Hard Hit
Page 1
OTHER TITLES BY J. B. TURNER
Jon Reznick Series
Hard Road
Hard Kill
Hard Wired
Hard Way
Hard Fall
American Ghost Series
Rogue
Reckoning
Requiem
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by J. B. Turner
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542006651
ISBN-10: 1542006651
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
For my late father
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Dawn on a bleak Bronx highway.
The driver of the black Bentley sniffed hard, weaving in and out of traffic, cocaine burning through his veins. He turned up the air-conditioning to the max. Cold air blasting his skin. Pulsating hip-hop bursting out of the speakers. Heart pumping. Mind racing. Slicing in and out of lanes. He tailgated a car for a few miles on the Cross Bronx Expressway. He felt euphoric. Then he got off at an exit and headed south through Washington Heights and Harlem.
The streets were empty.
He drove faster as the lights ahead changed.
Traffic picked up. His senses were being assaulted. The lights from oncoming cars were a blur.
He turned onto Park Avenue and accelerated hard. He ran a red light. Horns blared.
He glanced in the rearview mirror again, his heart hammering. The drugs were coursing through his blood.
His cell phone rang. “Sir, they want to know where you are.”
The man felt his blood pressure spike. He sniffed hard. His nostrils felt numb from the residue of cocaine. He swallowed as the drug lingered in the back of his throat. “Tell them I’m en route.”
“En route? Very good, sir. What should I say has caused the delay?”
“That’s none of their business.”
“Sir, you have three meetings lined up before the breakfast.”
The man laughed. Up ahead he saw a green light. “Can’t someone else say a few words until I get there? It’s just a business breakfast.”
“With respect, sir, it’s being attended by the leading international entrepreneurs. And you have those meetings too . . .”
The man drove on, the road ahead clear. “Why so early? It’s crazy.”
“Where have you been, sir? We’ve been worried.”
The man laughed again. “Having fun. Look, I’ll be there soon. I promise.” He ended the call as the green light changed to red.
Suddenly a female jogger wearing headphones stepped out in front of him. He plowed through her, sending her flying into the air.
A dull thud. Dull.
Numb.
That was all he felt as he accelerated away.
One
The heat was brutal. Ninety-five in the shade. And no break in sight.
Jon Reznick pulled down his baseball cap to shield his eyes from the blistering late-afternoon sun. He was standing on the edge of the crowd at the North Atlantic Blues Festival, a bottle of beer in his hand. Sweat stuck his T-shirt to his back. His throat was parched. The air was like glue. Guitar riffs hung on the stifling air.
But not a breath of wind.
That by itself was unusual for Rockland, Maine. A heat wave was blanketing the entire Eastern Seaboard of America. As it had been for the last week. Reznick couldn’t remember another summer day this hot.
Reznick was about to head to the bar for another beer when his cell phone rang.
“Is this Jon Reznick?” a woman’s voice asked on the other end of the line.
“Who’s this?”
“Detective Isabella Acosta, NYPD, Nineteenth Precinct. Am I speaking to Jon Reznick?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
“Do you have a daughter named Lauren?”
An image flashed in his mind: Lauren’s beaming smile when she’d returned home to Rockland for spring break. She was in New York City now, working a summer internship. Reznick’s gut tightened. “Yes, I have a daughter named Lauren. What happened?”
“Jon, she was in an accident. She’s in the hospital.”
“What’s her condition?”
“I can’t say. But you should get here as soon as you can.”
Two
It was just after midnight when Reznick arrived at Weill Cornell Medical Center on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. A doctor and a nurse were standing by Lauren’s bed. She was hooked up to an IV line. Reznick sat down beside her and stroked her hair; dried blood caked a wound on her head.
Lauren had tears in her eyes when she saw him. “Dad, you didn’t have to come all this way.”
His head was swimming as he struggled to take in how vulnerable and childlike she looked. “What happened?”
“I can’t really remember.” She winced and screwed up her eyes. “Goddamn migraine.”
The doctor introduced himself. “We’ve done scans and they’re clear. The headaches are coming and going, but we’re keeping an eye on it.”
“What exactly happened?”
“I believe it was a hit-and-run, not far from here. She was out jogging around five thirty. A car hit her in the crosswalk.”
“That’s more than eighteen hours ago. I only heard about it late afternoon.”
