Hard Vengeance (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  She got on the bike, one arm draped around his chest. He skidded away, moving through the gears, as he tore up the hill toward the stolen Civil Guard car.

  “Dad! I see him! Two hundred yards due north!”

  Reznick crouched down low on the tank, Lauren hanging on for dear life, as they gave chase. He was going to get the fucker. No matter what.

  Forty-Nine

  Ford screamed at the excruciating pain like burning lava in his right arm. “Motherfucker! God damn you, fucker!”

  He saw the blood dripping off his arm.

  Reznick had fired at him. Hit him as he drove past. He’d gotten some shots in. But it was a scattergun approach.

  Fuck!

  Ford was accelerating up the road out of town, wondering whether to turn around at the next opportunity and head back down and finish the job. He cursed himself for not getting out at the bar and taking Reznick out at close range. But something within him had balked at that.

  Had Ford blinked first? Did he fear what would happen? Face-to-face?

  Fuck!

  Had he lost his nerve? Did he not want to go toe-to-toe with Reznick? Was that it?

  The mere thought enraged him. His mind flashed back to that split-second decision. Whether to stop and fight or drive on and live to tell the tale? He wondered why on earth he had fired and sped by. He had prayed for that opportunity for so long. But he had blown it.

  Fuck!

  Suddenly, a flash of light in his rearview mirror.

  Ford glanced back. A motorcycle was bearing down on him. And it was Reznick, head down, coming full speed for him. He began to smile. Maybe he was going to get a second bite at the apple. Pain shot up his arm, and he clenched his teeth. “That the way you want it, you fuck? You wanna catch me? Come and get me!”

  Fifty

  Reznick accelerated hard as he approached the stolen cop car. “Take the rear tire!” he shouted.

  Lauren was holding on with one hand around his waist. Two shots rang out.

  Reznick was momentarily deafened. The car’s right rear tire exploded. He gripped the bike as it jolted when Lauren adjusted her position. The car swerved violently on the narrow winding ascent, revving hard, burning rubber. Sparks flew from the steel rim of the wheel.

  “Hang on!”

  Reznick edged closer, eyes scrunched up against the sun and the noise of the screeching metal on the asphalt. He saw a sharp bend up ahead. He accelerated fast and got level. He turned. Adam Ford was bleeding, sobbing, and screaming.

  The bastard glanced around and raised a gun. It was pointed straight at Reznick. Ford’s eyes were wide open, crazy, his mouth contorted as if sneering. It was as if Ford had lost his mind. Completely gone.

  Reznick braked hard and came to a stop, Lauren gripping him tight around the waist. He watched as the car careered fast up the mountainside, getting away from them. “Motherfucker!” He turned and looked at his daughter. Fear in her eyes. She was breathing hard, gasping for air. “You OK?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Reznick took a moment to catch his own breath. “Let’s get him!”

  Fifty-One

  Ford gripped the steering wheel, struggling to control the car. He was losing control of the vehicle. Losing control of his operation. He felt it all slipping away from him. The stifling air billowing through the shot-up car windows. The police radio crackling into life. The pain erupting in waves. “Motherfucker!”

  He glanced in the rearview mirror. Half a mile behind him was the high-powered motorcycle. Reznick and his daughter were still on his tail.

  His instincts were telling him this was his last chance. He had one shot. He had to make it count. His hand was trembling, holding his gun, trying to control the car.

  Ford wanted to turn the cop car around and ram them off the mountainside cliffs and into the blue waters far below. But the car was screeching and billowing smoke as it powered up the steep incline. His foot was to the floor, the car struggling to hit sixty.

  The radio buzzed. “Señor, identify yourself. Do you hear me? Identify yourself!”

  Ford grabbed the radio and flicked the switch to speak. “Are you fucking kidding me? Now listen here, you fucks! I just iced two of your laziest officers. You tell their wives and family it was for the best. Fuck them! And fuck you! Survival of the fittest! Do you understand? Do you copy!”

  The voice on the radio began to shout. “Who the hell is this?”

  Ford laughed as he fought to control the steering with one hand. “I’ll tell you who this is. This is me. A free man. Exerting free will. I decide how I live. And I also decide how to die. I don’t want to live like a dog.”

  “Señor!”

  “Shut the fuck up! I’m a man who will never live on his knees. My name will live on.”

  “Identify yourself!”

  “I’m an American. I’m a free man. Do you comprender?”

  The radio went silent.

  Ford ripped it out by the wires, exposed and sparking. “Happy now?”

  He glanced again at the rearview mirror. The motorcycle was approaching. Fast. The bastard was definitely closing in. Two hundred yards. Maximum. Tearing up the mountain road toward him.

  Ford smiled through clenched teeth. The pain was burning deep into his flesh, and tears filled his vision. His mind flashed memories of his childhood. His graduation. His proud parents watching him. The faces of patients he’d treated. The faces of people he had killed. The face of the North African kid before he decapitated him. And he began to laugh. “You next, Reznick? You ready to play? Come and get it, you fucker! Come and fucking get it!”

