Hard Vengeance (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  “Alright, I see. Well, I know the tides, the rip currents, undertows; I need to know all these things in my line of work. I speak to fishermen, locals, and I see the ebbs and flows.”

  “What line of work is that?”

  “I teach scuba for tourists. And locals, though not so much.”

  Reznick’s mind was racing ahead. “So you’re a scuba expert, and you’re a former Special Forces soldier from the UK. And you live here?”

  Mac nodded.

  “So they’re putting this all together, all these factors. A yacht blown out of the water, one of the locals is a Special Forces guy who knows the waters, and they’re thinking you might have been involved, am I right?”

  “You’ve got it in one.”

  “I need to know more.”

  Mac turned and stared toward the beach. A Civil Guard vehicle slowed down in front of the bar. “Think we’ve got company.”

  Reznick turned. The cop in the front passenger seat was looking at them, talking into his cell phone. “They really have a thing for you.”

  Mac said nothing.

  “I think you know more than you’re letting on, Mac.”

  “I do.”

  “What do you know, Mac? Tell me the whole story.”

  “This was definitely, one hundred percent, not an accident. It was a clear, targeted attack.”

  “Why so confident?”

  “They’re already working on the assumption that this was an attack. They know it was no accident. And I know it too.”

  “How can you be so goddamn sure? All I’ve heard so far is just pure conjecture.”

  Mac sipped some more beer and leaned in close. He quickly glanced at the Civil Guard vehicle still idling across the street. “I scuba dive, like I said. And when I was released, later that day, I returned here. I knew I was a suspect. But this is my home. I wanted to help. I volunteered to help the Spanish frogmen from the Civil Guard launch. They told me it wasn’t my business. Anyway, I dived well away from the launch, into an isolated cave about a mile from the explosion. Remember, tides move stuff around. And I discovered parts of a device. Small parts. I handed it over to the Civil Guard frogmen.”

  The cop in the passenger seat got out and walked over to their table. “Señor Mac,” he said, “my boss wants you to answer a few more questions. Some paperwork, nothing big.”

  Mac gulped the rest of his beer and looked up. “I’m busy.”

  The Spanish cop placed his hands on the table, face in Mac’s space. “It won’t take long.”

  Mac looked at his watch before he glared at the cop. “I said I’m busy. Now piss off.”

  “We are instructed to bring you to speak to some people.”

  “Some people? What kind of people?”

  “Señor, we can play this the easy way. Or we can play this the hard way. Which one do you want us to take?”

  “Listen, my sister is flying in to see me tomorrow. And I need to be up and about early to pick her up from Palma. So, I’m sorry, I’m not going to risk being late for her.”

  The cop shook his head. “It won’t take long. Maybe fifteen minutes. A form to sign. Some questions. I promise. It’s routine. One form.”

  “A form to sign.” Mac sighed and looked at Reznick as he reluctantly got to his feet. “Never a fucking break.”

  “Where are they taking you?”

  “Sa Pobla, at least that’s where they took me before.”

  Reznick could see Mac was distracted, as if he knew that he wasn’t going to be released in fifteen minutes. “You going to be OK?”

  Mac grinned. “Relax, I got this. It’s just a twenty-minute trip up the road. I’ll be back in time for a nightcap.”

  Nine

  The hours dragged beyond midnight as Reznick waited until it was clear Mac wouldn’t be back. He finally called it a night at three o’clock. He gave his cell phone number to the bar owner for Mac to call if he got back.

  Reznick headed to his room, but he wasn’t going to sleep. Quite the contrary. His mind was racing. He wondered what the hell had happened to Mac. He wondered if the Civil Guard had kept him overnight. He could see why Mac’s background would make him a person of interest. But what if there was something more sinister planned for Mac? What if he was about to be disappeared?

