Hard Vengeance (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Boyfriend problems, career paths, about being without a mom for all these years, about wanting to connect with you.”

  “Connect with me? You talked to Martha about me? About us?”

  “Yes, Dad. That’s what people do. They want to connect. To help each other. To guide them. I haven’t had that from a woman before. A confidante. That’s what she was for me. A woman, a confidante, and a freakin’ tough assistant director who insisted I ace all my tests or I would have her to answer to.”

  Reznick took a sip of the cold beer. “She helped you with all that?”

  “She advised me how hard I needed to work to not only pass the goddamn FBI tests and exams, but pass with flying colors. She looked out for me. And she wasn’t interested in excuses.” Lauren’s eyes were welling with tears. “I cared about her like she cared for me. I miss her. Do you understand now?”

  Reznick felt guilty at having been so hard on his daughter. The way his father had been hard on him. The unyielding tough love. His father had instilled a steeliness, a resilience, and independent spirit that had served Reznick well through the ups and downs of his life. He wasn’t one for emoting.

  He wondered, with his daughter sitting right there in front of him, what the hell he should do now. She had come all this way.

  The reality was Reznick couldn’t force his daughter away from his world even if he wanted to. She was here. And now he would have to deal with it.

  It was true he’d tried to protect her and inoculate her for all these years from his shadowy world. He had done what any father would do. She knew vaguely that he occasionally worked for the government on classified work and sometimes he’d go overseas. But as she’d grown older, she’d begun to figure it out more. A lot more. She learned he was ex–Delta Force. She knew that he had operated behind enemy lines in Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, and other such places. She probably didn’t know about the assassinations he had been involved in. The cold-blooded killings. She didn’t need to know that. At least not now.

  Lauren sipped some beer and dabbed her eyes. “I miss her.”

  “I miss her too.”

  “What do you know?”

  Reznick said nothing.

  “Talk to me, Dad. Don’t shut me out.”

  Reznick finished his beer and ordered another round. “There are forces at work here, Lauren, which I can’t easily explain. Things that don’t make sense. Goes without saying that what I tell you is not to be repeated for public consumption or for the FBI’s files. Am I clear?”

  Lauren nodded, face solemn. “That’s a given.”

  “Now that we’re set with the rules—and make no mistake, I operate according to strict rules—here’s the situation we have. Let’s put aside what happened to Martha for one moment.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Yesterday, a guy gained access to my hotel room. He swapped some of the miniature whiskeys in the minibar with an identical selection of bottles.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Reznick shook his head.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I’d wager that he wanted to poison me.”

  “And you were definitely the target?”

  “Welcome to my world.”

  “Do you know who did this?”

  Reznick waited until the waiter, who was attending another table, was out of earshot. He showed her the photo on his cell phone. “This guy in the shades, I need to know who this is.”

  Lauren studied it for a few moments.

  Reznick put his cell phone back in his pocket. “That was the first thing that was troubling. The second was a woman named Catherine McCafferty. She’s Scottish. But now she’s dead. I met her brother my first night here. Sat right in this bar, two tables away from where we are now. He used to be British SAS.”

  “What’s this SAS guy got to do with Martha?”

  “Good question. The Scottish guy, Mac, he was scuba diving. He found a fragment of what he thought was an electronic motherboard, with Arabic writing scrawled on it.”

  “I’ve never heard this before.”

  “Well, now you have.”

  “Which would point to her being killed by Islamists, right?”

  “You would think so. But Mac, the SAS guy, was taken to a ‘secure location,’ according to Catherine, shortly before she was killed in a car crash. And she was the one who told me about the Arabic writing.”

  “That’s crazy. Sounds like a cover-up.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Who knows about this?”

  “Outside of the State Department and FBI guys who are here in Spain? Just us. So far.” Reznick took a gulp of his beer and leaned closer, his voice a whisper. “Now do you understand why I’m reluctant for you to get involved?”

  “I do. But I’m glad you’re not shoving me away.”

  “The guy who broke into my hotel room, who is he? Listen to this. A kid who was tombstoning off the cliffs the day of the explosion told me about an American guy who rented a property on the outskirts of town a few months back. He was traveling on a Spanish passport with a young man from North Africa.”

  “Red flag there. Islamist connection?”

  “Correct. A big, big red flag.”

  “I’m intrigued about this American guy.”

  “I’ve sent what I know about him to the FBI through SIOC.”

  “What did they say?”

  “You don’t work for us, but thanks anyway.”

  Lauren shook her head. “I’m assuming they’ll pass it on.”

  “I hope so. That guy is important. His identity. Who he is? I have no idea. But I’m going to keep digging. There’s one other thing. Catherine McCafferty. She was en route to Palma to get an update on her brother from a British diplomat when she died.”

  “Do we know anything about this diplomat? Did anyone else know about Catherine’s movements?”

  Reznick smiled. “Nice questions. Was someone monitoring her movements via the GPS on her cell phone? Was the diplomat aware of her precise movements?”

  “There is the possibility that it was just another tragic accident,” Lauren said.

  “Your emphasis answers that point of yours. How can it be another? The reality is it could be. Accidents do happen. Bad luck and all. But . . .”

