by J. B. Turner
O’Keefe watched as a grin enveloped his face. “Motherfucker!”
He headed out of his room, locked the door, and took the elevator to the lobby. He walked out of the crummy hotel and onto the boiling Midtown streets.
It was a short walk to the parking garage.
O’Keefe climbed the stairwell to the top level, heart beating hard. His gaze wandered around the vast concrete space. Three other cars were parked at the far side of the garage. At the other end, opposite another stairwell, was an elevator door. He scanned for the exits and entrances. He had gotten his bearings.
He kneeled down and took off the backpack. Unzipped it and pulled out the contents, quickly assembled the rifle, loaded the magazine, attached the sights.
Then he fixed it to a tripod, placed it on the perimeter wall, and scanned the area.
O’Keefe spotted the glass lobby of the Theodore Building. He waited for only a minute. Then the BMW pulled up.
The passenger in the front seat, who he assumed was a cop, got out and opened the back door.
O’Keefe stared through the crosshairs. A besuited figure with a dark tan got out, then turned his head toward the cop. It was him. The fucker who had put Charlie Campbell away all those fucking years ago. The guy who had signed the warrant for his arrest that led to his murder.
He took aim.
“Right, you son of a bitch.”
O’Keefe squeezed the trigger twice. The shots rang out.
The attorney general collapsed, not moving. People screaming.
In that split second, both cops crouched over the body, out of sight.
“Fuck!”
O’Keefe ducked for cover, lying sprawled on the roof. He disassembled the tripod and rifle and put the parts into the backpack. He crawled with the backpack to the nearest dark stairwell, with only one bit of business left to attend to.
Thirty-One
Reznick’s headset buzzed to life. It was Meyerstein.
“Jon, the attorney general of New York has just been assassinated.”
“We heard some shots.”
“The NYPD ShotSpotter system just flagged it. It’s three blocks from you guys.”
He looked across at Fogerty, who was pointing out that another unit already had that area covered. “So how did the shooter, whoever it is, know where the AG was going to be?”
“We’re exploring the possibility of a leak somewhere.”
“Martha, what the hell? I would’ve thought that the attorney general would have been taken somewhere ultra-secure, like a military facility.”
“He didn’t want to go, apparently. Thought it best to draw up a legal response to the killings with his advisers.”
“Also, don’t we have guys on the roofs?”
“We do, but they can’t cover everything. Besides, the incident happened a few blocks away from the busiest part of Times Square.”
“So he’s able to take shots and get away? Just like that?”
“Not good, I know.”
“You really need to try and get people out of Times Square.”
“I know. The NYPD are quietly moving them north.”
“It’s not going to work in the time frame.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. We don’t know his next move. But we have to do something. We absolutely cannot go on Twitter or Facebook and tell people to get off the streets. Bottom line? There are no good options to clear the streets.”
“What a fucking mess,” he said.
“We’ll catch him. I’m confident of that. And we have hundreds of people working on this.”
“Martha, there are literally tens of thousands of people walking in and around the Times Square area. I’m no good where I am. I need to be mobile.”
“Jon, the situation is very fluid. It would be best if there wasn’t another undercover operative trying to find him. Besides, it’s a long, long shot.”
Reznick’s decision clicked into place. “Here’s what I want. I want a discreet earpiece, lapel mic badge, and I want to get right into the heart of Times Square myself and be guided by FBI surveillance operatives as to what is happening in real time. Here, I’m just sitting, watching, and waiting.”
Meyerstein sighed. “I’d really prefer it if you just stayed with the ESU guys.”
“It’s too reactive. Besides, these guys have no use for me. Also, another ESU is taking care of the shooter three blocks away. I need to get seriously proactive if we’re going to stand a chance.” There was a silence on the other end as if Meyerstein were weighing her options.
“OK,” she finally said, “I can arrange that. We’ll have one of our guys with you in the next five minutes. I’ll be able to speak to you directly too. But listen to me. While I understand what you did out in Brooklyn, ideally we only shoot to prevent loss of life. Can you remember that?”
