Hard Shot (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  Reznick jumped to his feet and shouted at the bystanders. “Get off the streets! Now!” He ran over to the motorcycle, lifted it upright, and switched on the ignition. Nothing. He tried again. And again. He looked at the engine and saw a hole. A bullet had ricocheted and ripped it open. “Goddamn!”

  He dropped the bike and set off on foot, giving chase.

  The gunman, also wearing coveralls, was already more than one hundred yards away. He sprinted hard down the sidewalk, past frightened shop owners looking to see what had happened.

  He crossed the road as a Jeep swerved to avoid him. The rifleman disappeared down a side street. Reznick’s heart was hammering as he turned the corner. He knew the importance of capturing the second sniper alive. The guy could be brought in and interrogated by police: What was their motivation? Were there others out there? The driver ran down into a subway station, disappearing from sight.

  Reznick bounded down the steps, barging past emerging passengers. “Out of the goddamn way!”

  People jumped for cover.

  Reznick was taking two steps at a time. At the bottom, he turned right, gun in hand. A handful of passengers ducked for cover, but one young woman pointed the other way.

  “Look out!”

  Reznick spun around, hitting the concrete floor. The guy stood close to the turnstiles, about to shoot into the crowded station. Reznick drilled two shots into the man’s forehead. The rifle fell from his hands.

  Screams echoed through the station. Passengers on the platform stared in horror.

  Reznick ran forward, kicked the rifle out of the man’s reach, gun still trained on the motionless body.

  The man’s eyes were open, but blood was already congealing around his head.

  Seven

  The cops descended the subway stairs en masse, guns drawn.

  A burly black NYPD officer trained his gun on Reznick. “Freeze! Drop the fucking gun!”

  Reznick did as he was told.

  “Hands on head!”

  Reznick complied.

  The cop had him covered. “Just stay right there,” he said. “Do not make a move.”

  A couple of cops approached from the sides, pulled his arms back, and cuffed his wrists extra tight, as if to make a point.

  Reznick watched the cops approach the dead sniper. Blood still oozed out of the head wounds, onto the ground.

  A cop’s radio crackled to life. “Got him. He’s here. The perp is dead.”

  Reznick said, “The dead guy was one of the shooters. He was driving the van. I got the other guy outside a bodega.”

  The cop said, “Yeah?” He spoke again into his radio. “The guy who’s cuffed said he got both of them. Yeah, I’m telling you that’s what he’s saying.”

  Reznick said, “You want to get these cuffs off?”

  The cop said, “What’s your name?”

  Reznick said, “Back pocket has my ID and whatever you need.”

  The cop rifled in the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. He scanned the driver’s license and the FBI ID. “Rockland, Maine. Long way from home. What are you in New York for?”

  “Yankees game.”

  “It says here you’re FBI. Is this fake?”

  Reznick winced from the cuffs biting into his wrists. “No, it’s not fake. You mind getting me the hell out of these?”

  The cop signaled a couple of his colleagues over. He frisked Reznick. “You shouldn’t be carrying in New York City,” he said.

  “I’ve got special authorization.”

  “Yeah? Then where’s your concealed carry permit?”

  Reznick stared at the cop. “Listen very carefully. I’m authorized by the assistant director of the FBI, Martha Meyerstein. Why don’t you call her?”

  A fresh-faced young cop chewing gum said, “Assistant director, huh? Were you involved in the attack? Are you covering your ass, silencing your partners? Is that what happened?”

  Reznick fixed his gaze on the kid. “There are dead police officers outside Yankee Stadium . . .”

  The young cop stepped forward, eyeballing Reznick. “You don’t have to tell us that, smart-ass.”

  “Are you serious? You’re giving me a hard time? The guy that chased after the fuckers and took them down? Seriously?”

  The black cop signaled for the younger hothead cop to get out of Reznick’s face.

  A few long minutes later, four detectives wearing shirts and ties arrived.

