by J. B. Turner
OTHER TITLES BY J. B. TURNER
Jon Reznick Series
Hard Road
Hard Kill
Hard Wired
Hard Way
Hard Fall
Hard Hit
Hard Shot
Hard Target
American Ghost Series
Rogue
Reckoning
Requiem
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by J. B. Turner
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542025348
ISBN-10: 1542025346
Cover design by blacksheep-uk.com
To my sons
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
One
The target would soon be dead.
The two women sat on a luxury yacht, sipping rosé, unaware they were being watched. The sun dipped low in the sky, bathing the teak deck in an ethereal orange glow. The water was like blue glass, barely a ripple on the surface. But a mile away as the crow flies, a man crouched in the back of an RV, watching them.
He was parked on an overlook high on the cliffs of the Spanish island of Mallorca, training his powerful binoculars on the fortysomething woman and her friend. He turned up the volume on his headphones as he listened in to the conversation.
The man smiled. He was patient. He had been tracking the target for months. Logging her movements. She occasionally changed her route from her home to her office in DC. Then this vacation had come up, on a yacht owned by the Spanish husband of her college friend. Her friend’s cell phone had been surprisingly easy to hack. And from that moment, the target’s inner thoughts, plans, and any desires she confided were his.
He’d been planning this moment for months. But his reasons for it—those had been years in the making.
The target curled her hair behind her ear. He had watched her do that before, as she talked to her hairdresser in Bethesda or waited in line at a supermarket. It was a charming mannerism. He had grown to be rather intrigued by the woman. He’d followed her when she headed back to her hometown of Chicago for Thanksgiving.
The more he’d gotten to know her, the more he admired her. The work ethic. The 5:00 a.m. starts. Gym at six. Pilates, occasionally, at the end of the day. He watched her jogging in her Cubs vest around tree-lined streets. He watched her get into her car in the morning, cell phone pressed to her ear.
The man scanned the rest of the deck, focusing on the college friend. She looked younger than her years. Good genes. High cheekbones. He adjusted his headphones, listening to the conversation flow.
He trained the binoculars away from the yacht to a position just over a mile up the coast. A frogman wearing a wet suit and mask, oxygen tank on his back, emerged from the water onto a sandy cove.
The frogman pulled off the wet suit, mask, flippers, and oxygen tank, burying it all in the sand. The mysterious figure looked around for a few moments, then disappeared into the twilight, like a ghost.
The man in the RV afforded himself a wry smile as he trained his binoculars on the yacht for one last time.
Not long now.
Two
FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein lounged on a cream sofa on the sundeck of the luxury yacht, gazing out across the water. In the distance, the lights of Cala San Vicente twinkled. The whitewashed houses and villas built into the rugged mountain shielded the quiet town. The early evening sun splashed the distant cliffs in a tangerine glow.
She closed her eyes for a moment, glass of wine resting on her lap. She felt like she was truly unwinding. “I could get used to this life,” she said.
Ann McCaul, her closest friend from college, laughed. “I love the Mediterranean in the summer. It’s the best.”
“I seem to have lost all track of time.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
Martha nodded. “A very good thing.”
“I’m glad you joined me for this trip. Feels like old times.”
“Doesn’t Sergio mind you taking off for a full month on his yacht?”
Ann laughed. “My second husband is more chill than my first, let me tell you.”
Martha smiled. “I hear you.”
“Besides, he’s working on some highly leveraged deal of some sort in Singapore. Place of the future, he keeps saying.”
“This is more my speed,” Martha said. “Time standing still. Time to breathe.”
“My mother-in-law, God bless her, wants us to go and live with her in Madrid. But I like having my own space.”
“I know what you mean. That said, you’re lucky to have an understanding husband in your life.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?” Martha said.
“You’re happily divorced now, right?”
“I wouldn’t say happily divorced, Ann. Gimme a break.”
“You know what I mean.”
Martha rolled her eyes. “No, I don’t know what you mean.”
Ann topped off their glasses. “What I’m saying is, why on earth haven’t you gotten together with that guy you told me about?”
“Jon?”
“Yeah, Jon. Don’t act so coy.”
“Listen, it’s strictly professional.”
“Is that all you want it to be? For the rest of your life?”
“Probably not.”
“So why don’t you give him a call?”
“And say what?”
“Jeez, I don’t know. Maybe, Jon, you want to go out to dinner next week and then back to my place? That kind of thing.”
Martha winced at the idea of being so forward. “That’s
not me.”
“Isn’t it? Well, maybe it needs to be. Come on, Martha, you’re not getting any younger.”
