by J. B. Turner
She had to think. She needed a plan. And she needed to stay alive. She wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Her mother had never had a chance. But she did.
“They’ll be looking for me. Hunting me down. But I’m ready for them. I think I might’ve bought some time. Maybe be able to disappear up north. Canada.”
“They’ll catch you. You’d be better off surrendering.”
The driver began to laugh. “The moment you stop fighting is the moment you surrender. I don’t surrender. To you or anyone. I fight. I survive.”
His insane eyes found hers in the rearview mirror. “Bet you don’t bump into too many Aryan Brotherhood guys where you come from. Bet we’re not the kind of guys you usually hang out with, am I right?”
“Please,” she said, “I’m begging you, just drop us off, I’ll get him out, and you can drive off.”
“Just like that, huh?”
“I’m asking you for mercy.”
“Mercy? Like the mercy the cops showed when they strangled my father? He was screaming for air, but they didn’t give a damn about mercy.”
“Please, you need to let us out.”
“I don’t need to do anything. Your voice reminds me of a teacher I used to have. She never liked me because I never listened to her. Blabbing away. Why don’t you just shut the fuck up? This is probably the most fun you’ve had in your whole fucking wretched life!”
The driver began to laugh some more. “Helluva day in New York City.”
Thirty-Eight
Reznick was sitting in the back of an SUV, squashed in with a couple of Feds as they sped across the west side of Manhattan and down into the Lincoln Tunnel. The lights of the tunnel and beams from oncoming vehicles flashed by. His mind was racing like an out-of-control freight train. He thought of Lauren at the mercy of that sick maniac. He wondered how she was coping. He imagined she would be trying to reason with him. She would need to think critically. But as Reznick knew only too well, even the best-laid plans could turn to dust in the blink of an eye.
He ran scenarios around and around in his head. She would be fighting to remain calm and trying not to freak out or do something rash. Hopefully she was keeping O’Keefe talking. What worried Reznick most was the state of mind of the killer holding her hostage. He would be crazed like a rabid dog. Maybe drugged up. Out of his fucking mind. Maybe high on ice. Meth. Which would make him far, far more dangerous and unpredictable.
Dark thoughts flashed through Reznick’s mind. His deepest, blackest fears. The fear that he would lose Lauren. That dread was never far from the surface. It led him to a place he would rather not think of.
The Fed beside him said, “We’ll find her, I promise.”
Reznick nodded as his mood oscillated between his natural fears as a father and the logical, clinical, compartmentalized focus of an assassin.
He wondered if Lauren would try to jump out of the car. He hoped and prayed she wouldn’t be that desperate. But who could blame her? The reality was that she would end up, best-case scenario, seriously injured, maybe paralyzed. No, it was better for her to remain a hostage until he got there.
Reznick looked at the car’s dashboard. They were doing a leisurely sixty miles per hour. He was dying to take the wheel. Take over. He was a control freak. He knew that. And he wasn’t coping well knowing events were out of his control. He felt as if he were going out of his fucking mind. Nightmares stirred within the darkest recesses of his thoughts.
He shifted in his seat, frustrated that they were trailing in the guy’s wake. The lack of urgency was killing him. But so was the fact that they still had no precise fix on the guy’s position, only knew that he had made it through the Lincoln Tunnel.
Reznick was nearly certain that O’Keefe was using a sophisticated military jammer in some sort of capacity, knocking out wireless surveillance cameras, GPS, and anything in its path.
“Do you want to step on it?” he said to the driver.
“We’re doing nearly seventy.”
“Jesus Christ, move it! What’s wrong with you? It feels like we’re going backward. Get a fucking move on!”
“Jon, relax,” the driver said. “We’ll get him.”
“Don’t tell me to relax when my daughter is at risk. You do understand that she’s in the back of the fucking cop car with that maniac? Floor it!”
The driver finally began to accelerate through the tunnel. “We’re close, Jon.”
“Not close enough.”
The Fed sitting beside Reznick in the back seat was now on his cell phone, deep in conversation. “Yeah, he’s here.” He handed the phone to Reznick. “It’s for you.”
“Who is it?”
“The Director.”
“O’Donoghue?”
The Fed nodded, grim faced. “Yeah.”
Reznick took the cell phone. “Sir, what’s the latest?”
“Jon, I’m terribly sorry about what’s happening. But I wanted you to know that we are doing everything in our power to locate O’Keefe’s vehicle.”
“New Jersey cops on it?”
“Everyone is on this. And I mean everyone. We will find him. And your daughter. Every resource at our disposal, other agencies—we’re calling on all of it.”
Reznick closed his eyes, struggling to contain the rage building up inside him.
“It’s been a terribly dark day for New York, Jon. For America. But you’ve done a helluva job.”
“That will all count for nothing if I don’t find my daughter alive and stop that animal.”
“I’m a father too, I get it. We will find him. And your daughter.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Martha is listening in on this call. She wants to speak to you.”
Reznick felt his throat tighten. He sensed events were moving fast and out of his control.
“We’ve blocked all traffic headed out of Union City except for the FBI,” Meyerstein said when she came on the line. “Their current location is headed south on Palisades Avenue. Perhaps heading for Hoboken.”