  Reznick was hauled back up the stairs, into the back of a car, then, because police in the Bronx were overwhelmed, driven all the way down to an NYPD precinct in lower Manhattan.

  There was an overwhelming sense of burning rage from the police. The detectives as well as the uniformed cops in the precinct. Reznick could see it in their eyes. He understood why. Their fellow cops had been mowed down in cold blood. While millions of Americans would be celebrating their country’s independence on the Fourth of July, enjoying steaks and ribs at barbecues, drinks, and parades and baseball on TV, the NYPD was mourning the loss of some of their finest. Officers killed in the line of duty. He knew cops. And they would be hell-bent on avenging the fallen officers, come what may. The anger and frustration could so easily boil over.

  It was easy to see why. Officers not returning home to their families. The dreaded knock at the door with the terrible news. Then the days and weeks of funerals and mourning. The killings would reverberate for years in New York and across America. And each and every Fourth of July, the NYPD would be reminded of one of their darkest days.

  Why wouldn’t they be angry? But he also knew it was a volatile situation. And he needed to be careful how he approached the whole thing.

  A cop unshackled his hands for a moment and cuffed his wrists at his front, making him marginally more comfortable. “That OK?”

  Reznick nodded and followed a couple of mean-looking cops down a corridor until they got to a windowless room. Inside, two detectives wearing dress shirts and clip-on ties were sitting behind a desk. Notepad, four small bottles of water, and their cell phones in front of them. A fan in the corner.

  The detectives nodded. One pointed to the chair opposite.

  Reznick sat down and sighed. His head was swimming. He thought of Lauren and prayed she had gotten to safety. She was smart. And tough.

  One of the detectives pushed a bottle of water toward him. “Drink it,” he said.

  Reznick picked up the bottle of water with both hands and took a couple of gulps. It felt good.

  “You OK?” one said.

  Reznick shrugged. “As well as could be expected after everything that happened.”

  The younger of the two detectives took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his seat. His colleague started the recording machine and checked his watch. “It’s 11:58 a.m., July fourth.” He looked across the table at Reznick. “We’re trying to establish a few facts. I’m sure you understand. Let’s get a few basics down. Clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “What is your name?”

  Reznick sighed. “I think you know my name.”

  “I’ll ask you again. What is your name?”

  “My name is Jon Reznick.”

  The detective scribbled down the details. “That’s better. And what do you do?”

  Reznick sighed.

  “Your ID says you’re a special agent with the FBI. Is that true?”

  “I work as a consultant for the FBI. That’s probably a more accurate assessment. I’m not a special agent in the traditional sense.”

  The detectives shared a dubious look. “A consultant?” the younger detective said.

  “Yes.”

  He scowled. “What the hell does that mean? I’ve never in my life heard of a special agent who was a consultant.”

  Reznick shrugged. “It’s a special relationship I have with the FBI.”

  “And what does this special relationship entail?”

  “It’s like an advisory role, as and when required.”
<
br />   “As and when required . . . Do you want to help us out here, Jon? What does that mean?”

  “It means sometimes I’m called in on investigations which involve national security, as an example.”

  “So you’re an FBI consultant who advises on national security, for example, and you just happened to be up by Yankee Stadium when this whole shitstorm happened?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And that was just pure coincidence.”

  Reznick knew from the detective’s tone of voice that he didn’t believe a word of his story. “My being there this morning had nothing to do with my work, if that’s what you’re getting at. I was with my daughter. Lauren Reznick. College student.”

  The older detective shook his head. “Jon, I’m going to be honest with you. I’m not buying this story. Doesn’t ring true.”

  “Look, I understand why the NYPD hauled me in. I get it. If I was in your shoes, I would take the same approach. You don’t know me. And I was there when this happened. But I believe you’re wasting precious time focusing your efforts on me. This is not about me. We don’t even know if the attacks are over. What if the attack at the stadium is only part of something larger planned for the city?”