  Fifty-Two

  Reznick accelerated hard around the bend, chest on the tank, as he headed toward the cop car. Sparks were flying as the metal rim screeched. Black smoke billowing out of the front. His mind raced as he quickly approached the vehicle. The car was weaving, recklessly, as if Ford was trying to block their approach. “No you fucking don’t!”

  He opened the throttle to the max. The bike was hitting one hundred on the mountain road.

  Reznick pulled up alongside the vehicle. He saw Ford staring, cackling like a jackal, gun shaking in his hand. Reznick aimed the barrel of the Beretta straight at Ford’s laughing face. He fired off two head shots. The bullets tore into Ford’s head, through the skull, and exploded out of the brain, erupting in a mess of blood against the shattered driver’s window. Ford’s head was lolling.

  The cop car veered sharply across the road, through a metal barrier, and over the mountainside.

  Reznick braked hard at the mountain’s edge. He watched as the car, with Ford inside, tumbled and tumbled, propelling itself at high speed to the foot of the cliffs. The car exploded. It sounded like a bomb going off. A fireball, flames licking the sky, scorching the tinder-dry hillside. Black smoke filled the air. Choking Reznick and Lauren. He turned and hugged his daughter tight.

  The bastard was gone. Good and gone.

  Fifty-Three

  The hours that followed seemed like a fever dream to Reznick. Events flashed by. The adrenaline, amphetamines, and raw emotions were running through him. Cops arrived, guns drawn.

  Reznick and his daughter were handcuffed and whisked away to Palma by the Civil Guard. The Civil Guard cops initially thought they were responsible for the murders of two of their fellow officers.

  A few hours later, Lionel Finsburg arrived, having returned from the States. He asked for the handcuffs to be taken off Reznick and Lauren. Then they were led to a windowless room in the basement.

  A desk with two chairs on either side.

  Reznick and Lauren sat down on one side.

  Finsburg sat down on the other. The legal attaché opened his briefcase and took out some papers, laying them carefully on the desk. “This is very, very irregular,” he said.

  Reznick held his daughter’s hand. “It’s OK, honey.”

&nbs
p; Finsburg looked first at Lauren. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m OK.”

  Finsburg gave a sympathetic smile. “Some vacation, huh?”

  “One I won’t forget, that’s for sure,” Lauren said.

  Reznick said, “What do you want to know, Lionel?”

  “Are you both OK?”

  “We’ll live,” Reznick said.

  “So, quite a day. I’ve been very busy, as you can imagine. Things have been very fraught, to say the least. Anyway, I’ve been holding discussions with the State Department and Spanish military intelligence on this issue.”

  “What are they saying?” Lauren asked.

  “They have had the opportunity to view surveillance footage from a nearby hotel. It shows clearly that the man we believe to be Adam Ford killed the officers in cold blood. Clear as day.”

  “Believe to be?” Lauren said.

  “There will have to be DNA tests to establish that it’s him. The problem is this might very well be degraded after the explosion, so we’ll have to rely on DNA from the roots of a tooth. But we’re sure this is our guy.”

  Reznick said nothing.

  “Lot of information to process, right, Jon?”

  Reznick nodded.

  “OK, here’s where we are. Your daughter, Lauren, as an FBI employee, was integral, from what I understand, in apprehending Ford. Technically, there might be breaches in protocol. She was armed.”

  “It was my gun. I was legally carrying overseas.”

  “I’m sure there are aspects of this that might alarm members of the numerous intelligence oversight committees in Washington, but that’s another matter for another day. The Spanish are quite clear that Adam Ford was responsible for the killings. With regards to what happened to Martha Meyerstein and the other deaths, I cannot talk about that. Neither can you.” He looked at Lauren, long and hard. “Lauren, many elements of what have happened are now classified, top secret. You don’t have the right clearance. So we’re going to trust that this subject will never be broached by you outside these four walls.”

  “I understand.”

  “Failure to comply will result in your prosecution in the US. Are we clear?”

  Lauren nodded. “Quite clear, sir.”

  Finsburg sighed. “The State Department is freaking out, not to put too fine a point on it. But they seem satisfied that what happened here in Mallorca will go no further.”

  Lauren bowed her head. “What about me? What about my career?”

  “I’ve been speaking to the Director about this. The FBI is looking forward to you returning to the field office in Manhattan in six days’ time.”

  Lauren looked up and smiled. “Thank you so much.”

  “The next time you’re on vacation, though, you might want to go without your father.”

  “I appreciate your advice.”

  “All part of the job.”

  “So we’re good?”

  “It’s fine.” Finsburg looked at Reznick. “Jon, I can’t stress this enough, but I’m going to, one more time, tell you not to discuss this matter. You cannot discuss this matter or anything that has occurred here in Mallorca.”

  “What if I’m called to give evidence by an oversight committee?”

  “You say what you have to say, but remember, this is classified.”

  “You want me to take the Fifth?”

  “Take whatever you like. But nothing happened here.”

  Reznick nodded.

  “Spain’s national intelligence center knows what happened. And we have been liaising with them throughout.”

  “What about Mac? David McCafferty.”

  “He’s alive. He’s back on British soil.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that.”