  “I’m not buying it.”

  Reznick nodded. “Neither am I. Which brings me back to my original point. My concern for you. I don’t want to play games with my daughter’s life or career.”

  “I hear what you’re saying. But I’m going to take my chances. Besides, who’s to say that operating in New York for the FBI is any safer?”

  “Fair point. There’s another thing.”

  “Another thing? What other thing?”

  Reznick finished up his beer and got to his feet. “Want to show you something.”

  Lauren followed him out of the bar. They crossed the street and headed up along the winding sidewalk above the beach. A few minutes later they were standing at the rocky overlook.

  Reznick pointed over the water to the buoy bobbing in the swell. “See that? That’s where the yacht was anchored before the explosion.”

  “That’s terrible to think about.”

  Reznick turned and pointed up the hillside. “The other thing I wanted to show you. About half a mile up the mountainside, maybe three quarters of a mile, is a shepherd’s hut, an old dilapidated thing. A body was found underneath the floorboards.”

  “You discovered it?”

  Reznick nodded, shielding his eyes from the setting sun.

  “This is just getting crazy, Dad.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “Do we know who it is?”

  “I don’t know. I did report it to the Spanish police and was interviewed by a State Department guy and the FBI legal attaché on the island.”

  “Someone burying the evidence? Killing a witness?”
>
  “Perhaps. Then again, maybe someone laying a trail. A false trail.”

  “This was absolutely, definitely, not an accident.”

  “Right.”

  Lauren turned and faced out to the sea. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  Reznick nodded. “I know.”

  “I can’t believe Martha’s gone. I really can’t, Dad. I’m going to miss her.”

  Reznick wrapped his arm around her and held her tight. “You’re not the only one.”

  Twenty-Four

  Ford spotted Reznick standing with his arms around his pretty daughter, close to the point where he had detonated the bomb. It was all very touching and fascinating. He scanned the sadness etched on her face. He felt his mood elevating. A euphoric sense that he was ready to explode. To devastate. Ford closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted to burst down the mountainside like a lava flow and engulf everything in his path. Incinerate. Extinguish. Turn to ash. “Oh yeah.”

  His fevered thoughts were seeping into his cerebral mind.

  Today could be the day.

  Ford gazed long and hard at the fine features of Lauren Reznick. She was smart. He had seen her grades. She was bright. Bright future. All ahead of her. But not for long.

  He allowed his depraved thoughts to fill his head as he headed through the villa, down the stairs to the basement garage, and got into the pickup truck. He started the ignition, and the electronic garage doors opened. He adjusted his shades on the drive down the winding mountainside road. He drove hard and fast, accelerating into bends and corners. He felt like he always did before he tuned in to the mission at hand. Primed.

  Now was the time to hunt down Reznick and his daughter. There was no time to lose. If not now, when? They both had to die. He couldn’t allow the daughter to live.

  He might never get the chance again. What if Reznick headed home? His best opportunity to take him down would be gone. Perhaps forever. He couldn’t bear the thought.

  Ford slowed down as he approached the outskirts of the town, the Cala Molins beach in sight. His heart began to skip a beat. His pulse was quickening. The blood was flowing. He drove past the bar and then slowly headed up the winding road to the spot where he had last seen Reznick. The spot where he had triggered the explosion.

  Time seemed to slow. Then for a split second, time stopped.

  Ford looked up ahead. He saw Reznick sitting on a bench on the sidewalk with his daughter. He veered slightly off course as he accelerated around the bend. He weighed the idea of mounting the sidewalk. But in that split second, for whatever reason, Reznick turned around, as if sensing danger.

  A blink of an eye. The bastard glared at him.

  Ford blanked him and kept on driving up the winding road. He checked the satnav as he negotiated the tight roads near the beach, wedged between villas and a luxury hotel. He drove on until he headed down a one-way street at the opposite side of town.

  He pulled over for a few moments, breathing hard. Ford felt he was being consumed by a mounting fury. Angry with himself for not plowing straight into Reznick and his daughter. What the fuck was wrong with him? Was he a coward? Had he been spooked when Reznick turned around?

  He felt something snap within him. A putrid anger beginning to build within him. Reznick was on guard. Sensing danger. Sensing menace. Like some sentinel.

  That was the thing about Reznick. He was wired. All the time. Always watchful. Ford had to be patient. He had to show the same fortitude.

  Ford pulled away and drove through a quiet residential area. Huge trees shaded the sidewalk. His head was swimming. He felt his mood plummet. He felt humiliated. He pulled up outside a restaurant off the beaten path. Wood-beamed dining room and ceramic tile floors. He ate alone, enjoying roast suckling pig, washed down with a half bottle of a full-bodied Rioja. He savored the wine as he ruminated on the missed opportunity.

  As he thought about it—the fleeting encounter, a split second almost—he realized it hadn’t been the right moment. He hadn’t passed up a chance to kill Reznick in cold blood. The speed he had been traveling at wasn’t fast enough. He needed to be doing at least fifty miles per hour to feel confident that Reznick would either die or be permanently maimed.

