by J. B. Turner
OTHER TITLES BY J. B. TURNER
Jon Reznick Series
Hard Road
Hard Kill
Hard Wired
Hard Way
Hard Fall
Hard Hit
American Ghost Series
Rogue
Reckoning
Requiem
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by J. B. Turner
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542006132
ISBN-10: 1542006139
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
For my late father
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
One
July 4
It was still dark when the white van pulled up opposite the Bronx courthouse.
Travis O’Keefe, sitting in the passenger seat, observed the dark, deserted street. He lit up his third cigarette of the day. His brother wound down the window.
“You wanna kill me with all that smoke,” Ryan said, chomping on his nicotine gum.
“Quit whining, bro. Keep your eyes open.”
Travis scanned the street. He had scouted this location for days. It was a perfect spot, directly opposite the entrance to the ten-story courthouse on Walton Avenue. The building’s steel shutters were still down, the area deathly quiet.
A police siren broke the peace of the sultry early-morning air.
Ryan cranked up the air-conditioning. Travis watched a panhandler shuffle down the street, past the courthouse, and into the deli. A few moments later, the shutters of the courthouse rolled up. “Here we go.”
They watched as the middle-aged black security guard they’d been surveilling for the last week headed off down the street, carrying his plain metal lunch box.
“About fucking time,” Travis said.
Ryan was chewing hard on his gum.
“Wait till he’s out of sight. Don’t want him doubling back if he’s forgotten something.”
Ryan nodded. They waited for five more long minutes. “Let’s do it.”
The brothers got out. They wore blue maintenance coveralls and carried work bags. Travis pressed the security buzzer. He glanced up at the surveillance camera and smiled.
A voice on the intercom said, “We’re closed. It’s the Fourth of July.”
“Sorry to bother you,” Travis said. “We’ve got an emergency maintenance call.”
The voice said, “No mention of that in the log.”
“We’ve just been given the job, buddy. Air-conditioning on the roof.”
“Who sent you?”
“The mayor’s office. They’re concerned there could be an electrical fault. We need to get up there and check it out. Could be a fire risk to the whole building.”
The voice sighed. “Gimme a minute. I’ll be down.”
A few moments later, the doors opened.
A gray-haired white security guard was standing there yawning. “Couldn’t this have waited?”
Ryan shook his head. “Sorry, but it’s a priority.”
“You got a work order or company ID?”
“Sure.”
Travis pressed a gun to the man’s head. “Inside!”
The man stumbled back as Travis pushed him into the building.
Ryan locked the front door, then hauled the terrified security guard down some stairs to a basement room. “Who else is on duty?”
“Just me.”
“When does your replacement arrive?”
“Two p.m. National holiday, it’s always just me.”
Travis grinned, pointed the silenced handgun at the man, and shot him in the neck. The security guard was dead before he slammed face-first onto the ground. The sound of his nose cartilage being crushed was audible. Blood spilled onto the stone floor.
Ryan took the old man’s keys from his pocket, locked the basement room so he wouldn’t be found anytime soon, and turned to face his brother, eyes glazed. “You OK?”
Travis grinned. “I’m fine.”
“What next?”
“Fresh air.”
The two men took the elevator to the roof garden. Not a cloud in the sky. Not a breath of wind.
Travis looked around the huge roof. A ten-foot-high parapet wall surrounded it, conveniently shielding them from prying eyes.
The men got to work straightaway. They opened up their work bags. Inside were protective glasses and dust masks. They put them on and pulled out their power drills. Methodically, they began to drill two separate three-inch-wide holes through the wall, a couple yards apart.
Ryan peered through each of the holes. “Perfect line of sight. Check it out.”
Travis followed suit, looking straight at Yankee Stadium. “It’s going to be a beautiful day in New York City.”
Two
The uptown 4 train jolted into motion.
Jon Reznick was sitting beside his daughter, Lauren, as the subway car screeched and rattled, gathering speed. Lauren wore a navy Yankees baseball cap and was flicking through messages on her phone. She looked flushed despite the air-conditioned carriage. “You OK, honey?”
“Dad, I’m fine. I just had too much to drink last night.”
“What do I always tell you? Hydrate.” Reznick handed her the bottle of water he was holding. “Drink it. You’ll feel better.”
Lauren took a few large gulps and returned the half-empty plastic bottle to him. “You worry too much.”
“That’s what parents are supposed to do. Worry. Especially dads with their daughters.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. “Dad. I’m a grown adult.”
