Hard Vengeance (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean is he physically there?”

  “Jon, I hear you. But we’ve checked. The coordinates couldn’t be clearer. That’s where he was calling from.”

  “Unless he’s fucking with us. Unless . . .”

  Johnston sighed, annoyed at Reznick’s apparent negativity. “Unless what?”

  “Unless he’s spoofing the location. Have you thought of that? Think about it. How goddamn easy was it to suddenly get a fix on him?”

  Johnston cleared his throat and shrugged. “We have considered that. But the goddamn NSA has the same coordinates as us. We’re all on the same page.”

  “I don’t like this. He was on the call for a long time. It was as if he wanted us to find him. He seemed very relaxed. Something about this isn’t right.”

  “Maybe he’s just gotten complacent. Arrogant.”

  “What if this is a trap?”

  Johnston nodded. “Do you mean he’s luring us there and laughing at our expense?”

  Reznick gazed at the video. An operative was pointing to surveillance cameras in the kitchen, living room, bedrooms, basement. “I don’t mean that.”

  “So, what do you mean?”

  “I mean a goddamn trap.”

  “What the hell are you getting at?”

  “I mean booby-trapped!”

  “Jon, you need to calm the hell down.”

  Reznick shook his head. “There are countless cameras in there,” he said. “Maybe dozens. What for?”

  “Stopping thieves?”

  “He’s up a huge isolated mountainside in Mallorca. There’s no one for miles around.”

  “Maybe he’s just security conscious.”

  Johnston tapped a few keys. “The owner is Juan Garcia, a businessman in Madrid. He owns seven properties. He rents his Mallorca villa out throughout the year.”

  “So Mr. Garcia is security conscious.”

  “He’s renting to Alvin Cameron, an Arizona doctor.”

  “Alvin Cameron? So that’s an alias. It’s gotta be Ford. Another fake ID, right?”

  Johnston stared at the screen, watching the team continue to spread out across the huge property. “We’ll wait till he comes back. We’ll find him.”

  Reznick began to pace the room again. “He’s not there. He’s simply reeling us in.”

  “You’re overthinking this, Jon. The guy is arrogant and didn’t realize we’d find him so quickly.”

  “You’re not listening. Adam Ford is a cunning, manipulative, and highly intelligent predator.”

  “I said we’ll get him. Jeez, what’s wrong with you?”

  The sense of dread Reznick felt was only getting stronger. “Johnston, you need to get your guys out of there.”

  “What?”

  “Get them out! Right now!”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you get it? He’s watching your every move within the house.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The specially modified cell phone rang. Reznick looked at Johnston. “You want me to answer?”

  Johnston nodded.

  Reznick put the phone on speaker mode. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t see you, Jonny boy.” The arrogant tone of Adam Ford. “Why is that? Why haven’t you visited me? I was so looking forward to seeing you.”

  Reznick leaned across the table and whispered in Johnston’s ear. “Get your men out of there! He’s watching your guys!”

  “I’ve got to say that sending an eight-strong team after one guy seems like overkill.”

  The danger finally seemed to click with Johnston. He was whispering urgently into his headset, instructing his men to get the hell out of there.

  “We’re going to find you,” Reznick said. “And when we do, you’ll wish you’d drowned in Jamaica Bay.”

  Ford began to laugh. “History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce. It was the only thing Karl Marx got right, Jon.”

  The line went dead.

  Forty

  Ford ended the call and smiled. He was reveling in the situation he had manufactured. He sensed Reznick might know what he had in store for those poor saps prowling around the rental property. He watched the real-time footage on his laptop, enjoying the show on this balmy night from the terrace in Port de Sóller. Miles away from the scene at hand.

  He watched the Americans, perhaps CIA or State Department officials, and Spanish intelligence officers scouring the house. No one had an inkling of what was about to happen. Which made it all the sweeter.

  He waited until he saw them all gathered in the living room. He watched them look bemused as they tried to figure out where he was. One of them put his finger to his earpiece. Then he started gesturing wildly and shouting at the others.

