Reckoning (An American Ghost Thriller Book 2)

by J. B. Turner

  Berenger stood up and shook his head. “This is not what we need right now! Fix it, Aaron! Now!”

  The screens showed live footage on the shore.

  “Go right in as tight as you can!” Strutt bellowed.

  A few taps on a laptop and the footage was magnified one hundred times. It showed a man crouched in the woods, aiming a rifle at them. Suddenly, a tracer came tearing toward them on the screen, followed by another explosion outside.

  Berenger shouted, “Close-up of the face!”

  The footage zoomed in.

  “Crop it tight!”

  The grainy footage was frozen. The reconfigured face of the Plastic Man, as they had dubbed him.

  Strutt took a step toward the screen. “Stone!” He turned to face Berenger. “Tell me that’s not Nathan Stone!”

  Berenger stared, transfixed. The killer he knew so well was staring back at him. He felt a rage within him ready to explode. “Fuck!”

  Strutt shouted, “Aaron, has the chopper taken off?”

  “Just taking off,” the voice boomed over the speakers. “What’s the order? I need authorization.”

  Berenger said, “Kill Nathan Stone! I repeat, kill Nathan Stone! This is a Code Four. I repeat, this is a Code Four.”

  “Copy that,” Aaron said.

  Up on the screens, the chopper’s onboard cameras showed it headed for the headland.

  “We got a fix,” the pilot said. “Preparing to engage.”

  A second later, two red tracers streaked across the sky. The chopper was destroyed in a terrible inferno as Berenger and the rest of the team could only look on in horror.

  Seventy-One

  Nathan watched as the chopper caught fire and crashed into the icy waters of the lake. He thought he saw a survivor in the water. He clipped in a new magazine and stared through the sights at the wooded areas on the island not yet alight. He fired four separate shots. Flames erupted as the other forested sections caught fire, winds fanning the flames, setting off blazes across the whole island.

  He scanned the area. Focused on the boats moored on the jetty. Then he fired three more shots. The boats exploded as the fuel tanks ignited.

  Nathan took one long last look, snapped some cell phone photos, and sent them over to Mahoney.

  A few seconds later, his phone rang.

  “Nathan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is this . . . is this the facility?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Are you kidding me? How did you do that? Nathan . . . you can’t be doing shit like this.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “How did you do all that? What the hell is happening?”

  “I’m taking the fight to them. This wasn’t my fight. But it is now.”

  “So is it over?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Nathan, I’m looking at pictures of fires across an island in a lake. How did this happen?”

  “Incendiary ammo.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tracer. Heavy-duty stuff in the wrong hands. Brought down a chopper they sent out and a Gulfstream that was trying to land.”

  Mahoney was silent as he processed everything Nathan was telling him. “Jesus . . . that’s . . . a lot to take in. Are you there now?”

  “I’m on the move very soon.”

  “Nathan, I’ve passed on the GPS location you gave me earlier.”

  “Pass on the photos too. The Canadians need to get their asses up here and ask what exactly is on that island.”

  “I’ve just sent the photos to the Feds.”

  Nathan’s gaze was on the facility.

  “Are you still there, Nathan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nathan, what the hell? I’m . . . I don’t know . . . I’m sort of struggling to wrap my head around everything, there’s so much going on.”

  Nathan sensed Mahoney was slightly more hesitant, as if not wanting to reveal exactly what he knew. “You know something, don’t you? Something else. You’re not telling me everything.”

  Mahoney said nothing.

  “OK, so let’s work this back. I sent you photos of the facility. I’ve identified its location. I’ve seriously disrupted this facility. And probably pissed them off more than a little bit. And I’ve shared all of this with you, Mark. Is that correct?”

  “Nathan, I know what you’re getting at. But can I be honest? It scares me to even talk to you.”

  Nathan didn’t answer.

  “This is unsettling stuff. I feel like I’m going nuts.”

  Nathan could see Mahoney was changing the direction of the conversation again. “Let’s get back to my original point. I’ve shared what I know. And I’m sensing that you’re not being quite so forthcoming.”

  A brief pause. “I passed on everything to the Feds.”

  Nathan detected a slightly colder tone in Mahoney’s voice.

  “They’ll deal with this. And I’m told the Canadian intelligence service have been alerted as well.”

  Nathan allowed a silence to stretch between them.

  “The information on the Chechens has been passed on too.”

  “What did the Feds say about that?” Nathan asked.

  A sigh. “I don’t want this to turn into a running commentary, Nathan. I think I’ve said enough.”

  “Why so reticent, Mark? Are the Feds listening in on this?”

  “That’s not how I operate, Nathan.”

  “So . . . we know something’s going down in Toronto today. And the identities of the two Chechens. Incidentally, before I took the heavy-duty ammo to the facility, the Gulfstream took off and returned about half an hour later. That would give it more than enough time to head down to Toronto, drop off the operatives, and get back here. These people are in place or on their way.”

  “What about you, Nathan?”

  “What about me?”

  “What are you going to do? Is this over for you?”

  “I’ll find out soon enough.”

  Nathan ended the call. It was time to move.