“I have no idea why it took the police so long to get in touch with you. The good news is, we are pleased that your daughter, despite cuts, bruises, abrasions, and occasional migraines, does not appear to have suffered any lasting damage. B
ut we will be keeping her here for a couple of days for observation.”
“Thanks, Doctor. I appreciate your time and attention.”
The doctor handed Jon his card. “If you need to speak to me, this has my cell phone. Now, if it’s alright with you, I need to attend to a new patient who’s just been admitted.”
Reznick waited until the doctor and nurse were out of earshot before he kissed the back of his daughter’s hand. “I love you.”
Lauren smiled. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”
“Don’t worry. Dad’s here. It’s going to be OK.”
Three
A pale morning light was flooding through the windows of the ICU room when Reznick awoke, his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. He sat up in the easy chair.
A nurse checking his daughter’s vital signs smiled down at him. “Good morning,” she said.
Reznick cleared his throat. “Yeah, good morning. How is she?”
“Dad, I’m fine,” Lauren said.
“She’s had a peaceful night. But we’ll be doing more tests in the next hour or two.”
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Excuse me, I’ve got to take this call.” Reznick got up and walked out into the corridor.
“Detective Acosta, NYPD, Nineteenth Precinct,” she said when he answered.
“Morning.”
“Mr. Reznick, I wanted to meet you face-to-face to give you an update on where we are with our investigation. Are you available in an hour?”
“Not a problem.”
“You want to meet for coffee?”
“Where?”
“Ritz Diner isn’t far from the hospital.”
“See you then.”
Reznick ended the call and spent a few more minutes with his daughter. He gazed down at her, relieved that she was alive. He went to a restroom and freshened up before going out.
The broiling heat hit him as soon as he stepped outside the hospital. He was starving and headed into the diner.
Reznick sat alone in a booth overlooking First Avenue.
“Hey, what can I get you, honey?”
He ordered a breakfast of pancakes and black coffee.
The waitress took his order and smiled. “Coming right up.”
Reznick gazed out at the hustle and bustle of the New York streets. The taxis. The garbage trucks. FedEx. UPS. The movement. The people. Going about their business. His daughter should have been enjoying walking and jogging these same streets. But he was hopeful it wouldn’t be long until she could get back to doing what she loved.
Reznick ate his breakfast, trying to enjoy the sustenance. A few minutes later, the waitress cleared the table. It was then that a woman in her late thirties, with dark-brown eyes and shoulder-length hair pulled back tight, walked in.
“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Detective Isabella Acosta began.
Reznick shook her hand as she sat down opposite him. She wore a navy suit, well cut, with a cream blouse, gun holstered to her belt.
“Morning meeting ran over.”
Reznick smiled.
“Sorry also to meet under such circumstances.”
Reznick nodded. “I’m just glad my daughter is alive, first and foremost.”
The waitress refilled Reznick’s cup, and Acosta ordered a latte.
Acosta waited until the waitress was out of earshot. “You OK?”
“I’m fine.”
Acosta smiled.
“So, any progress on interviewing the driver?” Reznick asked.
“We’ve identified the vehicle. And we’re going to be interviewing the owner of the vehicle very shortly. But so far we haven’t managed to identify who was driving.”
Reznick shrugged. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Surveillance footage is mostly centered on the moments after the accident. We are, however, trawling all the business and traffic cameras in the neighborhood, including our own CCTV cameras, to see what we can find.”
“And it takes time, I’m guessing.”
“We have techs working on that issue as we speak. A ton of footage, but none is of a high-enough quality to definitively show how the accident happened. We’re also checking Lauren’s cell phone, but we’re running into problems with access. There’s a four-digit passcode. She couldn’t remember it last night, so I guess I’ll try and talk to her again this afternoon. Hopefully she can help us with that.”
“Sure.”
Acosta gave a sympathetic smile. “What are you going to do in the meantime? I mean, while she’s here in the hospital.”
“Me? Watch over her. That’s what parents do, right?”
The waitress returned with Acosta’s latte. Acosta fingered the cup for a few moments before saying, “I have a son—well, it’s my partner’s son, but I still worry about him like no one’s business.”
“He in school now?”
“Summer vacation. He’s at camp upstate. First time he’s been away from home. And it’s hard. We miss him like crazy.”