“That’s assuming I can get near this guy. I’m guessing it must be Todd O’Keefe.”
“That’s what we think,” Meyerstein said.
“He’s like a goddamn ghost, drifting in and out of places unseen.”
“We have to assume that he had insider information on the attorney general’s movements. Someone within the AB is clearly calling the shots.”
“One more thing,” Reznick said. “I’m looking out the back of an Emergency Service Unit armored truck, and I don’t hear or see any choppers.”
“There should be two choppers. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
“Negative. And a chopper is crucial for checking rooftops. Maybe high-floor windows.”
“I’ll get my team to check on that, Jon.”
“Maybe they’re up there. But I sure as hell haven’t seen them or heard them.”
“I’ll take care of it. You take care of yourself.”
Reznick ripped off the headset and bulletproof vest. He apologized to the guys for wasting their time. But they just wished him luck.
Fogerty said, “If you find him first, don’t spare the fucker. He and his crew left widows all over New York.”
Reznick smiled. “Take care, son. Be safe.”
A few minutes later, a Fed pulled up in a car.
Reznick climbed in the front, and they sped off toward Times Square. He fitted himself with the new earpiece and lapel mic.
The Fed said, “You OK?”
Reznick shook his head. “No, I’m not OK. My daughter’s out there somewhere at this vigil.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Jon.”
Reznick sighed. “Can I ask you a question? How is this guy able to evade electronic surveillance and physical detection in the middle of New York City? We only get a visual on him for a brief moment, then it all goes dark.”
“Do you know how many cameras the NYPD has across this city? It’s literally thousands. And they’re also able to call on private stakeholders, companies like Goldman Sachs, J.P. Morgan, and a host of others across the city. The NYPD Argus system is all over the city. They also have license plate readers for cars, cabs, trucks, you name it. If it moves, they should have it covered.”
“So then how is this guy able to move about so freely without popping up on facial recognition or being spotted?”
“He could be staying indoors, or taking certain steps to disguise his appearance. And a lot of these cameras use wireless technology to transmit these images and footage back in real time to downtown police HQ.”
“So . . . if he had a jammer in his possession, that might help?”
The Fed was quiet for a few moments. “Do we know if this guy has a jammer?”
“Nope. But I imagine if you have a device that can jam radio signals or cell phones, it could potentially be useful.”
“Here’s the thing. My wife is a cop. Detective in New Jersey. She told me about a guy a few months back who bought a cell phone jammer online from China. When the guy was on the subway, and someone was talking too loud, he would jam the cell phone, ending the conversation. Guy was a sociopath. But the little signal-jamming trick he
pulled was how he was caught.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“So, it might explain why we haven’t gotten him so far.”
“The sooner we neutralize this fucker, the better.”
“Stay safe tonight, Jon. And best of luck. Think we’re going to need it.”
Reznick got out of the vehicle in the heart of Times Square. Huge neon-lit billboards towered all around, advertising TVs, cell phones, and God knows what else. Tens of thousands of people thronged the sidewalks and streets. Car horns and police sirens and the hubbub of the crowd assaulted his senses. He stood, earpiece in, wearing a metallic Stars and Stripes lapel badge hiding the miniature microphone inside it. He knew that the sniper could have anyone within a square mile in his sights. The crowds jostled past, as if oblivious to the attacks earlier that day. Nothing was going to spoil their Fourth of July night. Headed to shows, concerts, bars, restaurants. The reality hit home. To clear the Times Square area and vicinity would mean shutting down New York. It might have been possible. But it would be chaotic and would almost certainly not foil whatever Todd O’Keefe had in mind that night.
As far as Reznick was concerned, Todd O’Keefe, wherever he was, was intent on taking down more cops before the night was over, or dying while he tried.
Reznick surveyed the people all around. Men and women, black and white, all sizes and demeanors. It was virtually impossible to tell the tourists and visitors from the native New Yorkers enjoying Independence Day. Traffic cops tried to keep things moving. The crowds seemed to be growing. How was that possible?
