Hard Shot (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

“Only the ones who worry the hell out of me, night and day.”

  Reznick shrugged. “What can I tell you?” The strong scalding coffee was welcome. Then he wolfed down a couple of ham sandwiches.

  Meyerstein handed him a napkin. “Want some more?”

  Reznick shook his head as he wiped the crumbs from his mouth.

  “Feel better?”

  “Marginally. Thanks.”

  Reznick took another gulp of the hot coffee. The caffeine jolt felt good. “I don’t know about you, but I’m struggling to get my head around what’s really going on. There are so many components. So many moving parts. We’re just scratching the surface. I mean, what the hell is going on here, Martha?”

  “We’re focused on the information Cortez has passed on, deliberately or inadvertently. He’s going to be interviewed. OPR is picking him up in half an hour.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Having a cup of coffee, strung out. And he’s remorseful.”

  “Well, that’s just great.”

  “Our top priority is finding Todd O’Keefe.”

  “I want to talk about this agent for a moment. What the hell went wrong?”

  “Drug habit, apparently. Started off innocuously on pain medication. Had some fall while out on a job. He was a fine special agent, by all accounts. But the addiction to the painkillers took hold. Oxycodone. Then heroin. Then he took methadone to cope after he came off the heroin. And also managed to function by popping Percocet, another opioid, to get through the day.”

  “Seriously?”

  Meyerstein nodded. “Awful, I know. But there’s also a woman in his life. A fiancée.”

  “Well, that sounds like a lovely twenty-first-century love story in the making.”

  “So we’re looking into her too.”

  Reznick gulped some of his coffee. “Let’s get back to what we know happened today. So, we’ve got eight cops dead, killed by the two O’Keefe brothers, who are now dead. A dead ex-cop, Jimmy Greer, killed by Charlie Campbell’s brother, who is now dead. Two more dead cops, killed by Todd O’Keefe, who is still on the loose. Am I missing something? This isn’t the kind of operation that was put together over a few beers at a bar. It couldn’t have been. This took serious planning.”

  Meyerstein began to pace the room, gazing out over the early-evening downtown skyline. “I know.”

  Reznick leaned back in the seat. “Did you learn anything more from Cortez?”

  “Mostly what I told you on the phone. He’s a functioning addict. And according to Cortez, he was being blackmailed by some guys who had photos of him taking drugs. They gave him an endless supply of heroin, and in return he ‘lost’ Robert O’Keefe’s note, but we also believe he persuaded a supervisory agent here in New York not to pursue the surveillance of the O’Keefes the FBI was actively involved with.”

  “It doesn’t just come down to one fucked-up special agent, though, surely.”

  “You’re talking about Campbell’s contacts and connections?”

  “Precisely. Greer mentioned the DEA and CIA.”

  “I’ve put together a team at HQ to examine this. It’s serious. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Martha, the FBI needs to be absolutely clear that this compromised agent was just the tip of the iceberg. It would be the easiest thing in the world to lay the blame solely on Cortez. Bottom line? I’m not buying that Cortez had inside knowledge on Greer, where he lived, and on the attorney general. You would need inside knowledge. I think that’s above his pay grade. And he’s just a fucking cog.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “US intelligence agencies, maybe CIA.”

  Meyerstein’s gaze wandered around the room as if she were deep in thought. “You have no proof of that.”

  “No, I don’t. That’s your responsibility.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of this, mark my words.”

  Reznick shook his head. “You know how it works. The blame is going to be put on Cortez. It’s the way it is. You need a fall guy. But a cursory look at what we know tells me that this doesn’t start and end with Cortez. True, he might have passed along classified information. But for the DOJ to get involved, and for Greer to get retired from the force for asking questions, means this all goes higher up. Someone wanted to shut down any investigation into Campbell, the link to drugs being run by the Brotherhood and MS-13, and the full extent of the O’Keefes’ involvement.”

  Meyerstein stared at him, stony faced.

  “Is that a fair assessment?”

  “It’s a damning assessment, Jon, I’ll give you that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “No one really knows, Jon.”

