by J. B. Turner
“My daughter is there.”
Meyerstein rubbed her temple. “I know, Jon. If I wasn’t working here, I’d head straight there and get her out immediately myself.”
“Can’t the NYPD, plainclothes, whoever, just get down there and gradually start easing people away from the area?”
“I think they’re doing that, but you know what people are like. They’re stubborn. And I’ve just seen surveillance footage in and around Times Square, and it’s rarely looked busier. It’s impossible without just driving them off the streets. But doing so also might result in panic, a stampede, God knows what.”
“Makes sense. I get that. Heart attacks, anxiety, all that.”
“Precisely. Jon, I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’ve earned a serious rest. You need to call it a day and we’ll handle it.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Jon, are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard.” Reznick paused. “Martha, he’s still on the loose, and my daughter is down there. I’m not leaving until this is over.”
Meyerstein sighed. “Jon, you’re running on empty.”
“I’m fine. Trust me. Listen, can you do me a favor?”
“What kind of favor?”
“Get me embedded with an NYPD Emergency Service Unit. I don’t think I’m the flavor of the month with FBI SWAT. Well, at least with their leader.”
“We’ve got Times Square covered.”
“I need to be there. I need to do something.”
“This is irregular, Jon.”
“I’ve been hearing a lot of that today, Martha, trust me.”
She wondered if it was wise to put Reznick in the middle of it all, especially after the day he’d had. “My concern is you’re flat-out exhausted.”
“Let me worry about that.”
Meyerstein sighed. “OK, leave it to me.”
“Appreciate that. One more thing.”
“What?”
“I need someone to find Lauren. I’ve tried calling her. She’s not answering.”
Meyerstein stared at the screen where CNN was covering the vigil close to the middle of Times Square. “I’ll do my best. But Jon?”
“What?”
“Be careful. This guy is not going to go down without a fight.”
“That’s fine. Neither am I.”
Twenty-Nine
Reznick was dropped off with an NYPD Emergency Service Unit, three blocks from Times Square. Then he was given a bulletproof vest and a headset that hooked him up with all the other members of the group. But he was also able to receive direct messages from the FBI tactical command HQ.
He climbed into the back of the Lenco BearCat armored personnel carrier, eating a slice of pizza, washed down with a bottle of cold water. The day’s exertions had taken a lot out of him.
Reznick felt drained. He really needed to rest. Recharge his batteries. Sleep. He felt his mind drifting, still processing what had happened, not as sharp as he needed it to be. Not by a long shot.
A huge ESU guy sat down with him and introduced himself. “Danny Fogerty,” he said, extending his hand.
Reznick shook his hand. “Hey, Danny.”
“Just wanted to say, real privilege to have you with us. I believe you know a friend of mine, Detective Acosta, Nineteenth Precinct.”
“Yeah, sure, I remember her well. How is she?”
“She’s good. She told me all about what happened to your daughter last year, and how you took down that UN diplomat.”
Reznick sighed. “A lot of other people were involved in that, Danny. But nice of you to say so.”
Fogerty nodded. “I used to work in and around the United Nations, many years ago, as a patrol cop. Let me just say, I’m with you. A sorrier bunch of people I never had the misfortune to meet.”
“Hey, that was then, this is now. We need to focus on this Todd O’Keefe. What do you say?”
Fogerty cleared his throat and leaned in close. “I’m also hearing you took down the crew in the Bronx this morning? That’s awesome, man. Did you really do that?”
Reznick finished eating his pizza, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and dropped it on the floor. He liked Fogerty. But he didn’t have any wish to elaborate on what had happened earlier that day. Besides, he always felt slightly uncomfortable getting a pat on the back for the things he did. He just wanted to get the job done and go home.
“Well, I just wanted you to know I really admire that.”
“Appreciate that, thanks. So, what’s the latest intel? You want to bring me up to speed?”
