by J. B. Turner
“Stand by.” The pilot maneuvered the chopper.
Suddenly, Reznick had the sprawling mansion in his sights.
“Copy that. Hold it steady!” Reznick leaned forward as the chopper jolted back and forward. The pilot was struggling to keep control in the offshore wind gusts. Reznick lined up the rifle crosshairs on the black SUV that was parked on a gravel driveway out the back. “Fuck! The bastard’s here! Inside! Get me around the far side. The beach side, see if I can spot him.”
The chopper maneuvered again to the front of the house. Reznick looked through the crosshairs of the rifle. He thought he saw some movement in a room at the front. It looked like a woman and two children cowering. But no sign of the shooter.
“Put us down in the rear garden!” Reznick ordered. “I’m going in.”
He handed the rifle to the Fed. “You’re coming with me.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for backup, sir?”
Reznick took off his headset and placed it under his seat. “No time. You coming?”
The agent was in his thirties, but he seemed like he was out of his comfort zone. “Sure.” The Fed took off his headset as he followed Reznick off the chopper and onto the lush grass in the sprawling rear garden.
Reznick hand-signaled his intent. “You go around and cover the front door. Whatever you do, make sure he doesn’t leave the property. I’ll do this side of the house.”
The Fed nodded and headed down the path with his rifle as Reznick covered him.
Reznick approached the rear of the house, his trusty 9mm Beretta in his hand. He peered into the kitchen window. There was some movement down the hall. He looked down the side of the house and saw a window open. It looked like a downstairs bathroom. He headed down the concrete path.
The sound of a woman’s frightened voice came from inside. “Please, they’re just children! You’re scaring them!”
Reznick edged closer.
A man’s voice drawled, “Where is your husband, lady?”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Friedkin wailed.
“I don’t fucking believe you. So you better remember real quick,” the guy roared. “Do you know who I am?”
The woman wailed louder.
“Your fucking husband is who I’m after, not you or your kids. Where the fuck is he?”
Mrs. Friedkin cried, “Please . . . don’t hurt them! Take my watch. We’ve got money.”
“Oh, I know you do.”
Reznick slid the gun into his waistband and pulled himself up to the window. He climbed inside, dropping down onto the tiled floor.
The sound of children screaming. “Mommy, Mommy!”
Reznick edged out of the bathroom.
The man’s voice boomed. “Tell them to shut the fuck up!”
“Please, they’re just children!”
Reznick got down on his knees and crawled toward the commotion. He had no way of knowing where the intruder was.
The man roared, “Who the fuck is that? Out front! I saw someone!”
Reznick realized the intruder had spotted the young Fed. He got to his feet, crept down the hallway, gun at the ready. The voices sounded like they were in the room adjacent. To the right.
Slowly he peered around the corner.
Mrs. Friedkin was staring wide-eyed at him. Her eyes darted to the right as if to indicate where the sniper was.
Reznick nodded to acknowledge. He pressed his finger to his lips to indicate not to say a word. He eased forward. The woman’s eyes were glassy. Terrified. He took a step closer. He turned and entered the room, 9mm Beretta drawn.
A huge tattooed white guy was standing in an alcove, arm wrapped around one of the little girls, rifle pointed at her head. “Well, looks like we’ve got company.”
“Put the gun down, Campbell!” Reznick said.
The guy began to grin and exploded with laughter. “How do you know my name?”
“FBI, put down the weapon.”
The girl began to wail. “Mommy!”
Campbell pressed the rifle tighter to her head. “She gets it, tough guy, if you so much as look at me the wrong way. Don’t think I won’t. People like this mean zero to me.”
Reznick trained the Beretta on the guy’s forehead, finger on the trigger. Senses switched on. He blocked out everything apart from Bobby Campbell and the girl. “This doesn’t have to happen. Just drop the gun.”
Campbell began to laugh and turned to look at the mother. “What do you take me—”
Reznick squeezed the trigger twice. A double tap to the forehead. Deafening gunshots. Blood and brains splattered the wall and the little girl’s face and her pink dress. The smell of cordite rose as the dead man collapsed, arms entangled with the screaming girl, pinning her to the ground.
Reznick rushed forward and pulled the terrified girl out of the bloody clutches of Charlie Campbell’s dead brother.
Twenty-Two
It was all over by the time a couple of FBI SWAT teams pulled up on the gravel drive of the New York attorney general’s sprawling estate.
Reznick quickly briefed the team leader on what had happened. The family was bundled into the back of one of the SWAT vehicles and driven away to a safe location. The second SWAT team secured the scene until the cops and medical examiner could arrive.
Reznick and the other Fed got back in the chopper and put on their headsets. He looked at the bloodied body of Greer, still strapped into the back seat. He looked at the Fed, who was ashen faced. “You OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“I think he spotted you out front. Lucky he didn’t take a potshot at you.”
The Fed nodded, hands trembling. “I’ll radio ahead to get the medical examiner’s people to pick Greer’s body up.”
Reznick clasped his shoulder. “It’s OK, man, it’s over.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes as the chopper headed back to Manhattan before Reznick’s headset crackled to life.
