by J. B. Turner
Meyerstein sighed. Tears were welling up in her eyes, but she managed to maintain her composure. “We lost some . . . We lost some good men along the way.”
Reznick had never seen her like that before. “It would have been a helluva lot more if you hadn’t had faith in me. The same way you did when you made the right call in Key West, remember that?”
Meyerstein dabbed at her eyes. He could see how empty she was. He knew that empty feeling better than anyone. Despite taking down the bad guys, the crushing loss of the good men whose families would have to live without them was too much to bear.
When Reznick got back to the command center, there were a few pats on the back and “Good work, big guy” from some of the tech guys. But the overriding mood among the Feds was down.
Reznick looked across at the monitors, most showing the upper floors of The Carlyle where he’d just been. “Who’s on the top floors right now?”
Meyerstein sat down beside him. “Gritz and his guys have got it covered. Forensics, too. Jon, I think you might just have saved the President’s life.”
“Where is he now?”
“Secret Service are handling things. He’s just been discreetly taken inside. No one is any the wiser. At least for now.”
“What about the media?”
“What about them?”
“They must have got wind of something with all the SWAT guys around?”
“There’s a media blackout. So that will work in our favor.”
“Or the people behind this . . . maybe it will work in their favor, too.”
Meyerstein gave a wry smile. “Indeed.”
“So, where they taking him?”
“Military facility. He’ll be flown to Andrews Air Force Base.”
Reznick nodded.
“Roy Stamper is monitoring—”
Her cell rang, interrupting her, and she rolled her eyes. “Never a goddamn break.”
She pressed the green button to receive the call. “Yeah, Meyerstein.” She frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Reznick looked her way.
“SWAT has him. Andy’s in charge, right?” A long silence. She closed her eyes for a moment. “That doesn’t make any kind of sense, Roy. I watched them go in myself. Shit! I’m going to switch to radio.” She ended the call, and one of the techs wearing headphones handed her a two-way radio. “Talk to me, Roy.”
The voice of Roy Stamper, working from the special access program’s offices in McLean, could be heard. “Martha, the SWAT guys were diverted to Midtown with authorized FBI codes.”
Meyerstein stepped out of the command center and paced up and down the sidewalk, sirens in the distance. Unmasked SWAT guys were milling about looking wired. She had the radio pressed tight to her ear when Reznick joined her. He could see and hear something was wrong. “I’m standing right beside them. So, who’s got him?”
Stamper said, “They took him away in a dark blue SUV.”
Reznick interrupted, feeling his anger rise. “There’s been a switch, hasn’t there?”
Meyerstein stared at him and nodded. “Roy, which direction?”
“I’m pulling up the footage. OK, they’re heading down East 76th Street.”
Meyerstein ended the radio link and looked at Reznick. “You’re right, there’s been a switch. We need to track them down before this crew disappears with Ford.”
She turned to the SWAT guys near her. “I need four of you to go with Reznick.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Reznick said.
He ran out onto the street and saw a passing motorcyclist slow down at the lights. He pulled his gun and jumped in front of the guy, who braked hard.
The guy flicked up his visor. “What the fuck?” he screamed.
Reznick hauled the poor guy off the Ducati, climbed on, and adjusted his earpiece before giving the engine a few revs and speeding away.
Stamper’s voice on his earpiece said, “Reznick, got a sighting of vehicle. Clarification, it is in fact a black Nissan SUV and is heading down Park Avenue.”
Reznick’s body was flowing with adrenaline as he began the pursuit through the Manhattan night. He hung a right and headed down Park Avenue, weaving in and out of the traffic, past red lights, narrowly avoiding being flattened by a couple of trucks. The smell of car fumes and the sound of blaring horns, and the sight of neon lights as he took a left.
“Jon, we’re tracking your signal.” He sped past a Capital One Bank on his right.
“Where the hell are they?” he shouted.
“Jon, you’re heading down East 59th Street. We think they might be heading back to Queens.”
“Copy that.”
Reznick caught sight of the car as it sped toward the lower level of the Queensboro Bridge. “Fifty yards behind! I got this.”
The getaway car was doing eighty at least, the other drivers pulling over before they were rammed.
“They’re on a rampage!” Reznick shouted. “We need support.”
The sound of a chopper approaching above the bridge.
Reznick revved hard and raced across the bridge, the East River below.
“NYPD is on this, too, Reznick. Heading onto Queens Boulevard. Ease up.”
Were they serious? Ease up?
Bullshit.
Reznick kept his head down as they headed deeper into Queens. Speeding down the Long Island Expressway at ninety plus, keeping the SUV in his sights. The wind buffeting his face and body, he held on tight as the high-powered bike threatened to send him crashing off the road.