“They’re assuming O’Keefe has dumped his vehicle and is blending in with the crowds. There are countless undercover cops looking for him. But it’s like finding a needle in a haystack.”
“What about vantage points?”
“We’ve got snipers on rooftops.”
Reznick got quiet for a few moments, again thinking of Lauren. “That’s good.”
“Anyway, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Likewise.” Reznick felt a wave of tiredness wash over him. He needed something to pep him up. He reached into his back pocket and took out a tinfoil pack of Dexedrine, squeezed out four pills, and popped them in his mouth. He washed them down with the water. He knew it was bad for his mind and body. He really needed to get clean. Maybe at least cut down on his amphetamine intake. He needed to quiet his mind. Curb the fires raging within him. Taking the pills was like pouring kerosene on smoldering ashes. It needed to stop. Somehow. Sometime.
“What’s that you’re taking, man?” Fogerty asked.
“Vitamins.”
“Bullshit, that’s not vitamins.”
Reznick stared at Fogerty and smiled. “Something to keep me awake. That’s all.”
“That give you an edge?”
“Keeps me going. It’s been a long, long day.”
“You think we’ll get him tonight?”
“We have to, or there are going to be more dead cops on the streets of New York.”
Thirty
O’Keefe disappeared down some stairs and into the bowels of Penn Station. He wore a backpack as he headed to a restroom. He stood in front of the mirror and looked at his grizzled, unkempt appearance, his dirty clothes. He unzipped the backpack and took out the toiletries bag, complete with a razor and shaving gel. He rubbed the gel into his beard until it was a thick lather. Then with great care, he began to shave the six-month growth from his face. When he was finished, he splashed cold water on his cheeks, wiping away the excess foam with paper towels.
He took off his dirty shirt and threw it on the floor. He opened the backpack wider and pulled out the fresh set of clothes. New white shirt, jeans, black Nike sneakers, and a navy blazer. Then he put on a black Yankees hat.
He stared at his reflection and grinned. He looked like a new person. The AB symbols and tattoos were hidden. He knew the Brotherhood had some smart people in their ranks, including ex-military who knew about getting around and trying to evade capture.
O’Keefe put on a pair of aviator shades. He stared at himself. He almost burst out laughing at how different he looked. He ditched the bag in a stall. Then he walked out of the restroom and took an elevator to the ground level.
The crowds were swarming all around him like shoals of fish. He headed out of the station and into the humid night air. A couple blocks later, he found a Dunkin’ Donuts. He was in desperate need of sustenance. He ordered two donuts and a sweet white coffee. It tasted great. He felt his sugar levels rising.
The place was packed, people talking loudly. The sound of some hip-hop shit punctuated the chatter. He turned around and saw a black kid with silver Beats headphones hanging around his neck. The music he was listening to was spilling out for everyone to hear. The kid began harassing and haranguing the black woman behind the counter about having to wait in line.
&nbs
p; O’Keefe was tempted to walk up to the arrogant little fuck and stab him in the neck. He’d lost count of the number of times a loudmouth inmate had gotten shanked for talking big. The codes of conduct inside were different. But out on the street, no one was constrained. You could act how you wanted without any consequences.
He picked up a napkin and wiped the sugar and dregs of coffee from his lips. On his way out he brushed past the loud black kid, who looked surprised. He shot the kid a glance and he averted his gaze. The loudmouth wasn’t as dumb as he looked.
O’Keefe went next door to a luggage storage facility. He handed over his ticket and signed for a suitcase that had been dropped off for him. The Hispanic kid behind the counter cheerfully handed over the large Samsonite with wheels. He handed the boy fifty dollars, told him to keep the change.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
O’Keefe grinned. “Buy your mother something nice.”
The kid smiled back. “Yeah, I will, thanks.”
O’Keefe walked a few blocks, pulling the case behind him. He checked into a one-star hostel that had been carefully selected. The filthy lobby smelled of stale smoke, cooking oil, and a faint whiff of hashish.