  Reznick began to contemplate what he should do. What he could do. He wondered if this was something worth pursuing. After all, his focus should be on determining how Martha had been killed and by whom. And if necessary, to take them out. It wasn’t really his place to go down a rabbit hole trying to figure out what had happened to a character who had a walk-on part in the whole episode. Who was peripheral at best. But maybe Mac wasn’t peripheral. Maybe he knew more than he’d let on. Maybe what he knew could help Reznick understand who was behind the explosion.

  The more he thought about the figure of David McCafferty, the more Reznick wondered if that was the case. Was that why the cops had a thing for the shaven-headed Scot? Were they going to be bringing in interrogation experts to make him talk? To loosen his tongue?

  Reznick knew from what he had seen of Mac that he could handle himself. But every man also had a breaking point, and Spain was not America. Things were done differently on this side of the Atlantic. Sure, Spain was part of the European Union and would have signed on to the European Convention of Human Rights. In particular Article 3. Human rights were enshrined in their laws. But Reznick wasn’t naive.

  Spain, despite being a democracy, was still haunted in some senses by ghosts from the Franco era. The era of fascism. The era of torture. Disappearances. State control. State torture. The Civil Guard was quasi-militaristic.

  Reznick pushed those thoughts to one side. He checked his cell phone. No messages, battery running low. He plugged it into the charger. Slowly, he began to formulate a plan. He couldn’t just sit around. He needed to try and find out where Mac was—what had happened to him, where he had been taken. But more than anything, Reznick needed to make sure he was OK.

  The ideas were bouncing around his head as he took a shower. He put on some fresh clothes and popped a couple of Dexedrine. He slid his gun into the back of his waistband, cool linen shirt over his jeans. He pulled on the backpack after adding two bottles of water from the minibar.

  Reznick locked up his room, left the hotel, and headed back to the bar. Still no sign of Mac.

  It would soon be dawn.

  He ordered a black coffee and a fresh-squeezed orange juice. He felt better, the amphetamines kicking in with the sugar and caffeine rush.

  “Mac hasn’t shown?”

  The bar owner yawned, shaking his head. “Nothing, señor.”

  “You hear anything, let me know.”

  He hung around for a little while. Watching and waiting.

  A short while later, the sun peeked over the mountains in the distance, bathing the water in a golden glow. Reznick’s gaze was drawn to a taxi that pulled up across the street. He half expected a disheveled Mac to get out. But it was only an elderly couple.

  He took a few moments to consider whether he should make a move. He couldn’t sit around all day watching and waiting. He got up, left money for the check, and walked across to the taxi.

  Reznick looked in the passenger window, which was down. “Guardia Civil, señor, Sa Pobla?”

  The cabdriver shrugged as he scratched his unshaven face.

  Reznick hopped in the back. It was a twenty-minute drive south to a bleak sun-scorched town in the island’s interior. The modernist Civil Guard building was located on the outskirts of town.

  He asked to be dropped off half a block away. All the time, a plan was forming in his head. A game plan. Preparation and planning were important in his line of work.

  He got out of the cab and walked up to the building, which was enclosed by a high concrete wall. He spotted the pinhole camera embedded in the video intercom adjacent to a sturdy wooden door. He pressed the intercom button twice.

  The sound of a man clearing
his throat. “Sí. Quién es usted?”

  Reznick thought the guy had said, Yes, who are you? He didn’t know much beyond rudimentary Spanish. “Habla usted inglés, señor?”

  “A bit. What do you want?”

  “I’m looking to speak to the man in charge.”

  “Señor,” the voice boomed back, “we don’t open until nine in the morning. Did you hear what I said? Do you know what time it is?”

  Reznick looked at his watch. It was only 7:45 a.m. “I’m looking for a friend of mine.”

  “Come back later.”

  “Not until I see my friend.”

  “Señor, please, we are busy people.”

  “Can you help me?”

  A deep sigh. “What is your friend’s name?”

  “David. He’s known as Mac. David McCafferty. UK citizen. Scottish.”

  A silence opened up for a few moments. “You mean he’s British?”

  “Yeah, he’s a British citizen.”

  “What is your name, sir?”

  “Jon Reznick. I’m an American. And I want to see Mr. McCafferty.”

