Hard Vengeance (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  Mavor nodded. “I just got off the phone with Finsburg. He agrees. It’s best for you both to get back to the States while you still can.”

  Reznick looked at his daughter. “What do you think, honey?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. This is not the time to run.”

  Reznick fixed his gaze on Mavor. “Guess that’s settled. We’re not going anywhere.”

  “He’s headed this way. And he will find you and your daughter. And he will kill you both.”

  “Not if I kill him first.”

  Forty-Five

  Ford stood on a bone-dry dirt trail, checking the luminous face of his watch under the pale moonlight. He adjusted the backpack slung over his shoulders. He wasn’t far from Puerto Pollensa. He knew the area, having lived in Mallorca for the last six months. He would approach Cala San Vicente on foot. The long way. But it was almost certainly the safest way, knowing the Civil Guard would be all over the area.

  He felt the sweat sticking to his T-shirt, running down his back. He took a bottle of water from the backpack and gulped some down. He strode on. He headed northwest and walked for a few hundred yards, then turned onto a goat track.

  He hiked for a short while before he came to an iron gate that was open. He continued on. He passed by piles of stones that had been assembled by hikers as waymarks and painted with red dots.

  He took the gentle climb on the old fishermen’s trail.

  Ford stopped for a breather and turned around. In the distance, he could see the shimmering lights of Alcudia Old Town and the boats on Pollensa Bay.

  He walked on, hiking hard, until he was atop the Coll de Siller hill.

  But from there, it was a gentle descent.

  He stayed off the main path and took one on the left, indicated by two cairns.

  Ford walked on for twenty more minutes until he came to the end of the narrow path. He saw the lights of Cala Molins Bay sparkling in the distance. He afforded himself a smile. Not long now.

  He had imagined it would be easier to kill Jon Reznick. He reflected on that. The first attempt, the poisoning, had failed. The second attempt, crudely smashing into him with his car, catapulting him and his daughter into the drainage channel, hadn’t been successful either. And the brilliant third attempt, remotely detonating the modernist home in the hills while he watched from Port de Sóller, only took out eight men. Reznick, he assumed, would have rushed to the location. But the fucker hadn’t taken the bait.

  The more he thought about it, the more Ford wondered if he was overthinking the operation. The closest he had come to killing Reznick was crashing into him with his car, nearly drowning both him and his daughter. Maybe it needed to be a rough-and-ready strategy.

  The cat-and-mouse game he was playing was coming to an end. He would find Reznick in the little seaside hamlet. And he would kill him. He didn’t care how. Only that Reznick would take his last breath. And Ford would get to watch. His fantasies and the myriad ways he had conceived of killing Reznick had to be pushed aside. The window of opportunity was slowly closing.

  Ford had to strike, even if it meant blowing his cover. It was a high-risk strategy. But that was fine. The time for playing it safe, playing the long game, was over. He sensed the endgame was in sight. He would hunker down for the night. And strike first thing in the morning.

  He headed through the trees and down onto a dark, narrow residential street.

  Ford quickly headed north out of the town and back onto the rural track. He walked on for a few miles until he reached the caves. The white caves. Punta de Coves Blanques. He pulled a flashlight off his belt and shined it into the main cave. He headed inside for twenty yards.

  Ford had found his shelter for the night, away from prying eyes.

  Forty-Six

  Reznick insisted on a punishing early-morning run. He wore a backpack with his two 9mm Berettas inside, and he ran hard in the predawn light. He turned around and saw Lauren puffing hard, red in the face, sweat beading her forehead.

  “Is this really necessary, Dad?” she said.

  “You didn’t have to join me,” he said. “You could’ve slept in. Would’ve been safer.”

  Lauren was breathing fast. “I never want to be a sitting target. And I don’t intend to be.”

  “You prefer being a moving target? Because that’s what you are right now. That’s what I am.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Reznick glanced back again and grinned at his daughter. Her face was flushed crimson. “You OK?”