  “He’ll be held at a secure location in the UK until this blows over, before he’s allowed to return to Mallorca.”

  “What about the body of his sister?”

  “Very sad what happened to her. The repatriation is complete. That’s all I know. That’s a matter for the British.”

  Reznick leaned back in his chair. “How are they going to explain the killings of the two Civil Guard officers?”

  “We have a cover story. Adam Ford, American citizen on holiday, high on drugs, kills a couple of Civil Guards before he flees the scene, losing control of the stolen vehicle. I believe that narrative will hold water.”

  “You’ve got it all figured out.”

  “Not me.”

  “Then who?”

  “You don’t need to know that, Jon. One of our red lines I’ve been discussing over the last few hours is access to you and your daughter.”

  “So what’s the result?”

  “The result is the Spanish police and Civil Guard will not be permitted to interview you. Military intelligence is leading on this.”

  “National security?”

  Finsburg nodded. “It’s in no one’s interests for all this to get out. It’s a mess. But it’s done. You’re both free to go home.”

  Lauren got up from her chair and hugged Reznick tight, as if she didn’t want to let go. “The job is done.”

  Reznick said nothing.

  Finsburg got to his feet and shook Reznick’s hand. “I’m glad you’re going to finally make it home, Jon. It’s been a hell of a week.”

  “It certainly has. Appreciate you pulling those strings, Lionel. I owe you one.”

  “You don’t owe me a thing. There is one proviso with the deal, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re being allowed to leave, but it has to be now.”

  “How soon is now?”

  “Right this second. A private plane is waiting, and it’s already been allocated a takeoff slot.”

  Fifty-Four

  It was dark when they landed back on American soil. Reznick knew it was Camp Peary, known as the Farm. It was a military airfield ringed by woods, used by the CIA in rural Virginia, near Williamsburg.

  Reznick and Lauren disembarked and were driven by a burly plainclothes officer to an office on the base.

  The man behind the desk didn’t get up. He just sat, smiling, staring at them both. “Good to have you back, Jon, and you, Lauren.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Reznick said.

  “Lauren, would you mind leaving the room for a moment?”

  Lauren stared at the man. “Why would I have to leave the room?”

  “I’ve got something to say to your father. It won’t take long. There’s a female operative outside. Don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not.”

  The man smiled. “I like your spirit.”

  Lauren got up and looked at Reznick. “See you in a little while, Dad.”

  Reznick touched her hand as she passed. “Sure. I’ll join you in a little while.”

  Lauren left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

  The man sighed long and hard. “I’m sorry about that. Nothing personal.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “My name is Jeff Moreles. CIA. Associate Director of Military Affairs. I’ve been overseeing what’s been going on.”

  Reznick nodded. “And what’s your assessment?”

  “Wild vacation, Jon. Very, very wild. But I’d expect nothing less.”

  “It had its moments.”

  Moreles nodded. “I’ve spoken to a few people who knew you, back in the day. And I know you’re well acquainted with what goes on here. I just want to give you a heads-up, in case Lionel Finsburg didn’t fill you in on all the details.”

  Reznick nodded.

  “Adam Ford . . . you took him out. An American citizen, namely you, taking out an American citizen overseas, namely Adam Ford. It’s problematic. Especially if the oversight committees, intelligence committees, or whatever bullshit committee is formed to investigate this, come calling. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. It didn’t happen.”

  “Take the Fifth. Makes it nice and
easy for everyone.”

  “Will it be behind closed doors?”

  “One hundred percent. We’ll cite national security and classified this, that, and the next thing, and it’ll be fine. So you won’t be on public display.”

  Reznick looked at Moreles. “You mind if I ask a question?”

  “Sure, fire away.”

  “Was Adam Ford CIA at one time?”

  “I couldn’t possibly comment. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Take it whatever way you want, Jon.”

  “The operation he was involved in . . . to kill the President?”

  Moreles smiled. “I don’t know anything about that, Jon.”

  “You sure?”

  Moreles said nothing.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Quite sure. The CIA is this country’s foreign intelligence service. We collect information and conduct operations, by and large, abroad. That answer your question?”

  “Did you know or work with Adam Ford at any point?”

  Moreles stared at him for what seemed like an eternity.

  “I’d like to speak to David McCafferty.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to offer my condolences.”

  Moreles pulled out his cell phone and dialed. He handed the phone to Reznick. “Secure line, don’t worry.”

  Reznick pressed the cell phone tight to his ear.

  “McCafferty.”

  “David, it’s Jon Reznick.”

  “Alright, Jon?”

  “I’m OK. Mac, I’m calling to say how sorry I am for the loss of your sister. I wish I could’ve done more.”

  “I was told what you did to help her. I’m very grateful. But I would’ve expected nothing less.”

  Reznick felt himself smile. “Anyway, I just wanted to speak to you. You back home?”

  “I’m in Scotland just now. But I’m hoping to get back to the sunshine in a couple of months. And if you manage to make it across again, we can share a wee dram. How does that sound?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Until the next time.”

  “Until the next time. Take care, Mac.”

  Reznick ended the call. He sighed as he looked at Moreles. “So, are we done here?”