Reznick’s thoughts turned to his daughter. Lauren couldn’t be far from him. But where the hell was she? He spoke into the lapel badge mic. “Quick question: Where is the vigil?”
Meyerstein said, “Let me see . . . The vigil is currently two blocks south of you. At the intersection of Forty-Fourth and Broadway.”
Reznick was sorely tempted to head straight there and be beside his daughter. He figured she must have been just around the corner from him when he was with the ESU. He wished he’d known, as he would definitely have headed straight there. But now he was torn whether to be with her or stay put, ready to take this fucker down.
“How you feeling, Jon?”
“I’ve felt better.” The fact of the matter was Reznick felt agitated. O’Keefe could pop up anywhere at any moment. Every one of the thousands of people there right then was in danger. But mostly he was agitated thinking about his daughter, putting herself in harm’s way when she didn’t have to.
“You’re worrying about Lauren, aren’t you? It’s natural, Jon. But she’s a smart kid.”
Reznick sighed. “I’d prefer if she was off the streets tonight. After what happened this morning . . .”
“She wants to exert her independence. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“She’ll be fine. Besides, this guy’s MO seems to be cops.”
“You’re forgetting the attorney general.”
“True.”
“What possessed him to kill the attorney general? It’s insane.”
“We believe this is directly related to Campbell’s conviction a decade ago. The AG prosecuted. But he was also the one who recently gave the go-ahead for the NYPD to arrest Campbell on drug smuggling, intimidation, and violence, under RICO. That arrest resulted in Campbell’s death.”
“Martha, I’m dying down here. It’s just watching and waiting. It’s killing me.”
Meyerstein sighed. “We got some footage of O’Keefe leaving a budget hotel near Penn Station, carrying a backpack. Dropped off the grid in the last hour.”
“Again? You’ve got to be kidding me. And he just disappeared?”
“Looks like he caught an Uber headed north on Eighth Avenue. We think Times Square is the ultimate destination. It’s the busiest locale. He may be lying low after taking out the AG.”
“And we don’t know where those shots were fired from?”
“We have a good idea. There’s a parking garage nearby, so we’re wondering if this is part of a plan, the same ploy he used when he was down in lower Manhattan.”
“This guy is getting help. He’s not acting alone.”
“We know that.”
“So where the fuck is he? Is he using a signal jammer? That’s what I’m thinking. The FBI driver who dropped me off mentioned the same thing.”
“Look, we’re working the problem, Jon.”
“That’s not good enough. You’ve got to be able to pull this guy out of a crowd. Otherwise, what’s the point of all those cameras and technology?”
“It’s not a perfect solution. Not yet. It’s getting better.”
“There are cops everywhere, and they are all sitting targets, as are those around them. And my daughter—”
“Hang on . . .”
“What?”
The silence was deafening on the other end of the line.
“Martha, what is it?”
“Stand by, Jon.”
Reznick felt wired, a mixture of adrenaline and Dexedrine coursing through his veins.
“Got an update . . .”
A guy brushed past and snapped, “Why the fuck are you stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, dumb ass? This is New York, asshole.”
Reznick ignored the idiot. “Martha, what the hell is going on?”
“One of our facial-recognition guys found him. In the back seat of a car, an Uber.”
“So where is he?”
“We believe he left a parking garage off Thirty-Ninth and Broadway.”
“Where the fuck is he right now?”
Thirty-Two
Todd O’Keefe was headed along West Forty-Third Street, backpack slung over his shoulder. He spotted a neon sign outside a shitty-looking hotel. No cameras. No surveillance. A rarity in New York.
He was certainly becoming an aficionado of crap hotel rooms in the city. He paid cash and took the elevator to the fifteenth floor, suitcase in hand. Headed down a bleak corridor with cigarette burns on the carpet. He unlocked the door and went inside. His misgivings were well founded. The smell of piss was overwhelming. He was careful to lock the door again behind him.