  “This gradient and conditions are harder than Quantico’s Yellow Brick wooded trail. And that was six point one miles of hell.”

  “Suck it up, Lauren,” he said. “No gain without pain.”

  “I know. This is what we did at Quantico each and every day. Twice a day.”

  Reznick grinned, his lungs burning. “Stop bitching. You gotta love the pain.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Reznick ran faster up a steep incline alongside the Cala Molins beach. Waves crashed onto the rocky shore. His daughter was struggling to keep up. But before long she’d gotten a second wind and was matching him stride for stride.

  Lauren turned and smiled at him. “I’m still here,” she said. “Still hanging in there.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Reznick slowed down as they approached the overlook. He stopped, catching his breath, hands on hips as Lauren did some stretching exercises. He looked over the bay, the amber dawn light reflecting off the dark waters. The police launch boat was still there, as was the buoy. It was chilling to see the spot where the yacht had been blown out of the water. “Can’t believe what happened in such a peaceful spot,” he said.

  Lauren wiped her brow with the back of her arm. “She’s alive. We’ve got to be thankful.”

  “Indeed we do. You’re absolutely right.”

  Lauren climbed up the rocky outcrop as Reznick followed suit. He wrapped an arm around her. “I’m glad you joined me here.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “It’s just the way I am. You do realize that we’re sitting ducks?”

  “Which does have the advantage that it might lure the target to break cover, one more time.”

  Reznick grinned. “Smart girl.”

  “That’s not to say I’m not a little scared.”

  “We all get scared.”

  “Even you?”

  “Even me. It’s how you manage the fear that counts. Overcome it.”

  “I wonder when he’ll show up.”

  “He’s been calling the shots from the get-go. I guess we’ll know soon enough.”

  “He must really have it in for you. He set this whole thing up. Just to get you.”

  “It’s crazy, I know.”

  “You think he’ll find us?”

  “He’ll be back, alright. We just need to be alert.”

  Lauren’s gaze was drawn to the buoy out on the water. “You must have some effect on people, Dad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That this guy, Adam Ford, so badly wants to kill you that he lured you here by blowing up the yacht Martha was on.”

  “True story.”

  Lauren sighed. “Do we have any news on her condition?”

  “No, but I’m sure the hospital is taking good care of her.”

  Lauren forced a smile. But he could see the tension in her face.

  “It’s natural to be scared. Shows your senses are working. It’s important to be switched on to danger.”

  “I just don’t like being a sitting duck.”

  “Nobody does. But here’s the thing. Sometimes you have to put yourself in the crosshairs.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “There are always risks. If you don’t like the odds, you need to get out of the game.”

  “At Quantico, they stress the importance of managing risk and assessing and managing threats. It’s very nuanced.”

  “It’s all good stuff. In my
line of work, in the field, on the front line, the reality is different. Kill or be killed. But sure, you need to work the problem. Think of the threat. And sometimes you have to get your hands dirty. Lines get blurred. Good and bad.”

  “I’ve got a lot to learn, I guess.”

  “You’re going to do fine.”

  Lauren went quiet for a few moments.

  Reznick thought it was time to change the morbid subject. “So, how are you finding living and working in New York?”

  “Long days. But it’s great. There’s a new opening coming up for me.”

  “In New York?”

  Lauren shook her head. “Not quite. The Special Agent in Charge spoke to Martha before all this happened. He recommended me for a fast-track leadership course at Quantico. And once it’s finished in a couple of months, I’ll be heading back to the field office in Manhattan.”

  “That’s fantastic. Grab the opportunity.”

  “I intend to.”

  “You can go back to the FBI and tell them all about this. Though I’m guessing this might not be on the curriculum at Quantico.”

  Lauren smiled, tucking some loose hair behind her ear. “I don’t think so.”

  Reznick looked at his beautiful, strong-willed daughter and couldn’t help thinking of his late wife, Elisabeth. The same expression on her face. The same way she accentuated some words. And a fierce intellect. He was so, so proud of their daughter.