  “We’ll focus on whoever we wish to focus on. And we’ll be the judge of your honesty, or not. Are we clear, Mr. Reznick?”

  Reznick shifted in his seat, feeling the malevolent gaze of both detectives. “I’m asking you to speak to the FBI. They know me. A quick call, and this can all be ironed out.”

  “Who were you with?”

  “What do you mean, who was I with?”

  “Simple question, Jon,” said the older detective. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Who did you attend the game with?”

  “I was with my daughter, Lauren Reznick. Haven’t you checked the surveillance footage from outside the stadium?”

  The younger cop sighed. “We’ll ask the questions, Mr. Reznick. Tell me about Lauren. Where is she now?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “It all went to shit after the shooting started. I told her to get the hell away from the stadium. We stopped a cab and she got in. Hopefully she’s safe and sound back at our hotel.”

  “What’s the name of the hotel?”

  “The Pierre.”

  The detective whistled and leaned back in his seat. “That’s a nice place.” He turned to his colleague. “How many FBI agents you know can afford to hang out there on their salaries?”

  “I’m a consultant. I have savings.”

  “Lucky you. Have you always worked for the FBI, Mr. Reznick?”

  Reznick could see that the interrogation was already headed south. He could see they were wasting time, his and theirs. He felt frustrated. “Four years. I’m not exactly sure about the dates. Listen, you need to find out who the guys were who carried out the killings.”

  “‘Not exactly sure about the dates,’” he parroted. The tone of the man’s voice insinuated that Reznick was lying. “Where are you from, Mr. Reznick?”

  “Rockland, Maine.”

  “You like baseball?”

  Reznick felt increasingly frustrated at the line of questioning. He shook his head. “What the hell kind of question is that? What does that mean?”

  “It means, do you like baseball? A simple question. You seem to be having trouble answering simple questions. Why is that? Would you like to answer it?”

  “Yeah, I like baseball. Happy?”

  “And your daughter lives in New York?”

  Reznick nodded. “Just for the summer. She’s an intern.”

  “Where?”

  Reznick gave the address of the apartment in Lenox Hill where she was sharing a room and the name of the publishing company where she was interning. “Look, I would appreciate it if I could call her. To see if she’s back home or back at the hotel.”

  “You’ll have a chance to call her. Just not now. You know, I’ve been doing this job for a long, long time. And you get to understand people. Their motivations. Their moods.”

  Reznick sighed. “What is this, amateur psychologist hour?”

  “Very funny. I’ve got to say, you seem very blasé, despite being caught up in this massacre and having just killed two men.”

  “Blasé? Are you kidding me? It’s not me that’s blasé. I’m worried about my daughter. I don’t know where she is. I’m also worried this might not be an isolated incident. Did the shooters have help? Is someone pulling the strings? Why aren’t you trying to find out more about the two guys who did it?”

  “We are, don’t worry. But we’re focusing right now on establishing exactly who you are and how you got caught up in all this. The shots that killed the two alleged snipers were very precise. You military, Mr. Reznick?”

  “I’d rather not talk too much about that.”

  The detective leaned forward, hands clasped. “That’s interesting too, Mr. Reznick.”

  “If you insist.”

  “Listen, smart-ass, we have New York officers lying dead up in the Bronx. We want answers. And you will not leave here until you give us those answers.”

  “This is unbelievable. Check the footage, I took those guys down.”

  “I asked you a question. So I’m going to ask it again. And I’ll ask it until I get a real answer. Are you ex-military? Special Forces?”

  Reznick said nothing. He wasn’t going to get dragged into answering questions about his military past, whether Delta or his work for the government. Besides, most of it was classified.

  “Alright. Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

  Reznick sighed.

  “You taking the Fifth, Jon?”

  “No, I’m not taking the Fifth.”