  “Do you think you’ll find out?”

  Meyerstein shrugged. “Intelligence gathering is sometimes all smoke and mirrors. But I believe your assessment has merit. I’ll be mentioning it to my team.”

  Reznick nodded.

  Meyerstein crossed her arms as she paced the room. She turned around, stopped, hands resting on the back of a chair opposite Reznick, staring him down. “You should know that our computer forensic examiners have accessed Cortez’s work and personal laptops. There are signs that he’s been passing sensitive, highly classified information about investigations, including into the O’Keefes, on to third parties.”

  Reznick stared at her.

  “We believe that some classified details were sent through a highly encrypted messaging system to a former college friend of his. DEA.”

  “Martha, that’s an outrageous breach.”

  Meyerstein sighed. “The investigation is still ongoing, but Cortez insists his fiancée is innocent. He’s talking freely, but we’re concerned for her safety.”

  “So where is she?”

  “That’s the thing. We don’t know. We’ve tried tracking her via her cell phone, but nothing. The problem for us is that she appears to be clean. Excellent employment record. But our analysts did find something.”

  “What’s that?”

  Meyerstein jabbed the remote at the huge screen and pressed a button. Up on the screen was a grainy color photo of two Hispanic guys, heavily tattooed. “We’ve also trawled the surveillance footage in and around Cortez’s apartment in Gowanus. These two charmers were caught on camera outside the agent’s apartment building on three separate occasions within the last month.”

  “I’m guessing they’re not neighborhood watch.”

  “Both are members of MS-13. And I don’t believe there are a lot of them in this part of Brooklyn. We’ve also just discovered that the fiancée’s parents are Mexican. And we are surmising that MS-13 have identified the girl, and approached her too, threatening her with violence to either her or her parents back in Mexico, unless she does them a favor. So they’ve got Cortez with photos using drugs, and they might have a hold over her too, with threats against her family.”

  “That would keep a lot of people in check.”

  “She might be part of MS-13, but I’m not buying it. I think she’s being targeted. That’s what my instincts are telling me, as well as the facts and her track record.” Meyerstein pressed another button on the remote, and a beaming picture of a pretty Latina girl appeared on the screen. “No tattoos. No markings. She’s a hardworking customs officer at JFK. Quite religious.”

  “JFK, huh? Which would be very useful to MS-13, with regards to smuggling, whether it’s people, drugs, you name it.”

  “That occurred to us too.”

  Reznick gulped down the rest of his coffee. “This day just gets crazier.”

  “We need to find her. And quick.”

  “First we need to find Todd O’Keefe.” Reznick looked out the window as the sky turned crimson. “July fourth. Fucking crazy, crazy day.”

  Meyerstein sighed. “I meant to tell you, we tried to contact Lauren, but we couldn’t get through. We can’t trace her location.”

  “I wonder if her phone died.”

  “That was about an hour and a half ag
o.”

  Reznick took out his cell phone and called his daughter. It rang six times before she finally answered.

  “Hey, Dad,” Lauren said breezily, as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

  Reznick gave a sigh of relief. “Thank God, honey. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you. So have the FBI.”

  “Ran out of juice after being out so late last night. No charger . . . But it’s fixed now.” The signal began to cut out. “I borrowed a charger from a friend.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m with my friends, Dad.”

  Reznick sat up in his seat. “Have you seen the news?”

  “Yes, I have, Dad. I know. It’s terrible.”

  “This is a serious ongoing situation. I’m concerned that you’re out there on the streets while this is all going on. This is dangerous. You’re not taking it seriously.”

  “This is New York, Dad. I love the city. I’m surrounded by millions of people. I’m not going anywhere. Do you think these nutcases who carried out the attacks are going to change me? Scare me? Not a chance. To hell with them.”

  Suddenly, a female agent burst into the room. “Ma’am, quick, it’s Cortez.”

  Reznick ended the call, brushed past Meyerstein, and followed the agent down a corridor to the restroom. Two officers were trying to kick down the locked door. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Cortez isn’t answering. He locked it from the inside.”