“Jon,” said Meyerstein, “I just heard from the SWAT team what happened. Are you OK?”
Reznick turned and looked at the Fed, who was now smiling in relief. “We’re fine.”
“You’re having a helluva Fourth of July.”
“I’ve had better. Martha, it’s clear Charlie Campbell’s brother was in on this. The plan has been coordinated. And we’re talking inside knowledge. This guy, after taking out Greer, was headed to find the attorney general and kill him.”
“Too bad his wife and kids were home.”
“They’re shaken up big time, as you can imagine. Seriously traumatized.”
Meyerstein sighed. “We believe now that there has been an intelligence leak or breach—probably within the FBI, thanks to Cortez—which effectively identified Greer’s whereabouts.”
“If this gets out, the shit will hit the fan. You know that, right?”
“Trust me, I know what the fallout will be. We’re looking into Cortez’s family. Trying to find out if his fiancée or acquaintances have been compromised in some way because of him, or if it’s just him.”
Reznick shook his head. “Tell me about Greer. Does he have a family?”
“He’s married, two kids.”
“Jesus Christ, Martha. What the hell?”
“I know. It’s bad. And it just seems to be getting worse.”
“This is not over. Listen to me, I don’t think it’s just FBI. Greer mentioned the DEA and the CIA. They’re all wrapped up in this sordid piece of shit. Government agencies are facilitating this by their actions, or inactions. They’re turning a blind eye here, there, and everywhere. And all because of the supposed big picture.”
Meyerstein remained silent.
“It’s disgusting. If the public knew that this had happened, that the O’Keefes were allowed to go ahead with this attack on the city, they would be descending on the FBI HQ and burning it to the fucking ground.”
“Jon, that’s enough! We don’t know for sure where the leak came from.”
“We know yo
u had a rotten agent. And that’s just the start.”
“I get it, Jon. And we’ll deal with that another day. We’ve got a real-time situation here.”
Reznick sighed and adjusted the headset microphone. “What’s the latest?”
“We have analysts trying to piece this together. We believe that Midtown Manhattan is where Todd O’Keefe might emerge.”
Reznick’s stomach tightened. “Are you kidding me? Well, that’s just great. Midtown on the Fourth of July. Just great.”
“How long will it take you to get there?”
Reznick looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes, give or take.”
Meyerstein sighed.
“Martha, the cover is darkness. Theaters will be mobbed. Tens of thousands of visitors. Bars. Restaurants. Times Square is nuts at the best of times. After everything that’s happened, it’ll be perfect. Creating chaos. Picking off cops in the middle of New York. I can see that. A lot of planning and logistics have gone into this. This is not happening off the cuff.”
“I have a major team looking into this. But I’m going to get them to trawl Greer’s files and reach out to the DEA.”
“What’s the DEA saying?”
“We’re still waiting to hear an official line from them.”
“Check Greer’s cell phone records. He was using that to communicate with Robert O’Keefe before he was sidelined. There might be something there.”
“We’re already speaking to the NYPD on this. There’ll be an FBI vehicle to pick you up when you land.”
Reznick looked out of the chopper window at Queens below. In the far distance he saw planes landing at JFK. They were getting closer to Manhattan. But not fast enough.
Twenty-Three
Todd O’Keefe dropped the minivan at a junkyard owned by a longtime associate of the Brand. It was crushed and pummeled as he watched. It felt satisfying, destroying the physical evidence. But his work in the city wasn’t done. Not by a long stretch.
The junkyard owner drove him to a dive bar six blocks away. “Stay safe, bro,” he said. “You’ll get a visit from a kid in a few minutes. He’s one of us.”
O’Keefe thanked the guy and headed inside. He looked around the dark interior of the bar. It was deserted. It felt gothic, faded leather booths dotted around. The smell of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey. At the far end of the bar sat the obligatory jukebox and pool table. He got himself a beer and headed over to one of the booths in the far corner.
O’Keefe sat down and took a drink. He savored the cold lager. He’d earned it. A few minutes later, a skinhead sauntered in wearing a backpack. The kid ordered a Heineken and walked over to the booth.
“You mind if I sit down?” he said.
“Go right ahead.”
O’Keefe couldn’t place his accent. He sounded West Coast, perhaps.
“Real hot out there today, huh?”
“You got that right,” O’Keefe said.
“Crazy stuff going on up in the Bronx, I heard.”
“You from around here, son?”
The skinhead grinned as he took off the backpack and placed it on the leather booth. “I move around. Originally from Bakersfield, California.”
“Long way from home,” O’Keefe said.
“It’s a fucking toilet here on the East Coast. I work job to job, you know how it is. Wherever the work is.”
O’Keefe nodded.
“Yeah, New York, not my kind of place.”
“It has its moments.”
The kid made small talk for a few minutes, then said, “Crazy shit going down today.”
O’Keefe took a couple gulps of the beer, quenching his thirst. “Yeah, so I heard. What can I tell you? Shit happens, right?”
“Don’t like cops. Well, they don’t seem to like me.”
“You run into any trouble here in the city?”
“Not so far. But I can handle myself, don’t worry about that.”
“Son, you got something for me?”