  “You are American. Are you his lawyer?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then I can’t help you. He’s not here.”

  “So, where is he? When did he leave?”

  “I don’t have that information. I just came on duty, sir. Good day.”

  Reznick buzzed again and again. He got no answer. He buzzed again, still no answer. He stood on the sidewalk and shook his head. He felt a growing sense of unease about Mac. It was true he hardly knew the man. But he felt a kinship. The man was a fellow warrior. One who didn’t suffer fools. He felt a bond with the guy. Some might have been put off by Mac’s brusque exterior. But underneath the hard-man persona was integrity. Reznick had sensed it from the way Mac had opened up to him. There was no angle. But he also realized Mac knew more than he’d had a chance to reveal. Quite a bit more.

  But what?

  He wondered if the Civil Guard officer he’d spoken to through the intercom was telling the truth. Maybe Mac wasn’t inside. Then again, maybe the guy didn’t know. The reality for Reznick was that he was an American in a foreign country, thousands of miles from home. English use was widespread here but hardly universal.

  Reznick sensed he was getting involved in some murky shit. But truth be told, that didn’t bother him. In fact, the more doors that were slammed in his face, the more he would kick them down. It was just his way. He would find out what he needed to know, no matter what it took.

  Reznick glanced along the perimeter of the premises. He could try and climb over the high concrete wall. But there was no guarantee he could gain access to the inside. At least not without knowing the plans of the building.

  He walked farther down the street, trying to clear his head. Mac was either inside, getting interrogated over what he knew one more time, or he might have already been taken somewhere else—to another police station or even out of the country. But there was a third option. Maybe Mac had been released. Which posed the question: Why hadn’t he made it back to Cala San Vicente?

  Reznick was frustrated. He needed answers.

  He paced the concrete sidewalk, glad to have the shade from some large trees. Video surveillance cameras were watching him. He sat on a bench in the shade of a lemon tree, unzipped his backpack, and took out a bottle of water. He drank a few welcome gulps, quenching his thirst. He put the half-empty bottle in the backpack and zipped it up again as his gaze wandered around the perimeter wall. He looked at the entrance again.

  He watched and waited for over an hour. He watched cops come and go. He waited until nine before he slung his backpack over his shoulder and buzzed again.

  “What is it now, señor?” The voice belonged to the same cop as before.

  “I’m not going away until I see David McCafferty or get an explanation as to what’s happened to him. You want me to call up the British consulate in Palma? Maybe even the American consulate? You want me to do that?”

  “Señor, please go away. We’ve been watching you just hanging around. You’ll end up being arrested. We’ll have no choice. You need to go home, back to your hotel.”

  “Not until you tell me where McCafferty is. I ain’t going anywhere until I find out where he is. Now, do you want me to call the American embassy and ask them to make a call to your superiors in Madrid?”

  Another long silence. “You say you’re an American?”

  “Jon Reznick. American.”

  There was a long silence, as if the man was checking with a superior about what he should do. “One moment, sir. OK, you’ve got five minutes.” The external door was buzzed open.

  Reznick pushed open the door and headed inside, down a cool, tiled hallway, and into the lobby of the building. He was greeted by a small plainclothes man sporting a scraggly goatee. He wore a faded navy polo shirt and cargo pants, an ID lanyard hanging around his neck.

  “Javier Sanchez. I work for Servicio de Informacion de la Guardia Civil.”

  Reznick nodded. He knew it meant the intelligence-gathering unit of the Civil Guard.

  Sanchez cocked his head. “Follow me.”

  Reznick followed him down a long corridor to a windowless room. A desk and a chair sat on either side. A huge map of Mallorca hung on the wall. A photo of the King of Spain on another wall.

  Sanchez sat down behind his desk and pointed to the seat opposite. “Please, relax.”

  Reznick pulled up the seat and sat down. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “Don’t play games with me. You say your name is Jon Reznick. Who are you? What do you want? How do you know Mr. McCafferty? And what is this obsession with him?”