Reznick nodded, not wanting to pry. His thoughts turned to Lauren. He couldn’t believe how fast she’d grown up. She’d been a daddy’s girl when she was younger. But over the years he’d watched her change. After her mother’s death, yes, but especially since she had gone off to college. She’d gotten tougher. More resilient. Independent. Not afraid of hard work. Standing on her own two feet. Working in the city this summer. Jogging in New York City. He hoped that the accident wouldn’t make her more cautious.
“Anyway, while you’re hanging around town, I’m at the precinct seven days a week, or so it seems lately. And you have my number there, as well as my cell.”
Reznick nodded. “Sure thing.”
“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
Reznick gulped down the rest of his coffee. “What’s that?”
“My boss said he’d been contacted by the FBI in New York. He was told that you do some work for them? But that you’re not a special agent.”
Reznick said nothing.
“Do you work for the FBI, Mr. Reznick?”
“Call me Jon. Yes, I work for them from time to time.”
“You mind me asking what sort of work you do for them?”
“I consult on issues which concern the FBI. National security.”
“Who do you report to?”
“Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein. You want to give her a call?”
Acosta took a pen out of her jacket pocket and scribbled the name on a napkin. “I’m assuming she’s in DC?”
“Correct. So, you said your boss was contacted by the Feds. Were they giving him a heads-up about trying to keep me in check?”
“Not in so many words. He was told that you do valuable classified work with the FBI. And you usually operate on highly classified investigations. But it was mentioned that you are unorthodox and don’t play by the rules.”
Reznick couldn’t help feeling a bit annoyed at how the Feds were dealing with this. He had put his life on the line for them on several occasions during top-secret and dangerous investigations. That included rescuing Meyerstein from the clutches of the Russian mob.
“I want to help, Jon. That’s why I’m here. But you have to realize that you going off script, following your own agenda, it’s not advisable.”
“I got you.”
“I don’t want to have to arrest you for interfering with an investigation.”
“There’ll be no problem with me. I just want to make sure my daughter recovers fully. I want her well. I want her back with me. And I want the NYPD to arrest the person who did this.”
“New York can be a brutal place, Jon.”
“I know that, trust me.”
“No one seems to have time to worry too much about other people. Life moves fast. It’s tough. Relentless. A grind. Shit happens every day here. I’ve got a job to do. And I hope you understand that.”
Reznick glanced out the diner window at the traffic on First Avenue. “You don’t have
to worry about me.”
“Promise?”
“You have my word.”
Four
It was dark when the Gulfstream carrying Aleksander Brutka touched down at Lebanon Municipal Airport in New Hampshire. A limousine whisked him and his bodyguard the short journey across the state line to the small town of Norwich, Vermont. Quiet, rural. Nestled just outside town was the colonial house where his grandfather lived.
Brutka and his bodyguard stepped out of the car. The air was sticky. He walked up the gravel path to the newly painted white door. He knocked four times, as he always did, and waited. A few moments later, an old man with rheumy eyes opened up.
Brutka stepped forward and hugged the man tight. “Grandfather, how are you this fine summer night?”
His grandfather dabbed his eyes. “Better for seeing you, Aleksander. Come in.”
The bodyguard headed back to the car as Brutka shut the front door and followed his grandfather down a narrow corridor. Black-and-white pictures of rural Vermont scenes lined the walls. He was shown into the living room, where he pulled up an easy chair beside his grandfather.
His grandfather grimaced as he sat down, then smiled, wheezing slightly at the exertion. “I’m too old.”
Brutka leaned forward and patted the back of his grandfather’s hands, resting on the armchair. “Nonsense. You’ll reach one hundred, mark my words.”
“If only. But I fear Father Time catching up with me.” The old man licked his parched lips.
Brutka stood and headed to the fridge in the kitchen, pulled out two bottles of spring water, and two glasses from a cupboard. He filled up his grandfather’s glass and chopped up a lemon, which he knew the old man liked. He returned to the living room. “Here, drink this. You’ll be dehydrated if you don’t drink. It’s very hot outside.”
The old man drank the cool water, closed his eyes, and handed the glass to Brutka.
“Better?”
“Yes, Aleksander, such a good boy.”
Brutka took a sip of his water and placed both glasses on the sideboard. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it last weekend,” he said. “I’ve got a lot going on.”
“You are the only one who visits me,” the old man said. “Everyone else has forgotten about me. Everyone. Your father is too busy, I understand that, but thank God I have you.”
“You’ll always have me, Grandfather. I thank God I still have you.”