  Seventy-Two

  Mahoney headed across the newsroom and was shown into Caroline Ovitz’s office, where he was greeted by two men in suits. They identified themselves as FBI.

  The younger of the two Feds was scrolling through the photos Mahoney had messaged to him a few minutes earlier. “Pull up a seat, Mark.”

  Mahoney did what he was told, his mind virtually in free fall at the new developments.

  “Just so you know, we’ve alerted Ottawa, and they’ve sent several teams to locations across Toronto.”

  Mahoney nodded. “You know where this is going to happen, don’t you?”

  The young Fed said, “There are several scenarios we are exploring with our friends in Canadian intelligence. This is a fluid situation. I can’t say any more than that at this stage.”

  “I know this will be far more than cross-border cooperation,” Mahoney said. “We all know for a fact the FBI is allowed to operate in Canada.”

  “I can’t get into too much detail, as I said. We are tasked with investigating and preventing acts of domestic and international terrorism. So within that remit, there is clearly scope for having agents on the ground working with international intelligence agencies and law enforcement.”

  “You get the pictures?”

  The young Fed said, “Yeah. You seem to have gotten very friendly with this Nathan Stone character.”

  “I’m a journalist. You have to take the time to get to know people. Cultivate sources.”

  “He’s an assassin. A trained killer. And he’s responsible, we believe, for the deaths of at least five men in New York during a recent trip home.”

  Mahoney sighed. “Is this a formal FBI interrogation?”

  “Mark, we have reason to believe you are at risk. We believe protective custody would be for the best.”

  “Do you think I’m at risk from Nathan?”

  “I can’t say . . . What I can say is that
this investigation you’re conducting, and the strands of criminality that are being revealed in it, coupled with the deaths of these five men in New York—very senior retired intelligence and military personnel—make it imperative that we take you to a place of safety.”

  “You believe I’m going to be killed?”

  “Honestly?”

  Mahoney nodded.

  “It’s a distinct possibility.”

  “By who?”

  The young Fed didn’t answer.

  “Do you know what my investigation centers on?”

  “We’re aware of the broad-brush aspects of it.”

  “Let me be clear. I’m going to call it what it is. In front of you all. This is a deep-state operation. Plausible deniability. Meaning those within the military and intelligence structures are not linked. At least not formally.”

  “Mark, I can see how this whole thing, especially with the terrible incident involving your family, has taken its toll on you. And that’s why we would strongly suggest you be taken to a secure location, with your family, to get you out of harm’s way.”

  “I’ll get out of harm’s way. Eventually. But I need to finish this story. I need to see it through.”

  “Mark, if what you’re telling us is true, then those behind this operation, if indeed it is an operation, might very well want to take you out of the picture.”

  “Do you have any evidence to confirm that?”

  The older Fed leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Mahoney. “We don’t have any specific evidence or information pointing at this. But from the sequence of events that has so far unfolded, and the fact that your own wife and children are now in protective custody, it makes sense for you to join them, at least until this is all over.”

  Mahoney sat silently as he thought over his decision.

  “I think this will be your last chance to get out of harm’s way,” the older Fed said. “Your very last chance. And I hope you’ll come with us.”

  Mahoney looked at Ovitz. “I’ve got to finish this story.”

  Ovitz nodded but didn’t say anything.

  The young Fed said, “Is that your final word?”

  “Yeah . . . that’s my final word.”

  Seventy-Three

  Nathan drove south, heading back to Toronto, keen to put as many miles between him and the facility as possible. He stopped fifteen miles away, removed the SIM card and battery from his cell phone, and threw them into a trash can by the side of the road.

  He got back in the car and didn’t stop until he got to a parking garage in midtown Toronto. He left the car and headed to a nearby diner, where he sat in a booth in the corner and ordered a burger, fries, and a large Coke. He glanced over at the TV, showing an interview with a Toronto family raising funds for an orphanage in Africa. He ate his food quickly.

  Doubts began to crowd his mind. Should he have just gone back to Florida and gotten on with his life? It would have been the rational thing to do. But he knew that, whatever he did, there was no way back for him now. He knew there would be consequences for his actions. He had laid waste to their operation and their infrastructure and exterminated the prime movers. And there would be a price to pay. A day of reckoning. Someday. Maybe not tomorrow. But somewhere down the line, when he least expected it, they would return. For vengeance. Payback. Retribution. Whatever you wanted to call it. Blood would be spilled. Of that he had no doubt.

  The more he thought about it, the more he wondered why the fuck he hadn’t just hightailed it down to Florida. Lain low. Checked into a new motel. Visited his sister. Money wasn’t a problem. He had squirreled away significant sums of money he’d earned from the murky world he had inhabited for years.

  He wondered if he’d ever be able to get back to where he was before he had gone rogue in Scotland. It had seemed at first that the new shadow world he inhabited would suit him well. But that hadn’t turned out to be the case.

  The more Nathan thought about it, the more he realized nothing would ever be the same again for him. He would be hunted until the day he died. Whether he liked it or not.

  “You want a coffee, honey?” a waitress said.

  “Yeah, black please.”