  So, in hindsight, Ford had made the right call. He had ensured the mission was still on. And he hadn’t blown his chance with an impulsive act. No, Ford needed to just wait. He would get his chance. He had time. The opportunity would arise. And when it did, this time he would take it, no matter the consequences or outcome.

  Ford paid his bill and returned to his pickup. He felt better. Slightly more calm than before. The fine wine had soothed his nerves. Calmed him down. He had rationalized his actions. Ford would get Reznick another time.

  He started up the pickup and pulled slowly away from the curb.

  Ford decided to head home. But as he got closer to the center of Cala San Vicente, he spotted them. Again.

  Up ahead, walking on the sidewalk beside a low wall, with their backs to him, were Reznick and his daughter. Ford’s heartbeat quickened. He felt a rush of blood to the head. He put his foot on the gas. He accelerated hard and drove straight. And slammed into them.

  Ford screeched to a halt as Reznick and his daughter were propelled through the air and over the low wall. He reversed and quickly sped away, burning rubber, the sound of screeching metal echoing as he disappeared from the scene.

  Clouds of dust in his wake.

  Twenty-Five

  The moment of impact was sudden and hard and disorienting. Reznick gasped for breath. He saw it all as if in slow motion, out of order. The lights of the vehicle reversing away, the sounds of scraping metal. The bone-crushing impact. The feeling of losing control as he and Lauren were catapulted into the air and flung headlong into a fast-moving drainage channel. Swallowing filthy water, fighting to stay afloat. Dragged under time and time again. He looked around, frantic. But he couldn’t see his daughter.

  “Lauren! Lauren!” he spluttered.

  Reznick spun around, spitting out water. He began to panic. “Lauren!” He turned around. Still nothing. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he saw movement in the water to his left. Twenty yards from him. He turned again and saw a hand grabbing for an overhanging tree.

  Reznick swam furiously in the dirty water. It was chest deep. He reached out and seized her hand. “Hang on!”

  Lauren grabbed ahold.

  Reznick clawed his way through the channel, dragging his daughter up the concrete bank. A surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins. He managed to get her on his shoulder as the water threatened to topple him over. But he stood up, his daughter motionless on his back, and climbed over the small concrete wall.

  He laid her down on the sidewalk. Lauren was like a drowned rat, eyes rolling around in her head. Blood spilling from a cut on her forehead where she’d probably hit the drainage canal wall. He turned her onto her side; water spilled out of her mouth.

  Then he flipped her facedown and compressed her back. More water poured out.

  “Lauren! Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  Reznick pressed her back, expelling more water from her lungs. He turned her on her side again and kneeled down beside her, water oozing from her mouth. A group of British tourists rushed to her aid, also kneeling down. A woman held her hand, others frantically calling emergency services.

  “Lauren!” Reznick said. “Can you hear me?”

  Lauren coughed up some more water and gasped as if trying to speak.

  Reznick held her hand and stroked her soaking-wet hair. “You’re OK, honey, Dad’s here.”

  Lauren spluttered some words he couldn’t comprehend.

  Reznick looked up as some tourists began filming on their cell phones. “What the hell is wrong with you people? Get help, you morons!”

  It was the dead of night when Lauren awoke in her hospital bed in Palma. She sat up looking dazed, pale, eyes bloodshot.

  Reznick squeezed her hand, gazing down at her.


  “Hey, Dad,” she said.

  Reznick stroked her hair. He was wearing a hospital gown; his own clothes were still soaking wet. “Hey, honey.”

  “What happened?”

  Reznick told her about how he had traveled in the back of an ambulance with her until they got her to the hospital, as she lapsed in and out of consciousness. “The prognosis is good. They’ve checked you over, and you don’t have a concussion. You’ll live.”

  “I’m sore.”

  “You’ve got bruising on your back and a cut on your forehead.”

  Lauren scrunched up her face as if trying to remember what had happened. “It’s all coming back now. We were hit. By a car?”

  “A pickup truck, I think.”

  Lauren blinked away tears.

  “Some vacation, huh?”

  She started to cry. “I’m an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot. You’re just a major league pain in the ass.”

  Lauren touched the bandage on her forehead. “What’s this?”

  “I told you. Cut to your forehead. You had seven stitches.”

  “Am I going to be scarred?”

  “The doctors say it will heal nicely, as long as you don’t do any tombstoning or diving into concrete pools.”

  “Nice.”

  “It’s a reminder of what happened. Look at it like that.” Reznick bowed his head and put his hand on her brow.

  “Who was it?” she said.

  “We’ll find out. I’m just glad you’re going to be OK.”

  Lauren grimaced. “My head hurts.”

  “I love you, Lauren. I thought I’d lost you.”

  “Not a chance, Dad.”

  Twenty-Six

  It was late morning when two American guys in suits arrived at the hospital.

  “You need to come with us,” one of them said. “We’ve brought a fresh change of clothes for you both. We need to talk.”

  Reznick had a feeling it was the State Department wanting to lay down the law. He was tempted to tell them to go to hell. But he was just relieved his daughter was OK, a few scrapes, bumps, and scratches aside.