“Copy that,” said Reznick.
“Jon, this is bad luck. Bad, bad luck. But I know you’ll get him.”
Reznick stared out of the car window as they raced through the dark streets of Union City. No one knew how it was going to end. He wanted to confide in Meyerstein about how he felt. He wanted to talk to her about so many things. He wanted to tell her how terrified he was of losing his girl. He knew in his heart that if Lauren died, he would surely die too.
He wanted to tell her that. To tell her how he felt. He wanted to open up to her. He knew he was a closed book. He wasn’t the type of guy who shared his feelings. But he wanted to tell her about his guilt for buying Lauren tickets for the Yankees game. It was dumb to even think like that. But that’s how he felt, consumed by blind terror and fear of the unknown.
“Jon?”
Reznick stared out at a desolate street in Union City. “Yeah, I’m still here.”
“I just wanted to say we’re here, and we will find her.”
Thirty-Nine
The cop was bleeding out in the back seat of the stolen NYPD cruiser, and there was nothing Lauren could do about it. She cradled his neck as she continued to try to stem the blood loss. The car jolted every time they sped over a manhole cover or a pothole. The officer moaned loudly.
She couldn’t abandon the dying cop. She just couldn’t. She hoped and prayed they would crash and be knocked unconscious, and the sick bastard driver would have to make a run for it. But darker thoughts were also crowding her shattered mind.
Lauren had begun to contemplate her own death. The officer had lost a lot of blood and was slipping away.
Her thoughts began to drift. She began to wonder if her friends in the café were safe. Had they seen her take the injured cop into the car? She thought of her father. He’d been only blocks away when it happened. She could imagine his reaction. He would be horrified. And furious at her for not listening to him.
He
was the one who’d warned her not to go outside, fearing she’d be hit by a sniper’s bullet. As it turned out, she’d been tricked by the sniper. But she still lived in the hope that her father would find her. Somehow. Some way.
The seconds felt like hours.
Must do something.
Lauren closed her eyes as she struggled to cope with the perilous nature of her situation. She needed to focus. She needed to get a grip. She couldn’t expect help to arrive. And even if it did, it might be too late. She needed to act.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “New Jersey, huh? Gotta love it.”
“Let us out, for God’s sake! He’s going to die!”
“Good. Then his wife and kids will know what loss and grief feels like.”
Lauren looked down at the officer. His mouth was slightly open, blood trickling down his chin. Slowly, his eyes moved to the side. She followed his gaze. His bloody right index finger was pointing to his equipment belt. She looked at the handcuffs, radio, flashlight, chemical spray, and gun holster.
The cop was pointing to the gun on his belt. Had to be that.
She said, “I need to get him more comfortable or he’s going to bleed out right now. I need to adjust his position.”
The driver took a hard left, screeching around a corner. There was a sudden clanking sound, like hail. He struggled to get the steering under control. “Fuckers! Taken out a rear tire! Fuckers!”
Lauren realized a shot had been fired at their car. She felt a surge of hope. She pressed the blood-soaked towels tight against the officer’s neck. He winced and groaned at the pain. Then slowly, she began to reach toward his equipment belt.
Forty
The SUV was hurtling through the dark streets of Union City. Reznick sat in silence. He couldn’t bear to think that they would be too late to save his daughter. Lights flashed as a cop car sped past them. They hit ninety as they negotiated a narrow street, headed toward Hoboken.
The Fed beside him was again deep in conversation on his cell phone. “Got it.” He turned to Reznick. “They’ve got a visual. They put a bullet into the rear tire. He might manage a mile or two. So it’s just a matter of time.”
Reznick felt numb. His daughter, his only child, was still in the car with that psychopath and a dying cop. It couldn’t end this way for her. Not now. It wasn’t her time. He envisioned the scene unfolding. He imagined he would get one clear shot if they got within sight of O’Keefe. But he was also beginning to consider the horrific possibility that Lauren could be killed. Either by the crazed gunman or by a cop.
The Fed was speaking again into the cell phone. “Ma’am, here he is.” He handed Reznick the phone. “Assistant director wants you.”
“Martha, what’s the latest?”
“The car is slowing down. New Jersey cops have him in their sights. You’re not far away. But this is, as you can imagine, a very precarious situation.”
Reznick said, “I know. The cops need to ease up, not get too close, or he’s going to take a potshot at one of them, or worse, at my daughter, if he hasn’t already.”
The Fed said to the driver, “One mile and closing. Hudson Street, Hoboken.”
Meyerstein said, “Jon, I think this might be out of your hands now.”
Reznick sensed his daughter’s life was hanging in the balance, only God watching over her. He closed his eyes for a moment and said a silent prayer. “I know. That’s what worries me.”
Forty-One
The crazy driver who had stolen the cop car was now laughing like a maniac, gritting his teeth. He was drugged. Manic. He had gone Jekyll and Hyde on her. Not good.
“You kids alright back there?” he taunted. “Gone all quiet on me.”
Lauren’s hand reached toward the dying cop’s leather holster. A hard slap rocked her face.