  “This can only end one way, can’t it?” Lauren said.

  “What?”

  “This, here, in Mallorca.”

  “Pretty much. Either he’ll be in a box, or it’ll be us. Don’t be under any illusions. This is real.”

  Lauren’s gaze flicked back to the endless sea in front of them.

  “We’re the hunted. He’s the hunter. We just need to make sure that we don’t become his latest prey.”

  Forty-Seven

  Daylight broke, and light flooded into the cave. Ford had stayed out of sight, the way he wanted. He slowly opened his eyes, got his bearings, and crawled out. He needed to move before the troublesome hikers and tourists turned up. He reached into his backpack, grabbed a bottle of water, and took a few welcome gulps.

  Ford put the bottle back in the pack and rifled inside, pulling out a handheld radio scanner and switching it on. Distorted, crackly Spanish voices. The batteries were working well.

  Ford’s Spanish was proficient. Passable. Not fluent. But good enough to get by.

  He adjusted the scanner’s position to get better reception.

  A few moments of garbled communications from the control tower at Palma International Airport. It randomly jumped frequencies for the next few minutes. Switching between Pollensa police arresting a British tourist for spitting at them and a paramedic trying to revive a Dutch tourist who had overdosed on Ecstasy in his hotel room in Alcudia.

  The incessant chatter on police and Civil Guard frequencies filled the still early-morning air.

  Ford gulped down some more water as the sun began to bathe the hills and sea in a tangerine glow. Shimmering water in the distance, waves crashing off rocks.

  He switched frequencies.

  A few short bursts of conversation from the Civil Guard observing two people in Cala San Vicente.

  Ford listened closely. Americano y su hija. It translated as “American and his daughter.” Bastardo duro. That meant “tough bastard,” if he wasn’t mistaken. He began to piece together what was happening. Two Civil Guard officers had cruised past a pair he believed to be Reznick with his daughter. Their job was to pick them up and take them straight to the airport. Immediately.

  Ford couldn’t allow that to happen. He knew this was the time. The last opportunity to strike. It had to be done now. And to hell with a carefully choreographed assassination. He listened to exactly where Reznick was. And then it became clear that Reznick was sitting on the rocks adjacent to the weather vane on Carrer del Temporal. The location overlooked the sea and sported great views, if viewed from high enough, over Cara Clara Beach.

  Ford built up a picture in his head. He knew the location. It was the exact spot where he had observed the yacht and detonated the explosion that killed Meyerstein. Now he knew precisely where Reznick and his daughter were. At least at that moment. The good news was that they were in town. Right now. But he had to act. No further delays. This was his chance. Maybe his only chance.

  Ford packed the scanner and his things away in the backpack, then slung it over his shoulder. He headed toward a narrow path that led down to the sea. A small dinghy used by tour guides was tied up there.

  He made a mental calculation. The town was only one mile away, across the water.

  Ford thought he could be there in a few minutes. Then a short walk across town. In ten minutes, he would be face-to-face with Reznick and his daughter. Catch them unawares.

  Ford stepped into the dinghy and set off across the water. He felt the salt water in his face, the sun glinting off the blue sea. Closer and closer to land. He imagined what he would do when he saw Reznick and his daughter. Who would he kill first? The thoughts were running around his head, an endless stream of ideas.

  A few minutes later, the dinghy approached the soft, undulating beach. Ford switched off the engine and let the boat’s momentum guide it onto the deserted sands.

  He jumped down onto the sand, walked up the steps, and looked around. Whitewashed hotels and apartments. His gaze lingered.

  A Civil Guard cruiser was parked not far away, opposite the beach. He brushed off the sand from his trousers and put his backpack on.

  Ford smiled and walked on. He had to assume they were looking for him. The cop sitting in the passenger seat had his arm out of the window. The driver was drinking a cup of coffee. Neither looked too pleased to see him.