He accelerated and glimpsed Ford’s face silhouetted in the back seat, two huge guys on either side of him.
Reznick reached for his gun with his left hand as he steered the bike with his right. Suddenly, a rear passenger window came down and a handgun appeared.
He braked hard and the SUV tore ahead of him, leaving him in its wake.
“You OK, Reznick?” Stamper shouted.
“I’m on it.”
Reznick felt the endorphins kick in. He screwed up his eyes as he went through the gears. He was catching up with them again as he saw a sign for Grand Central Parkway.
Then the Nissan took a hard right, and a Buick cut in front of him. The bike screeched to a near halt as the SUV with Ford disappeared into the distance.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Reznick shouted at the wide-eyed driver of the Buick as he sped away, tires screeching as the rubber tried to get traction.
The lights of the chopper were on the SUV. Reznick’s mind was racing. Where were they headed?
The rushing wind was nearly taking his breath away. There was grit in his eyes.
“Goddamn!”
He saw a sign for JFK. Farther and farther away from Manhattan, the lights of the chopper guiding him.
Suddenly, from the getaway car up ahead, the sound of a rifle shot. Above him, the helicopter veered out of control.
Reznick felt his focus sharpen, blocking out everything that wasn’t in his sights. He was in the zone again.
It wasn’t long before he was on the Van Wyck Expressway heading south. He spotted the black Nissan veering wildly across the road. “He’s in my sights again,” he said. “I’m gaining.”
“Jon, the NYPD and the FBI aren’t far behind.”
Reznick couldn’t see shit, apart from the Nissan and the glare of oncoming headlights. It was a bleak stretch of road. He felt his stomach knotting tight.
“Jon, you’re now on the Nassau Expressway and you’re heading for Rockaway Boulevard.”
Up ahead, Reznick could see the Nissan weaving around the slower cars as if on a slalom course.
Reznick checked his speedometer, which was showing 108 miles per hour. “They’re doing a hundred and ten, easy!” he shouted, unable to know if his voice would be heard in the wind.
“We hear you, Jon. Be careful. I repeat, be careful. This is a dangerous stretch of road. Brookville Boulevard. It’s known as Snake Road. Hang back if need be.”
Reznick smelled salt water on his face as he stormed onto Rockaway Boulevard. He was starting to make a mental calculation. He was now within yards of the Nissan, which was careening wildly around a narrow bend, and then another. He was aware they were close to water. The salt marshes.
Suddenly, the barrel of a rifle was smashed through the rear window of the Nissan and pointed straight at him. He swerved as a shot rang out. The bullet ricocheted off the chrome on the bike.
It had to be now.
He pulled out his gun, and with his right hand controlled the bike at full speed. A quick switch to his firing hand. He took aim and fired three shots at the Nissan’s left rear tire. The tire exploded, sparks flying as the rubber was chewed up at high speed.
He crouched down low over the bike’s gas tank, fearing another bullet.
The Nissan flipped violently through the air and off the road, disappearing into the darkness and crashing into the water.
Reznick screeched to a halt and ditched the bike. He sprinted across the road toward the water, gun in hand. The smell of gasoline wafted across the dark salt marshes. The light from the moon showed that the car was maybe thirty yards out, on its side and nearly totally submerged. He waded into the dark water, chest deep. The car was still maybe ten yards away from him.
A vehicle pulled up behind him and three Feds ran toward him.
“They’re in the water!”
A split second later, he heard police sirens and saw the lights from the chopper swooping in low.
He turned. “They’re all in the car. No one got out. We need to get them out.”
The cop waded in and pulled Reznick back to shore. “Stay back, sir.”
Reznick watched as the cops formed themselves into a chain and, using the lights of their cars for illumination, waded into the water to search.
The minutes ticked by. Fire crews pulled up. Slowly, they began to drag out the bodies, which had been trapped underwater in the locked car.
Three bodies were taken from the water and laid out, side by side. Three men, and Ford wasn’t one of them.
“There’s one more,” Reznick said. “There’s one missing.”
One of the cops turned around, shaking his head. “There’s no one else, buddy.”
“I’m telling you, there is one more. I saw three in the back, one driving. There’s four!”
“He ain’t here.”
“Goddamn, there’s one more guy.”
But as the minutes passed by, no other body was found.
Slowly, it began to dawn on Reznick.
Ford had escaped.
Epilogue
Reznick and Meyerstein were in an FBI mobile command center on the periphery of JFK. She stared out of the window and sighed. “How the hell could he have gotten away? The only goddamned one . . .”