“So, where were you drinking?”
“A place in the East Village.”
“I know the East Village. That’s where your mother and I had our first drink together. McSorley’s.”
Lauren smiled. “Yeah? I didn’t know that.”
“Where did you go?”
“It’s a new place. Rooftop bar.”
She snorted. “What is it with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got a real problem with fancy bars. Fancy places.”
“Whatever floats your boat, I guess.”
“It’s a really nice place. Pretty hip new hotel. Great views from the terrace.”
Reznick glanced at his watch. Then his gaze was drawn to the other passengers in the car. A wiry old white guy wearing full Yankees regalia, a few college kids, a family of German tourists, and twenty or so boisterous Yankee fans farther down the car. He faced his daughter. “Looking forward to the game?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“Section 216. Shaded. I checked.”
She chuckled. “You’re an obsessive.”
“I’m particular. It’s going to be blazing hot today. I don’t want you sitting out in 100-degree heat without any shade.”
She nudged his shoulder. “I changed my mind. You’re not obsessive, you’re a nightmare.”
“You have no idea.”
The train rumbled on through the Upper East Side and into Harlem.
Reznick was looking forward to spending his first full day in the city with his daughter. He’d flown down from Maine the day before and was staying at the Pierre, overlooking Central Park. He’d booked two rooms for him and Lauren. He’d thought it would make a nice change, as his daughter was currently sharing a cramped apartment with a couple of friends from the publishing company where she was interning for the second year on her summer break from Bennington. The previous night, they’d enjoyed a beautiful meal and a couple of drinks at the bar.
Reznick had been ready to call it a night, knowing they had the baseball game the following day. But Lauren had gotten a text from her friends—they were headed downtown to a club, and did she want to come? Reznick had hoped she would stay and shoot the breeze with him at the hotel, but no matter. He was just glad to get some precious time with her.
Reznick said, “So, when did you get back last night? I was worried about you.”
“About four, I think. Maybe later.”
“Are you kidding me? You must be exhausted.”
“Don’t say you’ve never partied, Dad.”
She had him there. He remembered what it was like when he was in the Marines and would stay out late drinking. Getting up early the following morning was no fun. He took a sympathetic tack and simply said, “Glad you got home safely and had a good night.”
Eventually, the train screeched, metal on metal, coming into the 161st Street station aboveground in the Bronx.
Reznick felt the blast of dirty steam-bath air as they stepped off the train and walked through the crowds. “Now remember,” he said, “stay close. It’s a sellout today. Fourth of July.”
Lauren shook her head. “You need to relax, Dad. I’m an adult.”
But she stuck close to him anyway. He resisted the urge to reach out and squeeze her hand. It was just last summer that he’d sat by her in the hospital while she lay in a coma. He understood her need to prove to herself that she no longer felt vulnerable. He hoped she understood that it would be a while before he no longer felt that way.
They headed down the subway stairs and out onto the broiling street. Cops stood everywhere, monitoring the crowds.
Reznick and Lauren edged through to join a huge line on the south side of Yankee Stadium. It snaked back at least a couple hundred yards from gates 4 and 6. An elevated train rumbled overhead, skirting the edge of the impressive new stadium. Lines of fans were also visible outside a McDonald’s restaurant, virtually underneath the train track.
Reznick pulled his cap down to shield his eyes from the ferocious sun. He felt the sweat sticking to his T-shirt. It had to be at least 100 degrees already. “It’s like a goddamn inferno today.”
Lauren drank the rest of the bottle of water.
“Feel better?” he asked.
She smiled and hugged him tight. “I’m sorry I’m a little cranky today, Dad.”
“Forget it. I just worry about you out on the streets of New York in the middle of the night.”
“I caught an Uber with Shona. Besides, haven’t you ever stayed out half the night?”
“Damn right I have. But I can look after myself. And I don’t whine if I’m hungover.”
“You really are stuck in the past, you do know that, right?”
Reznick smiled. “Is that such a bad thing? Traditional values?”
Lauren rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. What does that even mean?”
A black guy selling large bottles of cold water sauntered past, wet towel draped over his head to protect himself from the blazing sun. “Get ’em while you can,” he said. “Gotta keep cool, folks. The heat is gonna break records, they say.”
Reznick bought two large bottles and gave the guy a ten-dollar bill.
“Thanks, man,” the water seller said.
Reznick handed one of the bottles to his daughter. She took a few big gulps and poured the rest over her head to cool her down.