  The waitress poured him his fresh coffee as he gazed over her shoulder at the TV. She looked at the screen. “Oh, the goddamn traffic by the hospital was crazy because of that thing. Police and all sorts of delays. Nearly late for my shift.”

  Nathan stared at the screen, then fixed his gaze on the waitress. He checked out her name badge. “What’s happening out by the hospital, Madge?”

  “TV says it’s a special visit.”

  “By?”

  “The prime minister. Thanking the kids’ hospital for looking after his daughter. She had heart problems.”

  Seventy-Four

  Deshi Umarov was sitting in the back of a specially kitted-out ambulance nearing downtown Toronto, wearing a white doctor’s coat, chewing on high-strength Captagon capsules. She felt her heart rate hiking up. The amphetamines were rousing her system. She was clenching her fist repeatedly. She was wired. She’d used the psychostimulant drug when she’d fought the Russians in Grozny years earlier. The jihadist drug of choice, they called it. And it was. They could stay awake, fight, focus, for days. It gave them even more courage.

  She looked across at her brother. He wore scrubs and his eyes were closed. Reciting a verse from the Koran.

  Deshi crunched into the drugs, swallowed two more capsules. Then she handed two to her brother, who knocked them back with a glass of water.

  The closer they got, the more excited she became. Her heart fluttered for a few moments before adrenaline began to surge through her.

  The drugs were already kicking in. She felt invincible. Euphoric even.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the man she was going to kill. The method was brilliant. They’d thoroughly researched the target’s medical history. And they’d found the chink in his armor.

  He suffered from fits. Epilepsy. But this had never been shared with the public.

  The people who’d hired her were mere infidels. But they had a shared interest in killing the man. Her interest was that he had talked about the threat of Wahhabism. About Islamic terrorism. And how he wanted to reset Canadian foreign policy. But he was also a major Western politician. All that made him a perfect choice for her and her brother. They despised the West.

  And if an organization in the West was going to facilitate this jihad, they would work with them to achieve their mutual goals.

  The money she was getting paid would allow her cousins to buy food and clothes and move to a bigger house in Chechnya. It would also allow money to be funneled back into the jihad against Russia. More attacks on Moscow. It was guaranteed.

  Today, though, was her day. Her brother’s day. They would finally be martyrs.

  Her earpiece buzzed. “How’re you feeling, Deshi?”

  “I am at peace. I feel very honored to get the chance to slay this heretic.”

  “Cell phone in your pocket?”

  Deshi checked her jacket pocket. “Yes. I have the phone.”

  “How did the practice go this morning?”

  “It worked perfectly on the woman you provided. How is she?”

  “Not too good.”

  Deshi smiled. “In what way is she not too good?”

  “She’s been hospitalized. She’s giving cause for concern.”

  Deshi closed her eyes.

  “It was a very good trial run. Tell me, do you have your black doctor’s bag?”

  “At my feet.”

  “Don’t disappoint us, Deshi.”

  Deshi looked over at her brother, who was deep in prayer. “Trust me, he will die today.”

  Seventy-Five

  Nathan pulled up at the second-highest level of a parking garage in downtown Toronto in a stolen RV. He reversed into the perfect position, switched off the engine, and drew all the curtains, giving him privacy. He picked up the backpack and climbed over the seat
s and into the back, crammed with camping gear. He unzipped the backpack and assembled the rifle, locked it, and loaded a fresh magazine. Then he fixed the telescopic sight he’d bought from a hunting shop, along with a tripod for accuracy.

  He leaned forward and cracked open the rear window of the RV. He looked through the crosshairs. He had a line of sight to the back entrance of the Hospital for Sick Children, on Elizabeth Avenue, just over a block away.

  A small crowd had assembled, cameras and TV crews waiting. A few cops, some in plain clothes, were milling around.

  Nathan lay down flat, got himself comfortable using cushions and pillows and a duvet. He scanned the crowds. Good-natured faces. A few nurses. Some doctors. A few kids in wheelchairs.

  He’d been told by the woman in the diner that the visit was imminent. Traffic was down to a crawl, since the cops had blocked off the road to allow easier access for the VIP.

  The minutes dragged.

  Nathan’s nerves were twitching. He pressed his eye tighter to the sight, trying to identify anyone suspicious in the crowd. He wished he had face-recognition software in his armory. A few more people drifted into the crosshairs. The crowds were being held behind steel barriers.

  It always amazed him how lax the security often was for major politicians. The only person who had that wraparound protection was the US president. The Secret Service invariably covered all the bases and then some. He wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near. Layers of security. Layers of Secret Service personnel.

  But this was different. Wide open.

  The more he thought about it, the more he was tempted to call it in and say the PM was going to be killed on live TV.

  But how would they do it?

  He’d seen the sallow faces of the Chechens. But where were they at this moment? Were they mingling among these crowds? Were they waiting nearby? The decision to allow the Canadian PM so close to crowds of people who hadn’t been vetted, searched, and checked was inexcusable.

  He wondered if it was a feel-good PR opportunity, if it wasn’t deemed to be a high-risk appearance. If so, it was foolish and complacent in the extreme.