Martha laughed. “Yeah, thanks for reminding me. Besides, you don’t know what Jon is like.”
“Neither do you. Maybe you need to find out.”
“He’s . . . emotionally detached at times. He’s complicated.” She grinned. “Which I like.”
Ann rolled her eyes. “Give him a goddamn call.”
Meyerstein shook her head and took a sip of her wine. “Maybe when I get back home.”
“He’s the one, Martha. You talk about him. All. The. Time. Don’t forget, I know you. You need a little nudge now and then. Otherwise you’ll be stuck working your tail off, year in, year out.”
Martha knew what her friend was saying was true. She was reticent about taking the first step. She had thought about it at length. But she didn’t want to cross the line, believing it could be construed as unprofessional. How would those she worked with at the FBI react? She worried about the optics of it. She was, by nature, very cautious. She didn’t like being rushed.
“Is he a womanizer? Is that what’s stopping you from taking the first step?”
“A womanizer? On the contrary, Jon hasn’t been with—or at least I don’t think he’s been with—a woman since his wife died. That was nearly twenty years ago.”
“I’m sorry, that was insensitive.”
“Forget it. Listen, I care about him, that’s true. And I like him. And his daughter. She’s sweet.”
“Do you think you could love him?”
Martha closed her eyes. She had often posed herself that same question. “Actually . . . I do think I could love him. OK, there, I’ve said it!”
“So give him a call!”
“And say what?”
“I don’t know . . . reach out to him. Stop being that buttoned-up FBI woman. Take a chance.”
“What if he rejects me?”
“What are you talking about? You need to tell him how you feel.” Ann’s wine sloshed a little in her glass. Martha felt like she was back in college, the two of them drinking at an off-campus party, gossiping about the boys across the room. “You’ve known him for years, and you’ve only gone out for a drink. Dinner. You need to pick up the pace.”
The idea of just going for it was exhilarating, and yet Martha wondered why on earth she was listening to her friend about this. Martha was more comfortable dealing with things in her own way and in her own time. But the fact of the matter was, her relationship with Jon Reznick had already spanned years. Maybe the problem was that she’d been stuck in a rut since her divorce. She was reluctant to open up her emotions again. Her husband’s adultery had hurt her deeply.
Ann leaned forward. “Give him a call. It’s early afternoon on the East Coast.” She winked. “I’ll give you a few minutes of privacy.” She got up and headed toward her starboard cabin on the lower level.
Martha knew Ann was right. Perhaps emboldened by the wine, she took out her cell phone and dialed Jon’s number. It rang five times before she was diverted to voice mail. “Hi, Jon, it’s Martha. I’m on vacation in Spain. On a yacht, believe it or not. The water here is so clear, and I was wondering if it’s like that in Maine. You always promised to give me a VIP tour of your hometown. I was wondering if you’d want to meet up in Rockland when I get back? Maybe take me out for a nice dinner. Just the two of us. I’d like that. I . . . I guess what I’m trying to say, in a roundabout way, is I’ve been thinking about you a lot. About our friendship and whether it’s time to let it develop further. I hope you understand what I’m trying to say. Anyway, gimme a call. My cell phone is on. I . . . miss you.”
Meyerstein felt giddy when she ended the call. It was so out of character. She watched the last remnants of the evening sun sink over the horizon. She thought of Reznick thousands of miles away. She wondered what he was up to. She imagined he would be hanging out in Rockland. Maybe in a bar. Maybe quietly at home. She’d always had a little trouble reconciling his ruthless black-ops expertise with the quiet life he claimed to live when he wasn’t consulting with the FBI. Then again, maybe he had business to attend to overseas. He might be working as a consultant to a foreign government. Perhaps he still had connections in the CIA. Maybe he was doing a job for them. He didn’t solely work for the FBI. Maybe he was in New York with his daughter. She wondered if he was treating her to a pizza. Maybe taking her for a beer. She thought of herself and Reznick walking down Fifth Avenue. Walking in Central Park. Sitting on a bench in Bryant Park, drinking coffee. Taking in a concert at night. Staying out drinking late. Just hanging out.
She closed her eyes and began to imagine a new future.
Three
The phone call had been rather touching.
The man adjusted his headphones as he listened to the conversation on the yacht from the back of the RV. He picked up the long-range telephoto lens at his feet and focused on the target. He gazed at her long and hard. A striped blue-and-white summer dress. Auburn hair blowing in her face. Sun-kissed cheeks. She’d been picking at a Greek salad since her friend joined her again on deck.