“Goddamn!” she said.
“Feeling better?” Reznick asked.
Lauren nodded, cheeks flushed. She put her Yankees hat back on.
Reznick turned and looked up at the stadium towering over them. “New York Yankees, Lauren,” he said. “They were your mom’s team. She used to go to the games as a little girl.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Reznick shielded his eyes from the sun as the line began to inch forward. “Yeah, big baseball fan.”
“We’re going to have a great day today, Dad.”
“You better believe it.”
Three
Travis wiped the sweat from his forehead as the sun beat down onto the roof of the courthouse. He turned to his brother. “You ready?”
Ryan was chewing his nicotine gum. “Let’s do it.”
Travis screwed the two-and-a-half-inch suppressor onto the barrel of the rifle and adjusted his position, lying flat on the roof. He pulled his baseball cap low to shield his eyes from the sun. Slowly, he eased the sniper rifle through the carefully drilled hole in the parapet wall.
He looked through the scope. The crosshairs showed thousands of Yankee fans gathered outside the stadium, diagonally across from the courthouse, two hundred yards or so away.
He focused on the NYPD vehicles that had cordoned off the roads around the stadium, a routine on game days.
Travis looked at his watch. It was 10:55 a.m. Just over two hours before the Yankees would be taking on the Braves on Independence Day. Hundreds of baseball fans were already forming lines on the main concourse. The lines seemed to be getting longer by the minute as more and more people disembarked from the 161st Street station.
Travis’s cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the caller ID.
“Hey, bro.” The voice belonged to the shot caller. “You in place?”
“We’re on the roof, awaiting the green light.”
“How you feeling?”
“Feeling crazy. I want to get started.”
“You want to taste blood, right?” the voice said.
“You know I do.”
“Blood in, blood out, bro.”
Travis knew what that meant. He had taken the oath. He had to follow orders. If not, he would be as good as dead. Those were the rules, and Travis had witnessed firsthand what happened when a member of their group broke their sacred code. Their blood oath. One poor fucker in Leavenworth had a tattoo on his arm that he hadn’t earned the right to have. They hadn’t been able to get to him inside, so once Travis and Ryan were released, they lured the poor fuck from a bar, took him to a tow truck depot in New Jersey, and used a blowtorch to burn it off. The smell of the burning flesh never left Travis. Or the screaming of the guy who had betrayed them.
Travis cleared his throat. “So, I’m taking it this is a go?”
“That’s right, bro. This is your fucking green light. Do it good. Don’t let us dow
n.”
Travis ended the call and put the cell phone back in his pocket. He turned to Ryan. “It’s a go.”
Ryan lay down flat on the roof as he zeroed in on the first target.
Then Travis adjusted his position one final time. He looked through the crosshairs of the rifle. The first cop he spotted was drinking a bottle of water, leaning against his cruiser. Travis slid his finger onto the trigger. Then he opened fire.
Four
The sound of gunfire triggered instant panic outside the stadium.
Reznick grabbed Lauren by the arm and pulled her behind a pillar as people screamed, pushed, shoved, and fled in all directions, trying to take cover. He wrapped an arm around his daughter as chaos ensued. People were tripping over one another, trampling the poor souls who fell, and diving to the ground to escape the shots.
“Dad, what’s happening!”
Reznick recognized the distinctive crack of high-velocity rounds. He saw people pointing to a building across the concourse. High up on the walled roof, Reznick could just make out a couple of glints in the sun. Was that the shooters, concealed from sight?
“Who’s shooting, Dad? What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know. Could be a terrorist attack.”
Lauren looked impassive. “Shit.”
Reznick gripped her arms tight. “You OK?”
Lauren nodded. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Good girl. Time to move.” Reznick hauled her to her feet, wrapped a protective arm around her as they ran for dear life in the direction everyone else was headed. He grabbed her wrist as they bounded down some stairs and stepped out into oncoming traffic. A yellow taxi screeched to a halt, inches from them.
The driver screamed out his window, “What the fuck, man? I’m trying to get out of here!”
“So is my daughter. Get her to safety!”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Active shooter situation.”
“Get her in!” the driver shouted.
Reznick was crouched down on the driver’s side and opened the rear door of the cab. He shoved Lauren, facedown, onto the floor. “Head down! Keep low!” More shots in the distance. “Head down! Keep low!”
Lauren turned around and fixed her gaze on him. “Don’t get involved, Dad.”
“Don’t worry about me. Get back to the hotel. And stay there!”