The skinhead smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.” He pushed the backpack under the table. “I was told to give you that.”
O’Keefe lifted it up and placed it beside him in the booth. “What’s in it?”
“Some parts you might need. And some cash. A nice new ID, car keys, and a credit card. A friend of mine specializes in IDs and whatever you want. That’s why they brought me in for this.”
“Good work.”
The skinhead drank the rest of his beer and stood up. “One final thing. Three blocks from here, parking garage, second floor, cab is waiting. Take care, man.”
Then the kid turned and walked out.
O’Keefe drank the rest of his beer. He waited a few minutes. He picked up the backpack and headed to the restroom, checking there was no one in it. He took the end stall and locked the door. He sent an encrypted message that read Bakersfield, California.
A short while later, a reply with a telephone number pinged up.
O’Keefe called the number. On the other end of the line, a familiar gruff voice. It was the shot caller. Thomas “Mad Dog” Mills.
“You still on for tonight?” Mills asked.
“What do you think?”
“You get the delivery?”
“Yeah, smart kid. Just about to head out and catch the ride.”
“The guy’s waiting for you. I’m hearing you really fucked up those cops downtown, man.”
O’Keefe felt a mixture of pride and elation hearing it from Mills. He only wished his brothers were alive to savor the moment. He knew what they’d do if they were. They’d hug him tight as if he were still the skinny youngest brother they had to defend. Then buy him a beer and tousle his hair. He always enjoyed listening to his older brothers. He wasn’t a big talker. But by God, they were. Never stopped. “Tell me, the attorney general, did we get him?”
“That is a negative.”
“What happened?”
“I’m hearing from a ham radio friend that he got the narc.”
“That’s something.”
“But when Charlie’s brother got to the AG’s house, the fucker wasn’t in. Apparently, Bobby got blown away by some Fed.”
“How the hell did they get there?”
“I don’t know.”
“So where is the AG?”
A beat. “Why do you want to know, Todd? That wasn’t your target.”
“I know. But I’d like to know where he is.”
“I know what you’re thinking, man. I can almost hear the cogs in that brain of yours grinding around.”
“Where is he?”
“You’re a crazy son of a bitch, Todd.”
“So do you know where the fucker is or not?”
The shot caller sighed. “I do.”
“I want to know.”
“That might be one too many diversions. Shouldn’t we focus on the next stage?”
“Just tell me.”
“I’m hearing from two separate sources that he’s holed up in his new Midtown office, three blocks from Penn Station.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Not too far from your final destination.”
O’Keefe was weighing the options.
“I know what you’re thinking, man. But my concern is that you won’t have enough time.”
“There’s always enough time. I’m going back into the city anyway.”
“Stay safe, bro. And I’ll keep you posted on any developments.”
Twenty-Four
A bloodred sunset washed over the Manhattan sky, reflecting off the glass towers, as Reznick’s chopper landed at the Midtown heliport. He thought of Lauren out on the streets with her friends, unaware of Todd O’Keefe and the threat he posed to the city. He prayed to God she would be safe. But he was comforted by the fact that Lauren had shown a steely determination earlier that day, after the sniper attack outside Yankee Stadium. She hadn’t panicked. She hadn’t started screaming. She was stoic. She reminded Reznick so much of her mother. He wonde
red if his preconceived notions of what kind of person Lauren was were off the mark. The quiet girl. The studious girl. Maybe she was a lot more like him than he cared to admit.
A waiting medical examiner loaded Greer’s body onto a gurney and into the back of an ambulance.
Reznick touched the back of Greer’s cold hand, then climbed into a waiting FBI Lincoln. Waves of exhaustion washed over him as the exertions of the day finally hit. It seemed to seep down into his very bones. He did what he always did. He popped a Dexedrine with some water. He needed to stay in the fight.
A few minutes later, he was back downtown at the FBI’s New York City field office. It was only a mile from where the two female cops had been mown down in the Financial District.
Reznick rode the elevator with a couple of Feds for company. He began to feel the drug kick in. He felt more wired. Switched on. The way he liked it. The way he had to be.
“You need to get some rest, Jon,” one of the Feds said. “Brutal day you’ve had.”
Reznick sipped from a bottle of water. “I’ll survive.”
“Do you need to see a doctor at all?”
“Probably a psychiatrist, but no, thanks for asking.”
The Fed gave a rueful smile. “I heard what happened out in Long Island. You just seem to attract trouble.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
The Fed patted him on the back. “I for one am glad you’re on our side. And glad you’re safe.”
“Appreciate that.”
His colleague just nodded and smiled but didn’t speak.
Reznick was escorted to a restroom, where he cleaned up. He was then shown into a conference room where Meyerstein was waiting, coffee in hand, standing in front of a huge screen. It displayed a grainy black-and-white photograph of a tattooed Aryan Brotherhood guy. “Shut the door behind you,” she said.
Reznick slumped in a seat, the Dexedrine rousing his system.
“You look beat,” she said. She poured a black coffee for Reznick and placed it in front of him along with some sandwiches. “Hopefully this will revitalize you.”
Reznick smiled. “You do this for all your special agents?”