  “I’m an American tourist. A friend of mine was killed in the explosion.”

  Sanchez leafed through some papers in front of him. “You say a friend was killed in an explosion?”

  “You know who I’m talking about. Let’s cut the bull.”

  “You are an unusually persistent man, Mr. Reznick. And you ask a lot of questions for a tourist.”

  “Tell me about McCafferty. Where is he now? Is he here? Has he been detained?”

  Sanchez leaned back in his seat and smiled. “I don’t think you understand how it works here in Spain. I ask the questions, sir. Do you understand that?”

  Reznick nodded. “Not a problem.”

  “Good. So, how do you know Mr. McCafferty?”

  Reznick sighed. “I met him in a bar.”

  “So you met a Scottish man who lives on this island in a bar.” Sanchez shrugged. “Why are you so interested in him?”

  “Why? Because a couple of your guys picked him up last night, said it wasn’t going to take long. You arrested him before, but he was released, apparently. So this is the second time you’ve hauled him in for questioning.”

  Sanchez gave a thin smile as he leaned forward, elbows on his desk, hands clasped tight as if he were a priest at confession. “I think I’ve said enough.”

  “You’ve said nothing. I want to know where McCafferty is. Tell me about the explosion. I want to know about that.”

  “I’m rapidly running out of patience, Mr. Reznick. I don’t know what you’re talking about. What explosion?”

  Reznick took a few moments to compose himself as he realized what he was going to have to do.

  Sanchez seemed to take his silence as defeat. “So, Jon Reznick, why don’t you go back to America, and I can get back to doing my job.”

  Reznick felt a switch flick in his head. He got up from his seat, pulling his gun from his waistband. He pressed it tight to Sanchez’s forehead. “Here’s how it’s going to work. I don’t give a shit who you are or what you do. But I want answers. Where’s McCafferty?”

  Sanchez closed his eyes. “Sir, you’re making a major mistake.”

  “Answer me!”

  “Please . . . I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I will leave your brains exploded all over
the walls of this shitty fucking office if I don’t get answers. Do you comprendí?”

  Sanchez nodded.

  “Good, we’re getting somewhere. I want the truth. Right fucking now! Where is McCafferty?”

  “Please . . . McCafferty is no longer here.”

  “OK. So where the fuck is he?”

  “We held him until five. He was taken by Americans.”

  “What Americans? What agencies?”

  Sanchez scrunched up his eyes.

  “One last time! What agencies?”

  “State Department. FBI. CIA. Three vehicles. That’s all I know.”

  Reznick disarmed Sanchez and grabbed him by the neck. “Now, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  Sanchez shook his head, eyes closed.

  “Relax. So this is what I need you to do. You’re going to escort me off the premises, smiling, leading the way, confidently, and I’m going to walk out of here. You or any of your goons follow me, and I’ll kill them. Bang! Bang! Comprendí?”

  Sanchez had real fear in his eyes.

  Reznick tucked his gun into his waistband. “Nice and easy, and we can all go back home. What do you say?”

  Sanchez took a few moments to compose himself.

  “Flick any switches or any panic buttons, and me and you have a problem. And trust me, it won’t end well.”

  “Don’t shoot me. That’s all I ask. I have a family.”

  Reznick nodded. “Don’t do anything stupid and they’ll see you later. It’ll be fine. Can you do that?”

  Sanchez took a deep breath and escorted Reznick out of the windowless room and through the station to the front door. He buzzed him out.

  Reznick brushed past him and into the sunshine. He headed sharply down a side street. He crossed the road and ran after a bus that was just leaving its stop.

  The driver stopped, the door opened, and Reznick hopped on. He sat down in the seat, ignoring the curious looks from the other passengers as the bus picked up speed. It accelerated out of the town, headed back to the coast.

  Ten

  It was late morning when Reznick jumped off the bus on the outskirts of Cala San Vicente. His mind was racing after the encounter at the Civil Guard station. It would only be a matter of time before they caught up with him. But that was fine.