The driver had leaned over and hit her on the cheek. He had seen what she was doing. He reached back in anger now, one hand on the wheel, took the cop’s gun from the holster, and threw it on the floor of the front passenger seat. “That what you were looking for?”
Lauren looked down into the cop’s eyes. The officer was trying to open his bloody lips, trying to say something.
The driver snapped, “Think I’m fucking stupid, bitch?” He wound down the window and fired at a cop car that was coming up on them in the adjacent lane. “Think old Todd is some dumb peckerwood? Is that it? Just a dumb fucking white shitkicker, is that it?”
Lauren knew she had lost her only chance.
“I’m going to have two dead fucks in the back of a cop car!” He was laughing, crazed, deranged. Shaking his head. Screaming like a banshee. Howling like a wolf. He was out of his mind. “Redneck cocaine, they call it. I love it. Should try it someday, honey. Mix it with an energy drink. What a fucking ride!”
Lauren wiped blood from the officer’s lips with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
The driver said, “Give me some ice! I love me some ice! We all wanna go and do some ice!”
Lauren closed her eyes for a moment, trying to block out the crazy bastard driving them to their deaths.
The dying cop’s breathing was getting more labored as the police sirens and flashing lights closed in.
Lauren stroked the officer’s hair. She wondered if the pursuing cops were just tailing the car until the psycho ran out of gas. She wished they would just try and take him out. But she understood their reluctance to get too close, with a seriously injured cop and Lauren as hostages in the back seat.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “What are you thinking now? Are you going to attack me with handcuffs? Maybe the spray? Well, don’t fucking think about it, bitch, or you’ll get blown away. I mean, this isn’t your fight, is it? What the hell were you thinking? A dying cop? What’s he to you?”
Lauren looked down at the cop. His eyes were closed. Tears ran down her cheeks. She pressed the towels against the terrible neck wound, praying for the nightmare to be over.
The officer’s hooded eyes opened, tears spilling onto his face.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
The officer’s eyes flitted from side to side. Then fixed on his feet.
Lauren thought he was trying to tell her something.
A shot rang out, and the car jolted as if another tire had been shot. They heard the screech of metal dragging. The fender sounded like it was hanging off.
Lauren reached toward the officer’s lower leg. That was when she realized there was another gun holster around his right ankle. Her hands were hidden from the driver’s sight.
“Fuck is going on back there, bitch?”
“I’m scared I’m going to die!” she said.
The driver began to laugh. “Oh . . . boo-hoo, I’m going to fucking have to die! Well, you know what, we’ve all got to die. Me, you, and that cop. We all die. Deal with it.”
Lauren began to sob as more and more police sirens pierced the air. She looked up through the back window, tears blurring the city streets. A sharp left turn threw Lauren onto her side.
She had her chance.
She pulled up the officer’s trouser leg, unbuttoned the small holster, and took out the compact Glock 26. She knew how to use weapons. She’d trained at gun ranges. She racked the slide. Then flicked off the safety.
Lauren turned and pointed the gun at the driver’s head.
The driver turned around.
Lauren fired three shots, point-blank, in a deafening series of explosions. Blood sprayed across the shattered windshield. The driver slumped over the steering wheel as the car horn blared. Suddenly, the car veered wildly out of control and smashed headlong into the side of a parked truck.
Lauren was flung around like a rag doll. The driver’s airbag inflated. Alarms went off around the street.
Lauren could barely hear. Everything was muffled. Time seemed to stop. She smelled metallic sulfur. The car doors opened. Flashlights and guns appeared, trained on her.
She felt herself being
dragged from the vehicle. Blue lights, red lights, streetlights spiraling as she lay motionless on the streets of Hoboken, staring up at the stars in the sky.
Forty-Two
The seconds that followed were an insane blur of lights, faces. Then came an eruption of sounds. Lauren could hear sirens and shouting and someone screaming for backup. Her brain was sending a signal to her body to move. But she lay paralyzed on the sidewalk. She tried to rationalize her reaction. Was she going into deep shock? A paramedic was shouting for the cops to give them more room.
A fresh-faced cop with a flashlight stood over her. “Can you hear what I’m saying, Miss Reznick?”
Lauren just stared up at him. She tried to speak. But nothing emerged.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “the driver is dead.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bleeding cop she had tended being lifted onto a gurney and into the back of an ambulance.
Lauren felt herself beginning to shake. Flashbacks to the three shots she had fired exploded through her mind. The blood splatter. Time began to almost rewind. Images of the driver’s head being torn apart, fragments, brain matter. Like high-definition slow motion.
She sensed someone else was watching her. Someone was holding her hand.
“Lauren!” A familiar voice.
She somehow managed to turn her head. Looking down on her, smiling, was her father. He kneeled down, head bowed. “Thank God, Lauren.” He stroked her hair. Like he had when she was a little girl.
Lauren felt his hand on her forehead. His eyes were the bluest she had ever seen. “I got him, Dad,” she whispered. “I got him. I got him.”
Her dad cradled her head and pulled her close, tears spilling down his face. “I knew you would, Lauren. I knew you would.”