  Reznick said, “Step back!”

  The two Feds moved aside.

  Reznick pulled out his Beretta and fired two shots into the lock. It split apart and he kicked open the door. He rushed inside. But it was too late.

  Lying sprawled at the far stall, door open, was Cortez. Eyes shut, white powder and blood around his nose.

  Reznick rushed over and kneeled down. He pulled back Cortez’s eyelids. No pupil dilation. He turned around and looked up at the Feds in the doorway. “You got a medical kit? We need Narcan! And call the paramedics!”

  One of the Feds nodded and disappeared.

  Reznick slapped Cortez’s clammy face. “Wake up, Leon! You need to wake up!”

  A few moments later, the Fed returned with a medical backpack. He unzipped it and handed a Narcan nasal spray to Reznick.

  Reznick ripped off the packaging and removed the device. He inserted the nozzle into Cortez’s right nostril and firmly pressed the plunger, releasing the anti-opioid drugs into the nose. He checked his watch. “Still no sign of life. We need to bring him back quick!”

  The Fed kneeled beside him and took out a bag-valve mask. The manual resuscitator was placed carefully over Cortez’s mouth and nose.

  Reznick began to massage Cortez’s chest. “Come on, man, wake the fuck up! You can do this. But you gotta wake up.”

  The Fed took off the mask. “No response. Another dose?”

  Reznick nodded and inserted the Narcan nozzle into the left nostril and again pressed the plunger. “Come on, Leon, snap out of it!”

  The mask was again placed over Cortez’s mouth and nose as they desperately tried to revive the special agent.

  Reznick checked his watch. A full three minutes had gone. The seconds were ticking by. He clapped his hands in front of Cortez’s face. “Wake up, Leon! Snap out of it, man!” He saw a flicker in the eyelids. He looked at the Fed beside him. “Remove the mask.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it!”

  The Fed took the mask off Cortez’s face.

  Reznick cradled Cortez’s head and leaned in close. “Wake up, man! Wake up! Come on, man, just wake the fuck up! I know you’re in there.” His tone became sharper. “Come on, son, time to wake up!”

  Suddenly, Cortez opened his eyes wide, gasping for air.

  Twenty-Five

  Perez felt in a happier frame of mind after speaking to Leon. She walked toward his tiny apartment in Gowanus, just off Ninth Street, overlooking the canal. The drink had taken the edge off her nerves. She sidestepped a pile of vomit and dog shit on the sidewalk. It wasn’t the nicest part of Brooklyn, that was for sure. But as far as she was concerned, it was a hell of a lot better than Hempstead.

  She liked the bohemian vibe. And no one knew her here. That was an attraction. She liked the cool bars. The buzz. It was fantastically close to Manhattan. But it was also perfect for accessing the nice restaurants in upscale Park Slope, and the delightful Prospect Park.

  She loved nothing better than walking in Prospect Park with Leon, usually on a Sunday, which fit in with their work schedules. She wondered if they would ever be in a position to buy their own home. Maybe not in Park Slope, because that was just crazy. But maybe somewhere nearby. Gowanus would be fine. She hoped they could get a nice place, perhaps with room for her mother and father. She missed her mother’s company very much. She envisioned looking after her parents more and more. She knew they would help her get Leon back on the straight and narrow.

  Perhaps more than anything, she daydreamed of having kids, moving to Brooklyn with Leon, even if they only rented. She imagined herself pushing a stroller, not having to worry about lowlifes, gangs, and God knew what in Hempstead, and enjoying what the city had to offer.

  The more she thought about it, the more she wanted a few children. Four. Why not? She loved kids. Eventually, Leon would earn a promotion at the FBI. He could get his master’s degree. Study nights. She had also thought of going to college and majoring in international business. A friend from her high school days had started at Hofstra University in Hempstead and was loving it. Perez had watched the way her friend seemed to blossom. She talked about books, business, the internet, deals, Bloomberg, on and on. She seemed like she suddenly had a career to look forward to, as opposed to a job.