  Ford nodded. “Buenos días, señor.”

  The cop had dull eyes. Lifeless. His arm was draped lazily out of the window as if the dumb fuck owned the town. “Señor, papers, please. Passport?”

  Ford smiled his best smile. “It’s in my bag,” he said.

  Both cops nodded. Truth be told, he was amazed they understood a word of English.

  Ford sighed, trying to appear more bored than he really was. He had to stifle a smile as he rifled in the side pocket.

  “Señor!” the cop snapped. “Please hurry up!”

  Ford felt something break inside his head. He didn’t like being told what to do. And certainly not by some shitkicker Spanish cop. He calmly reached into the side pocket and pulled out a silenced Smith & Wesson M&P22 Compact. Then he pressed the gun tight up against the cop’s head. He pulled the trigger twice. Double tap to the temple. Blood spurted everywhere, a dull phut sound.

  The cop in the driver’s seat fumbled for his gun. But it was too late.

  Ford fired one shot to the driver’s forehead, blood splatter hitting the windshield. The smell of smoke rose from the gunshots. He looked around. Not a soul in sight. What a time to be alive. Killing cops in cold blood.

  He laughed at the extremity of it all. Ford casually opened the passenger door and hauled out the first cop. Then he reached over and pulled out the second cop, dropping their bodies onto the dusty roadside.

  It was just past dawn, and he was already in the kill zone.

  Ford slid into the blood-splattered seat. The smell of gun smoke and human tissue ignited his senses. He put the cop car into gear and pulled away slowly. He began to laugh. “Now do you believe me, you fuckers?”

  Next stop: Jon Reznick.

  Forty-Eight

  The cop car appeared on the crest of the hill.

  Reznick watched the car as he sat with Lauren in the beachfront bar. It appeared to approach at a normal speed. Then it slowed and stopped halfway down. Reznick stared at the car. A lone cop. The car eased down the hill and approached. The windshield wipers sluicing fast. Reznick sensed something was wrong.

  He instinctively grabbed Lauren’s hand and dove for cover among the tables and chai
rs of the beachfront bar. “Stay down!” He took the 9mm from the backpack and handed his daughter the other Beretta. The car began to accelerate, moving fast toward them. The sound of screeching tires split the dawn air. “Heads down! Lie flat! Now!”

  A ripple of panic spread through the bar. Some people started sobbing as they clung to each other under tables. Reznick crawled to the front of the bar and saw it was a Civil Guard vehicle. Speeding fast down the road into the town. On the other side of the road he saw a mother pushing a stroller toward the beach. “Cuidado, señora,” he yelled, warning her of the danger.

  The woman glanced up and hurriedly pushed the stroller toward the sidewalk, fear on her face.

  Reznick turned around and saw Lauren beside him. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Lauren nodded, fear in her eyes.

  Reznick turned over a table, and they both took up defensive positions, guns drawn. He wondered why the hell it was a Civil Guard car speeding through the town.

  Time seemed to slow.

  Reznick spotted the driver. It was Ford, gun drawn, teeth clenched. Fuck. The bastard fired off four shots, strafing the bar. The bullets shattered glass behind them. Thudding into the thick wood.

  Reznick took two quick shots at the driver’s window. A direct hit to the guy’s shoulder.

  The car screeched around the corner as Lauren stood up and fired off some shots, shattering the cop car’s rear window.

  Reznick jumped to his feet and ran up to the owner, who was crouched behind the bar.

  “What is happening?” the bar owner shouted.

  “Where’s the bike?”

  The owner pointed to the back of the bar and put the keys on the counter.

  Reznick grabbed them. “Call the cops! It looks like someone has stolen a Civil Guard vehicle.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it!”

  The bar owner pointed to the vehicle accelerating fast up the hill, out of the town. “There he is!”

  Reznick ran down the side alley and climbed on the Ducati. He put the key in the ignition and revved up the bike hard. He saw Lauren running toward him. “Climb on!”