The girl behind the desk was chewing on some gum. She said it would be forty-five dollars for his room.
O’Keefe could only imagine the shithole room he’d get for that price. He paid in cash and took the elevator to his squalid twelfth-floor room. Sticky carpet—booze had been spilled and never cleaned. He locked the door and looked out of the window. The neon lights of Times Square shone a few hundred yards away.
He shut the curtains and switched on Fox News. It was wall-to-wall coverage of the attacks. Faces of his two older brothers again on the screen. The more he saw them, the more tense he felt.
O’Keefe felt a raw anger stirring within him. A black anger. It had abated since he had killed the two female cops. But the sight of his brothers’ faces on TV had triggered something deep within him again.
O’Keefe knew the net would be closing in on him soon. He could sense it. He knew the license plate readers around the city would all be on the lookout. He knew face-recognition technology could find him. Or perhaps it would just be down to bad luck. But from the moment the AB had given the order to avenge Charlie Campbell, O’Keefe had known this day would arrive. This precise moment. Just him alone. It was his responsibility. He faced it with pride that he was part of it, but also that he was helping the AB and his two brothers avenge a good man. A legend.
O’Keefe lay back on the bed, listening to the voices of the newscasters droning on. He began to collect his thoughts. His mind flashed back to the night that his eldest brother had left. His fearsome stepfather had gathered the three remaining brothers for a “man’s meeting” in the nearby woods. So they could talk without their mother overhearing anything. They were teenagers. Wild. Rebellious. But he remembered the look on his stepfather’s face and the tone of his voice that night.
What had impressed Todd was that Charlie Campbell never spoke ill of Bobby, despite Bobby and Campbell not getting on from day one. Even when he left, Campbell just said to him, “I wish you all the best, son.” His mother broke down and wept as she hugged her eldest son goodbye. He remembered that Bobby never looked back. He just hugged his mother, wiped away her tears, and walked out the door to the waiting cab. Their mother watched at the window, sobbing nonstop. Then she went into her room and didn’t come out until the following morning. An hour after she went to bed, Charlie took Todd and his brothers into the woods. And what he said that night stuck with Todd. He remembered it almost verbatim, the message was so powerful to him:
You must never, ever talk about your brother in a disrespectful manner. There’s a whole bunch of people that’ll talk about you boys. You’ll soon find that out. Maybe they’ll talk about me. It might be neighbors. Maybe guys in the neighborhood. And that’s fine. But we do not, as a family, bad-mouth Bobby. Not now, not ever. I loved Bobby, and I still love him. I know you love Bobby too. He’s your blood. I’ve tried my best. But he’s looking for a different sort of life. Maybe in the big city he’ll find it. And I hope he does well. But you boys, while he has walked out on the family, never talk about him, unless it’s to talk fondly. Don’t ever forget that. But there’s something else. You need to know that I will never walk away from you boys. I will lay down my life to protect you and your mother. I swear, I will never desert you.
Charlie Campbell was true to his word. He never did desert them. He was a bad-to-the-bone motherfucker. But he was always nice to their mother. And he was great with them. They paid attention to him. He demanded it. Todd listened in rapt amazement as Campbell talked of how a man should carry himself. How he should stand up for what he believed in. He believed in blood oaths. It was a given that if someone did harm to their “blood,” vengeance had to be exacted.
He remembered hearing the news about Charlie’s death. A phone call from his mother. Her voice was a whisper, as if she were afraid someone would overhear her. It was tinged with anger. Regret. She was going to be alone again. And the money might very well dry up. She had put away twenty or thirty thousand dollars, she had once confided, in a safe-deposit box. Money Charlie had made from his “work.” O’Keefe knew the money would be used up within weeks. Maybe months if she was lucky. His mother was never good with money.