Reznick shook his head. “The others were his cover. He had the training to survive virtually anything, even with gunshot wounds. We know that.”
“Shit.”
Reznick felt the exhaustion wash over him. “Means he’s still out there. You reckon the airport was where they were headed?”
Meyerstein nodded. “The FBI has impounded a private jet registered in the Caymans to—get this—a Chechen warlord.”
Reznick shook his head. “Classic false flag. How convenient.”
Meyerstein was silent.
“This was a false flag from the get-go.”
She sighed. “I’ve said enough.”
Reznick stared at her and saw the anger in her eyes. “So, what now?”
“People need to know what really happened. I don’t believe for a minute that General Black and Ford were the only ones involved. This goes way deeper.”
A silence opened up between them for a few moments. Reznick spoke first. “What a mess.”
Meyerstein nodded. “There’s going to be a Senate intelligence hearing. It’ll be a closed session. You’ll be asked to appear.”
“We were played. From the outset.”
“The talk on Fox is of an Islamist plot. Same with CNN.”
“Like I said, this is more than Black and Ford.”
Meyerstein stared at him, eyes tired. “Let’s go for a walk.”
They headed outside and walked along the Jamaica Bay shoreline, the Manhattan skyline in the distance. They heard planes landing nearby at JFK, saw birds in flight.
Reznick said, “You know what’s really going to happen, don’t you? Are you prepared for what awaits you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Here’s how it’s going to work. If you put your head above the parapet, you’re going to be made out to be a loose cannon. An oddball. They’re going to isolate you. And then the media will be fed stories about you.”
Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair. “Listen—”
“Meyerstein, I’m going to spell this out for you. There are two ways to destroy a person.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can either put a bullet through their head, or there’s something more elegant. You neutralize that person by dredging up their private life. They’ll make you out to be an unfit mother. They’ll leak stories about you having a recent breakdown. Having affairs. Being unpatriotic. That’s always the killer.”
“Jon, that’s not going to happen . . .”
“Isn’t it? Listen to me—that’s what awaits you if you speak out. That’s what awaits me if I speak out. This goes way beyond General Black. This is worse than Operation Northwoods. This made it off the drawing boards at the CIA. Soon, in a matter of days, there will be foreign intelligence agencies friendly to the US pointing the finger at whatever regime we don’t like. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”
Meyerstein knew he was right. “My father was a lawyer. A very good lawyer. And he always stressed to me that there were two kinds of people in the world. Those that bent with the wind, and those that stood firm.”
“And where do you stand?”
She smiled. “I’ve spent a lifetime in people’s faces. I’m not about to turn the other cheek now, Jon.”
Reznick nodded. “We understand what went on. It’s important America learns from this. We need to root out this cancer. But bear in mind they’re going to try to bury you first.”
Meyerstein’s throat tightened. “Well, they better bring a mighty big shovel. Because I’m ready for them.” For a few moments, her gaze lingered on the sparkling waters, before she looked up at the vapor trail of a huge plane leaving JFK. “What about you?”
Reznick looked at her. She seemed vulnerable and alone. “What about me?”
“How are you going to deal with this?”
“The way I always have. I tell them straight. They don’t like it, that’s their business. I’m going to stand beside you and tell it like it is. Like I said before, I don’t do walking away.”
Meyerstein looked at him, long and hard. Then she smiled and her face softened. “You saw this earlier than anyone. You didn’t yield.”
“Never.”
“Why is that, Jon?”
“It’s in the blood, it’s the way I am. It’s the way my mother was. It’s the way my father was. We do not yield.”
“Amen to that.”
They stood together, and stared out over the water as a new day dawned.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people:
Many thanks to my editor, Jane Snelgrove, and everyone at Thomas and Mercer for all their hard work, enthusiasm, and belief in the Jon Reznick books.
Special mention has to go to the FBI’s Angela D. Bell and Jonathan B. Zeitlin in the Bureau’s Washington DC headquarters, who assisted my numerous queries with impeccable professionalism.
I would also like to thank my family and friends for all their support and encouragement. But most of all to my wife, Susan, who read an early draft of Hard Kill, offering terrific advice with good grace and infinite patience.
A
bout the Author
Photo © 2013 John Need
J. B. Turner is the author of the Jon Reznick trilogy of conspiracy action thrillers (Hard Road, Hard Kill, and Hard Wired), as well as the Deborah Jones political thrillers (Miami Requiem and Dark Waters). He loves music, from Beethoven to the Beatles, and watching good films, from Manhattan to The Deer Hunter. He has a keen interest in geopolitics. He lives in Scotland with his wife and two children.