  “Let me get this straight, Jon. You were with your daughter, waiting to go into a Yankees game. There was shooting. And you decided to commandeer a motorcycle and chase after those two guys, despite them being heavily armed? Is that really your story?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  The older detective flushed with anger. “Don’t get smart. We lost eight cops today. Eight of our finest.”

  “Listen, I should know. I saw the whole thing unfold. I saw those officers. Have you been up there and seen the mess? The blood? The bodies?”

  The younger detective scribbled some notes. “Why did you give chase? I don’t think most special agents would react the way you did. I think they would call in help. Maybe call 911. Then request an NYPD Emergency Service Unit to hunt down the guys. No way would they do it single-handed.”

  “I’m going to give you a name. You need to call Martha Meyerstein, assistant director of the FBI in DC. She knows me very well. I work directly with her.”

  The younger detective scribbled the name as his colleague scrutinized Reznick’s demeanor, as if looking for signs of deception.

  “Meyerstein,” Reznick repeated. “Are you telling me you haven’t even verified my ID yet?”

  “We’re looking into that, trust me.”

  The older detective said, “Jon, my name’s Detective Francis Sheerin.”

  Reznick nodded.

  “I’m going to be up-front with you and tell you where we’re at . . . I’m wondering . . . were you working on an undercover operation for the FBI up in the Bronx this morning?”

  Reznick shook his head. “Oh, I get it. You’re trying to implicate me and the FBI, as if this was in some way related to an investigation gone wrong, am I right?”

  “Answer the question,” Sheerin said. “Were you on an undercover FBI operation in the Bronx this morning?”

  “No, I was not.”

  Sheerin folded his arms, unimpressed. “So you’re telling me that these guys who began firing were not known to the FBI?”

  “I have no idea if they were known to the FBI. But I can categorically tell you that this wasn’t an FBI operation. I was with my daughter. I’m in New Yo
rk solely for a personal vacation.”

  “And you came armed with a gun and just so happened to be directly outside Yankee Stadium when the snipers attacked? The whole thing doesn’t add up. Do you understand that?”

  “You’ve got this all wrong. My daughter is living in New York for the summer. She’s a student, Bennington.”

  “Vermont is a long way from New York, Mr. Reznick.”

  Reznick sighed. “She has an internship at a publishing company. I think I already mentioned that.”

  Sheerin leaned over and whispered in his colleague’s ear before addressing Reznick again. “We’re going to take a break for a few minutes. We’ll continue this interview when we return.”

  The detectives got up, picked up their notes, and left the room.

  Reznick stretched his legs and arms the best he could, shifting in his seat as he waited. Twenty minutes later, the detectives returned and resumed the interview.

  Sheerin leaned forward. “Seems like the FBI does know you.”

  “That’s good. Are you going to let me go?”

  Sheerin smiled, his face inches from Reznick’s. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re going to keep me here until you’re satisfied that my story is correct.”

  “Right on the money, Jon. Tell me, what kind of operation was the FBI running? You can understand that we need to know that, can’t you?”

  Reznick sighed. “Listen, I thought I explained this. I was attending a ball game with my daughter. Man, this is just laughable.”

  “This is no joke. I’m sure you must be only too aware how police respond when their colleagues get murdered. They get angry. Very, very angry. I’ve got to say, the mood inside this precinct is, frankly, incendiary.”

  “I’m not surprised. Listen, I already told you, I was not involved in any operation. To my knowledge, there was no FBI operation.”

  “Well, we don’t believe you.”

  Reznick could see it was going to be a long, long day.

  “You see, here’s another thing. I’ve been checking with some of my own sources. And the two snipers were known to both the NYPD and the FBI. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “I have no idea who the shooters were, I’m telling you. I will swear in a court of law, on the Bible, I wasn’t on an FBI operation. I was with my daughter, going to watch the Yankees on the Fourth of July. Check the footage. What sort of operation is carried out with someone’s daughter along?”