the scene. “That ain’t good.”

  “Jon, I’m giving you authorization to get in there,” Meyerstein said. “So how do we work this? Do we evacuate first?”

  Reznick felt the adrenaline begin to pump around his body. “No. Low-key, room to room. I know this stuff.”

  “What about SWAT?”

  “Definitely not. That’s not what you need in these circumstances. We don’t want to alert him that we’re in the apartment complex or hotel.”

  Meyerstein said nothing.

  “Let’s start with hotel rooms and residences with line of sight to The Surrey.”

  Gritz began to shake his head. “This is nuts. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. None of this makes sense. Besides, you need Secret Service authorization.”

  Meyerstein stared at him, stone-faced, a haunted look in her eyes. “Leave that to me.”

  She turned to Reznick. “So, what are you waiting for? You’re on.”

  Reznick turned and headed for the side entrance.

  Forty-Three

  Meyerstein pulled out her cell and found the secure direct office number of FBI Director Bill O’Donoghue. He picked up after the third ring.

  “Martha, what the hell is going on? How did we let Ford slip? The last update I saw was that Ford was watching goddamn tennis. I’ve just gotten out of a meeting, and I hear Ford has dropped off our radar and General Black has shot himself.”

  “I know. It’s a mess,” she said. “Sir, we’ve accessed the building adjacent to the Carlyle Hotel. But I need Secret Service autho
rization to get full access.”

  “But the Secret Service . . .”

  Meyerstein updated him on the surveillance cameras going down around The Carlyle. “Bottom line? I don’t believe the area is secure.”

  O’Donoghue let out a long sigh. “We lost Ford. And now you’re saying you don’t trust the Secret Service to secure an area?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sirens blared in the distance. She raised her voice. “Sir, the analysis my team has is that a false flag operation is underway. CIA fingerprints.”

  “The Secret Service leads on this, Martha, you know that. They don’t like people encroaching on their turf.”

  “I don’t doubt that, sir. But I’m requesting that you use your influence. We need to get in there and do a fuller sweep. I need you to cover for me, sir.”

  O’Donoghue said nothing, as if contemplating his options.

  “Sir, I need you to make this happen. Jon Reznick is already in. But I need authorization for a full sweep. We’re running out of time.”

  A long pause. “I’ve heard enough. Leave this to me.”

  Five minutes later, O’Donoghue was back on the line.

  Meyerstein looked across Madison and saw the throng of Secret Service men, police manning the cordon tape. Her gaze was drawn to a black canopy—almost certainly bulletproof—being pulled out, securing the entrance to The Surrey.

  “Any news?”

  “Martha, I’ve just spoken to Director Steel. I explained our concerns in depth . . .”

  “And?”

  “He has agreed that the FBI can lead on a fresh sweep of the whole hotel, just as soon as the President is safely inside his hotel.”

  “But, sir . . .”

  “That’s the best I can do, Martha.”

  Forty-Four

  Reznick’s heart was racing as he swiped the master room-card he’d stole from the concierge and cracked the door. Suite 3103. Thirty-first floor. No sign of life.

  He shut the door and pulled a penlight from his back pocket. He pointed it around the room. It was a plush tower suite with views of Manhattan through the huge windows. The penlight strafed the room. Grand piano in the corner. Monogrammed cushions with the letter C in a fancy typeface. He crouched down and pressed his ear to the carpeted floor. Muffled chatter in a downstairs room.