He thought of his mother now. How she had to be feeling. He imagined she would be looking out of the kitchen window. That’s how he always remembered her. Watching and waiting for her blood. Like a sentinel. He wanted to call her. He could only imagine the despair she was feeling. The depths of darkness to which she must have plummeted. But she wouldn’t understand their motivations. It was about honor. Blood and honor. Besides, he knew the Feds would either be ransacking her home or have the line bugged by now. She would have seen the news. And she would be praying to God, asking how her boys could have been the snipers. It wouldn’t make sense to her. She knew they were no angels. They’d all been to prison. But she never did understand, or want to understand, the extent and ramifications of Charlie Campbell’s involvement in white prison gang culture.
By the end of the day, his mother would have lost three of her boys. Only Bobby, the smart one, the oldest brother, would be left. Todd had always liked Bobby. He remembered Bobby liked to read. Day-old copies of the New York Times, National Geographic magazines that Campbell bought, or library books—mostly biographies of long-dead economists. Todd sometimes sat down beside him and looked at the pictures in the paper, leaning over his shoulder. Bobby never minded. But Bobby did mind Charlie. It was as if everything Charlie did—the way he ate, the way he talked, the things he talked about—infuriated Bobby. The day Bobby moved out, Todd could see the look of emptiness in his mother’s eyes. A little part of her died that day.
The three remaining brothers just did as Charlie said. They never talked badly of Bobby. They didn’t want to demean their brother’s memory. They knew they were simply different from him.
His cell phone rang, stirring Todd from his memories.
“Mr. O’Keefe,” drawled Mills.
Todd sat up. “How you doing?”
“I thought you’d like to hear some news. Some news that just came my way in the last five minutes.”
“I’m listening.”
“Just heard that the attorney general for New York has had a change of plans. Will be getting dropped off at the Theodore Building, three blocks from you, in the next few minutes. Emergency meeting with his advisers in a private meeting room within the law firm Strauss and Strauss, apparently.”
“Go on.”
“I know that area well. And I also know that if you go to the top of a nearby Midtown parking garage, where I used to do some dealing, there is a perfect line of sight from the top level to the building entrance, due west.”
“Due west, huh? How do you know he’ll be there?”
“People tell me things. Especially when they know their loved ones co
uld be killed.”
“Are we positive about this?”
“Oh yeah. He’s going to be driven there and dropped off out front. They got him out of his office in lower Manhattan. He’s en route, I’ve been told. You might have time. Obviously I don’t want to put pressure on you, son. The main focus should be the last phase of the operation. But I thought you’d want to know.”
“Who’s protecting him?”
“That’s the beauty of it. New York’s finest. Couple of plainclothes cops. The vehicle is a black BMW SUV. Brand-new model. New York plates.”
O’Keefe’s mind began to picture the setup.
“It’s up to you. You’ve already cemented your reputation, son. Charlie would’ve been proud.”
O’Keefe felt his throat tighten. “I’m wondering what Charlie would’ve done in the circumstances. If he would’ve taken it on.”
“Charlie was always full on. He pushed boundaries. Didn’t ask questions. He would just do it or die trying. He was a stubborn old bastard.”
“And the AG was definitely the guy who got Charlie put away and signed the order for the arrest that killed him?”
“That’s the name given to us by our contact in the Agency. He’s the one. Fucker got lucky not being home this afternoon.”
“One final question. I’m just curious. What would you do in my shoes?”
The shot caller sighed. “That’s your choice. I can’t make it for you, brother.”
O’Keefe felt the adrenaline begin to flow. He had heard enough. “I’ll take it from here.”
He ended the call. The rush felt like a freight train running through his head. And he loved it.
The first thing he did was unlock the suitcase on the bed. He opened it up. Inside was a 9mm Glock, locked and loaded. He tucked it inside his waistband. Then he put a black shirt on over it. The suitcase had a false bottom. He ripped it open and saw a backpack, which contained rifle parts and high-capacity magazines. He flung the backpack over his shoulder and checked himself in the mirror again. Shit, he could be anyone. A tourist.