He snapped close-up shots of both women. He knew which was which. But he had to be forensically certain.
He took out the camera’s memory card and inserted it into the side of his MacBook Pro. He uploaded the photos to an encrypted facial recognition database of 117 million Americans, set up by a disgruntled former State Department cybersecurity consultant.
Three minutes later, his cell phone pinged. We have a perfect match. The woman in the striped dress is Martha Meyerstein, Bethesda, Maryland.
The man took off his headphones. He picked up the binoculars with one hand, cell phone in the other. He controlled his breathing. He looked at the woman’s beautiful features, natural and completely at ease. A woman at peace with the world.
He smiled as the adrenaline began to flow through his body. He began to feel alive. For the first time in a long, long while. The anticipation was the thing. The euphoria that would follow.
“Sweet dreams,” he whispered to the woman.
He scrolled through his cell phone contacts and tapped a number. It rang three times. He set the phone down and waited.
An almighty explosion ripped through the yacht. Flames engulfed the boat and licked the Mediterranean sky, inky black smoke filling the air.
The man afforded himself a smile. Martha Meyerstein was dead.
Four
Jon Reznick picked up the voice mail when his plane landed at JFK after a grueling flight from Dubai. Thirteen hours after attending the wedding of a former Delta operator, Teddy Fredericks. He was due to meet his daughter, Lauren, that night for dinner in Manhattan. His grouchy mood dissipated when he listened to the forty-five-second voice mail message.
Reznick checked his watch. It was not even 6:00 a.m. in New York. But that would be around noon in Spain, where Martha was calling from. He decided to call and maybe catch her having lunch, but there was no answer.
He caught a cab to the Mercer in Soho and checked into his room, exhausted.
Reznick slept most of the day and woke up midafternoon. He showered, feeling refreshed. He walked around the streets of Soho for an hour or so, glad to be back on American soil. It felt good to be stretching his legs, clearing his head. He headed back to the hotel and to the bar, wondering what he was going to say to Martha when he called.
He tried her number again. But still no answer. Strange, he thought. He wondered if she was having second thoughts. Maybe she regretted making that call. It had been, on reflection, out of character. She had shown a rare side of herself that Reznick hadn’t often seen—the woman, not the senior role she occupied. She had dropped her guard, albeit briefly. But perhaps she’d had time to reflect on the ramifications of starting a relationship with Reznick. Had it suddenly dawned on her? How could she, an FBI assistant director, start a relationship with a guy like him? A man who lived in the shadows. A man who killed people for a liv
ing.
Reznick pushed those thoughts to one side as Lauren arrived. She wore dark jeans and a black T-shirt, blond hair shoulder length, shiny. His girl was all grown up. Her eyes were clear and sparkling. He kissed her on the cheek, and they hugged tight.
“You look tired, Dad,” she said.
“Long, long flight. Dubai. Thought it was never going to end.”
“What was it like?”
“Hot. Very nice hotel. And great wedding. You’re not going to believe what I’m going to tell you.”
“What?”
A waiter escorted them to their table.
Lauren sat down, Reznick opposite. He ordered a bottle of Rioja and a bottle of sparkling water. “So are you going to tell me or not?” Lauren said.
“Listen to this,” Reznick said. “Martha called me from Spain.”
“What’s she there for?”
“Vacation, what do you think? Anyway, she called when I was in the air. I got the message when I landed. And this may interest you.”
“Dad!”
Reznick leaned closer to his daughter and whispered, “She wants to meet up. Not business.”
“Oh my God. That’s great, Dad!”
Reznick shrugged. “It’s nice. Unexpected, but nice.”
“It’s time. You need to move on. Jeez, how long has it been since Mom died?”
He smiled sadly. “A long, long time.” Another life, it sometimes felt like. Elisabeth had died on 9/11, sending Reznick, who was already a Delta operator, plunging into a spiral of depression and binge drinking, leaving him struggling to raise their baby girl alone. He had briefly, for a couple of years, handed over the responsibility to Elisabeth’s parents in Manhattan. That was his lowest point. But he pulled himself together. He thought Elisabeth would be proud of the job he’d done, of who Lauren had become. And now that she had recently graduated and begun to forge her own life, he thought Elisabeth would want him to move on with his.
“She’s the one, Dad.”
Reznick nodded and smiled. “I hope so.” He paused for the waiter to pour the wine and water before he resumed the conversation with Lauren. “I like her. A lot. So, we’ll see.”
“What does that mean? She’s fantastic. What’s not to like? She’s supersmart, tough, highly intelligent, and she clearly loves you.”