  Perez longed to put the bullshit lines she had to contend with at JFK behind her. Having to check surly passengers and their families. Some could speak only Spanish and accused her of discriminating against people from Guatemala, Mexico, El Salvador, or wherever they were flying in from. She invariably tried to explain, in perfect Spanish, that her parents were from Mexico, and she didn’t discriminate against anyone, but only wanted to stop visitors whose visas were not in order, or who might be in possession of drugs or other contraband. But they continued to regard her with suspicion. It was draining. Depressing. It ground her down.

  Perez didn’t want that life anymore. She wanted a family life. Stability. In recent months, she and Leon had talked about her moving in. She had a key to his apartment. And that was when she discovered, for the first time, the shocking fact that Leon was a functioning opiate addict. She was devastated. She had been helping him kick his habit since then. He had taken methadone for a while. It seemed to settle him down. She had put him in touch with drug therapy units. But only two weeks earlier, she had seen the burnt aluminum foil in the trash in his apartment’s tiny galley-style kitchen. He was back on the junk.

  Perez wanted to believe in him. She wanted to believe it was an aberration. But the reality was staring her in the face: Leon was chasing the dragon again. He said it was only oxycodone to ease his pain. But the new marks on his arm told another story. Whatever it was, she knew he still couldn’t shake it. She had tried to get him to see an addiction counselor. Maybe even a psychologist to talk through his problems. But to no avail. He was terrified that it would get out, and his secret would be revealed to his bosses at the FBI.

  What amazed her most was that he was still able to function. Usually he took a Percocet and he would get through the day, all smiles. Then when he came home, exhausted, he would do a bit of junk, invariably laced with fentanyl. She sometimes wondered how his bosses didn’t notice. But Leon was very good at masking both his feelings and any minor ailments.

  She had tried to nurse him through withdrawal a couple of months earlier during a one-week vacation. She’d watched over him, making sure he wasn’t taking anything. She fed him soup, vitamins, and water. But Leon’s cold turkey was bad. He sweated, craw
led the walls, like he had the worst flu in the world. He was like a caged animal. Somehow, despite the drug cravings, in that week he got off the opiates. No drugs. Zero. But the next time she saw him, she could tell he was back on it. His eyes were sunken, red, tired, glazed.

  Perez wondered if it was worth it, trying to change her addict fiancé. Her friends had told her that she was crazy and that he had to get clean before she should consider marrying him. But she persevered. She loved him. And she thought he loved her too.

  Perez was afraid. Leon’s addiction was turning criminal. He just shrugged it off. With a nonchalance, maybe arrogance, she didn’t like to see in him. A side of him she hadn’t seen before.

  She often wondered if she shouldn’t have just cut and run. Her father had been an alcoholic as a young man, and her mother, virtually a saint in his eyes, had nursed him until he became sober. Clean and healthy from his thirtieth birthday onward. Perez was no saint. She didn’t want to be a saint, a Mother Teresa, or anything like that. But something within her, something deep within the very fiber of her being, would not let her abandon her fiancé. Just like her mother had with her father, she felt as if she could save Leon.

  Perez believed Leon’s intimate knowledge of the gangs, informers, dealers, and enforcers had gotten him too easily embroiled in their world. The painkillers had led to addiction, which led to him knowing exactly which gangbangers to go to for more drugs. The very people he’d spent his career trying to stop now had a hold over him. The fact that now they had decided to make contact with her too was very worrying. She thought it was just a matter of time before they asked her to usher their drug mules through her line at JFK.

  She felt trapped. In a bind. But how to escape?

  A car alarm in the distance snapped Perez out of her daydream. She was close to Leon’s apartment.

  Something—maybe a prickle at the back of her neck—made her sense she was being watched. She turned around. In the distance, the pickup truck came into view. Inside were the same two gangbangers. They had tailed her to Gowanus. But how? She had taken the train. Were they tracking her cell phone? Or was it only coincidence that they’d ended up near Leon’s apartment at the same time she arrived?