  Ford had seen enough. He picked up his cell phone again and called the landline number of the villa. The phone was on a sideboard by the front door.

  The men on camera all froze at the sound of the ringing. He watched a Spanish policeman walk across to the phone.

  Ford gazed at the real-time image. The somber-looking cop had no idea what was about to happen. “Come on, you know you want to.” He smiled as the guy reached out to pick up the ringing phone.

  Forty-One

  The sheer power of the explosion sent debris and flames erupting out of the mountainside villa into the night sky, visible for miles around.

  Reznick thought it sounded like the world was exploding. Even the ground began to shake. He ran out onto the balcony of the townhouse in Puerto Pollensa. Car alarms wailed. People began to scream in a nearby square. In the distance, a few miles away, he saw the night sky had turned a burnt orange.

  Twenty minutes later, Reznick arrived at the villa with Johnston. Firefighters were hosing down the smoking ruins. The smell of burnt wood and flesh filled the stifling night air. The firefighters weren’t even able to enter the house to retrieve the bodies, concerned about secondary explosions or gas leaks.

  “I’m going in,” Reznick said, pushing past a still-stunned Johnston.

  “Are you crazy?”

  Reznick soaked a handkerchief in water and tied it like a mask over his face. He headed into the smoking remains. Slippery marble floors were awash with surface water. He rubbed his eyes and saw three charred bodies lying twisted in the doorway of the living room; they’d died as they tried to escape. He found another three collapsed in a heap in the kitchen.

  Reznick picked each one up individually and carried them out. He carefully laid them side by side. He pointed at the paramedics. “Cover them up!”

  A paramedic nodded and draped the corpses with gray blankets.

  Reznick went back inside and brought the other two out. The paramedic covered them too. Reznick ripped off his blackened mask. Then he washed his hands with some antibacterial hand wash and pulled Johnston aside. “Are you going to call in some help?”

  The man looked utterly defeated. “What do you suggest?”

  “I suggest you get some serious technical support in place, electronic expertise from the NSA, and a few dozen men and women on the ground.”

  Johnston scowled. “That isn’t your call. Besides, that kind of operation won’t go unnoticed.”

  “Ford is a fucking maniac. And he’s not going to stop until either I’m dead or he is. He’s killing for pleasure. For kicks.”

  “Jon, the Agency has lost good men. We’ll deal with this our way.”

  “Yeah? And when is that going to happen?”

  Johnston raised a palm. “Don’t push me. I’m not going to take any bullshit from you, or anyone else, at this time.”

  Reznick turned and pointed at the eight corpses covered in blankets. “We need to find this guy. We need to get serious and stop dicking around.”

  Johnston grabbed Reznick by the throat.

  Reznick clamped a hand around Johnston’s wrist, wrenching it free of his neck. “Don’t fuck with me. And don’t ever grab me. Do you understan
d?”

  “You need to learn that we play by the rules.”

  “The CIA? Don’t make me laugh. Do you think the bastard who did this plays by the rules? Fuck no. We need to find him. And kill him.”

  “We don’t work like that anymore, Jon. There’s oversight.”

  “The time for rules and oversight has come and gone. You might not have the stomach for the fight, but I sure as hell do. I’m taking Ford down, no matter what you say.”

  “You’re letting it get personal.”

  “Damn right it’s personal.”

  “We need to adhere to the law. That’s what we’re obligated to do.”

  “Why do you think they sent me after Ford the last time? I wasn’t one of you then, and I’m not one of you now.” Reznick turned to leave, then looked back at Johnston. “I’ll find him. And when I do, just so there’s no misunderstanding with you or your State Department pals, I’ll kill him myself.”

  Forty-Two

  The hours that followed for Reznick were hours racked with guilt. He had been the target. He was the one Ford was really trying to get to. He was the one who should have been dead. He felt sick. He should have been on the mission.