O’Keefe looked around. The whiff of nicotine and piss reminded him of the penitentiary. He went over to the bed. Brown and yellow flowers adorned the nylon duvet cover.
He pulled back the duvet and all the sheets to reveal the filthy mattress. Dirty brown stains like blotches on the skin. Perhaps bedbugs. Perhaps blood. Perhaps someone had shit themselves in the bed. A fleabag hotel. He had seen better conditions inside prison.
No matter, this was where it was going to go down.
O’Keefe unzipped a side pocket of the backpack. He pulled out the methamphetamine tablets. He popped ten of them, crunched them, and washed them down with some warm water from the faucet.
Within fifteen minutes, he was wired, raging, and ready for the endgame. Like a fire ablaze in his head, whipped up by hurricane-force winds. It was a good feeling. And what a great day to end it. Independence Day. Right in the heart of Gotham.
Those fuckers would pay. They would pay, alright.
O’Keefe began to pace the tiny room. He felt an itch on his arm. He began to scratch feverishly. Clawing at his forearms. He felt like he was entering a distorted, trippy nightmare from which he wouldn’t emerge. Then again, maybe he would.
He picked up the remote and switched on the TV. Fox News was still showing pictures of his brothers.
He turned away.
O’Keefe got down on the floor. He began to do push-ups. Then sit-ups. He felt an insane energy within him. But he also felt a terrible, cheery malevolence begin to take hold. He looked up at the TV as he worked out. A photo of Charlie Campbell appeared.
O’Keefe smiled. He stared at the TV and thought back to his childhood. He remembered as a boy watching Celebrity Deathmatch on MTV with Charlie. And the Madonna videos. George Michael. They both couldn’t stop laughing.
He pick
ed up the remote and switched to MTV. Some dumb-ass hip-hop clown, throwing gang signs, bass-heavy beats, interspersed with images of the goofball knocking back champagne, surrounded by silicone chicks in bikinis. The lame wannabe tough guy would be killed in prison. No question. Probably by his own side. O’Keefe had seen bigmouth troublemakers sliced open within seconds of talking trash or talking big to some serious dudes. It never played out well.
He remembered one white guy, big name, big tough-guy reputation, New Jersey, blue-collar trash talker, walking around the yard. Swaggering, covered in tattoos. But the tattoos meant nothing. They weren’t AB tattoos or Nazi Low Rider tattoos.
It was Celtic crosses, iconography, all over his neck and arms. Crosses here, there, and everywhere. Knuckles, forehead, like it meant something.
When O’Keefe casually looked across at him in the yard, the guy, who was six foot six, towering over him, looked down at him and spat at his feet. “Fuck you looking at, asshole? You want some? Huh, you wanna come ahead and get some?”
O’Keefe just stared at him, homemade shank already hidden behind his back. He was always prepared to fight. He had Charlie to thank for that.
“What the fuck is the matter with you, you little fuck? Whose bitch are you?”
A friend of the huge guy whispered in his ear.
“My friend says you might be one of the Brand,” the big guy said. “You don’t look like much to me. No way would the Brotherhood allow you in. You ain’t got the balls.”
O’Keefe smiled at him, knowing that would infuriate the hulk.
The poor fucker took a few steps forward and reached out to grab O’Keefe by the neck. O’Keefe simply parried the huge arm and thrust forward, knifing the giant in the neck. Again and again. Then down into his face. And eyes. Again. And again. The guy bled out within seconds.
No one did a fucking thing. No guards saw a thing. It was business.
The hip-hop brain-mush on the TV was relentless.
O’Keefe felt a surge of excitement through his body knowing what he was going to do. He hated the music. But he turned up the volume. The bass got louder. He felt seriously crazy. The methamphetamine was frying his brain and blood. He felt his blood pressure begin to rise. He found himself clenching his fist. Grinding his teeth. He felt the veins and muscles in his neck tightening.