  Day after day, there had been only more bad news. More deaths. And all because of him. Ford wasn’t going to stop until one of them had drawn their last breath.

  Reznick began to cough hard, a souvenir of the smoke he’d inhaled. He walked across to an olive grove, bathed in the headlights of an SUV, and was violently sick. He blamed himself. He should have seen the play as soon as Ford’s fake GPS was detected. He should have known the length of the call indicated that Ford had turned the tables.

  Johnston came over and handed him a bottle of chilled water. Reznick gulped it down, trying to wash the smoke residue from his throat. He waited until first light, the ruins of the house still smoldering, the corpses taken to the mortuary in Palma, to accept that there was no point in hanging around the burnt villa much longer.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Reznick said.

  Johnston nodded, and they drove one of the SUVs back down the dirt mountain track.

  Reznick was quiet throughout the journey back to his hotel. Johnston had been occupied throughout the night, fielding calls from the FBI, the State Department, and the CIA in Langley.

  The enormity of the crime and its simple execution had stunned everyone. But still they were chasing shadows trying to find Ford.

  Reznick had gotten a sense of the interagency recriminations. Screaming over the phone. Where the hell was Ford? What the hell were the Feds doing? How the hell didn’t they see this coming? But he knew whatever device or software Ford had been using to spoof his actual location had almost certainly been ditched and Ford was holed up somewhere else. Wherever Ford was, one thing was certain: Reznick was still in his sights. That hadn’t changed.

  Johnston dropped him off at his hotel. The staff in the lobby looked appalled at his disheveled appearance, his hands partly burned and red from the smoking ruins.

  “Are you OK, sir?” the young receptionist said.

  “Just a rough night, that’s all,” Reznick said.

  He was relieved to get back to his room. He took a long, hot shower and put on some fresh clothes. A black T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He was physically and mentally drained. So he did what he usually did. He took three Dexedrine. It only took fifteen minutes to rouse him.

  He wasn’t going to allow the terrible loss of life to stop him from tracking down and killing Adam Ford. He wasn’t going to sleep it off. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to mope around. Enough was enough.

  Reznick headed back out of the hotel and down the road to the beachfront café. He ordered breakfast and a cup of strong black coffee. He spent a few moments thinking about Lauren. He trusted that Johnston had been correct when he said she was safe.

  The owner smiled. “You OK, Señor Jon?”

  “A lot on my mind. Thanks for asking. And thanks for letting me borrow your bike.”

  “For one thousand dollars, you can keep it!”

  Reznick smiled.

  “Did you see the explosion last night? Did it wake you?”

  Reznick nodded.

  “They said on the radio it was a gas explosion. Another one.”

  Reznick said nothing.

  “No one injured or killed, thank God.”

  Reznick nodded. Another media blackout. He knew the truth would emerge eventually. Maybe days or weeks later, when the State Department had decided it was in the national interest to reveal the full extent of the carefully planned attack. But it might be too late to stop another attack. It was clear Ford was the mastermind behind the whole operation. A special ops–trained medic. He had to be apprehended and stopped. Ideally killed. Ford understood military tactics but also understood medicine. Psychology. He knew how to press buttons to produce behavior patterns. Everyone else was running around like headless chickens.

  Reznick looked up at the bar owner. “Sounded bad.”

  “If there’s anything I can get you, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  “You’ve been very kind to me. Thank you, my friend.”

  Reznick sat alone with his thoughts for a minute before he started his breakfast. He was famished. He wolfed down the toast and omelet, followed by a couple of croissants and a couple of black coffees. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Afterward, he felt marginally better. But his mood was dark, even with the amphetamines coursing through his bloodstream.

  He thought of the villa up in the hills where Adam Ford had stayed. Long-distance line of sight into the town. Now the observation point was gone. So where was he now? Was Ford lying low? Was he watching in plain sight? Was he planning a final move in his quest to kill Reznick?

  Reznick had gotten lucky so far. And others had paid the price.

  He stared across the bay. The sparkling blue waters shimmered in the blazing early-morning sun. He thought of the families of the CIA and State Department guys, not to mention the Civil Guard officers, who had perished in the night. He thought about the wives being called in the middle of the night in the States. Maybe a doorstep call from the Civil Guard to the family of a fallen officer. Their men wouldn’t be coming home. Each family’s emptiness and anger would engulf them. He knew those feelings all too well.

  The American dead, three of them, two CIA and one State Department, would be flown to an American military base in Europe. Then back to Dover Air Force Base in Delaware. He’d lost count of the times he’d been there as fallen comrades and friends were returned to their loved ones.

  The suffering went on for years. The dead were returned. The politicians who sent them off to fight were nowhere to be seen. It was all done in the name of freedom. But whose freedom?

  Whenever he thought about it, he wondered what the hell it had all been for. What had any of it been for? The endless wars were just that: endless. America funded people in one conflict, then ended up fighting against them in the next. And on and on it went.

  Reznick’s cell phone rang—his personal phone—snapping him out of his dark thoughts.

  “Jon, it’s Lionel Finsburg.”

  “Lionel . . . what’s the latest? How’s Martha?”

  “She’s alive. I’m calling from the plane. But I want you to listen to me. I have a message I’ve been asked to pass on.”

  “What kind of message?”

  “In the parking lot, fifty yards behind the bar, there’s a BMW SUV. It’s located at the farthest corner of the parking lot.”

  “The CIA planning on drugging me again, Lionel? I don’t take too kindly to that.”

  “Your daughter’s waiting for you. We have an apartment in town for you both; we thought that would be prudent.”

  Reznick closed his eyes for a moment. “Sorry, I sound like an ungrateful idiot. I haven’t gotten any sleep. My main priority now is to keep my daughter safe.”

  “Then she should think about going home.”

&nb
sp; “I agree. But she’s stubborn.”

  “She’s tough too, Jon. She’s got the Reznick genes, that’s for sure.”

  “Can I see her now?”

  “Sure, she’s waiting.”

  Reznick ended the call and left a twenty-euro bill under the ashtray. He walked down the side street and toward the parking lot. He spotted the BMW and strode over. The back door opened.

  Lauren was sitting on the other side, smiling. “What took you so long, Dad?”

  It was a short drive in the BMW to a secluded part of Cala San Vicente. The apartment had a wraparound glass terrace, shielded from prying eyes by huge cypress trees. State Department officials had dropped off their bags, along with some groceries.

  Finally, when they were alone, Reznick hugged his daughter tight. “Thank God you’re safe. I’ve missed you.”

  “Me too.”

  “Where did they take you?”

  “A place in Palma. They said an operation to catch the person responsible had gone south. I feared the worst.”

  Reznick helped his daughter by chopping up some mushrooms for risotto. They ate it on the terrace with a bottle of Rioja. While they ate, he took a few minutes to update Lauren on the events of the previous night and finding Martha alive in the hospital.

  “Thank God she’s alive.”

  Reznick nodded.

  “When does this end, Dad?”

  “It ends when either Ford is dead or I am. Not before.”

  “Don’t joke around.”

  Reznick shook his head. “It’s not a joke. It’s a fact. He’s out there.”

  “And this is all about him wanting you dead?”

  Reznick sighed. “Long story. It’s personal with him. He wants to get under my skin. And he’s succeeding. And he’s been one step ahead the whole time.”

  “And no one can seem to locate him? That’s crazy.”

  “He’s a devious bastard.”

  “I think we’ll find him,” Lauren said. “The FBI and NSA are seriously involved now. I just think we need a bit more luck.”

  “Listen to me, after the Agency gets lured into a trap, which incidentally was meant for me, you realize what kind of guy you’re dealing with. This guy is clearly in possession of some high-tech equipment, surveillance, cell phone hacking, you name it. And he’s had years of planning to prep for contingencies.”