by J. B. Turner
“OK, I can explain.”
“I’m on a short fuse. One wrong move, you die.”
“I want to . . . try and explain.”
Reznick took a couple of steps back, gun trained on his old Delta buddy. “Explain you selling out one of your own? Seriously? Is that how fucking desperate you are?”
Kazinsky slowly turned around in his chair, hands still on his head. “That’s exactly how desperate I am. Jon, please, man, I’m in deep.”
“What do you mean?”
“I owe my ex-wife hundreds of thousands. I haven’t got a cent. I’m broke. I helped my son on a production he was working on with a friend. It went bust. And all my savings with it. Now my ex-wife is wondering why I haven’t sent her part of the divorce settlement. The reason is, I have nothing but this old house that now I have to sell to pay her the share I owe. I’ll be living in a shack in the woods before long.”
“Sad stories don’t do it for me these days, Ed. I’ve had my fill of sad stories. You want to hear a sad story? You want to hear about how my wife’s body was never found on 9/11? Pulverized to dust, that’s what happened to her. So spare me the fucking sad stories.”
“I need the money. The firm I know, they have offices all over. DC, New York, L.A. They’ve been trying to get some work for me, but nothing’s really working out. I thought this would be a way for me to get back on my feet.”
“By selling me out? And the kid and Rosalind?”
“You don’t know how fucking desperate I am. I’m at the end of my rope.” Kazinsky began to sob like a child. “I want to kill myself. You have no idea.”
“Who exactly did you message?”
Kazinsky bowed his head.
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
“Jon, please, look at me! Look at me! I’m a bum. That’s what my father called me. That’s what my ex-wife called me. I drink too much. I fooled around with other women when I was married. I’m a mess. I’m nothing. You understand that?”
“That’s all very interesting. But I asked you a question. I won’t ask a second time. Who did you message?”
“He works for Geostrategy Solutions. In New York.”
The firm’s name crashed through Reznick’s head like a brick.
“He knew you and I had worked together. He said if I heard from you, looking for help, to give them a call.”
“Who are they sending? What’s the guy’s name?”
Kazinsky said nothing.
Reznick stepped forward and pressed the gun tight to his former friend’s forehead. “You will tell me, Ed, so help me God.”
Kazinsky sighed. “I have no idea, Jon, swear to God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I sold you out. Please don’t hurt me, man.”
Reznick felt a cold anger clawing at his insides. A surge of adrenaline spiked his heart rate. He smashed his fist hard into the side of Kazinsky’s neck, right into the carotid artery. His ex-Delta buddy slumped forward, unconscious.
Reznick lifted him up and dragged him to a storage room. He locked him inside and put the key in his pocket. He switched off the computer, the lights, and plunged the house into darkness. His senses were switched on. He needed to get himself, Trevelle, and Rosalind as far away from the house as possible. He didn’t know how long they had. Maybe an hour, maybe less.
He headed upstairs.
Trevelle’s face was lit up with a white glow from his cell phone.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. Are you listening?” Reznick said.
“What did you do to him? You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“No, he’s just incapacitated for a little while. But we need to move.”
“Man, I’m scared. Really batshit scared.”
Reznick hauled Trevelle to his feet. “You can do this. Do you hear me?”
“Sure, I think so.”
Reznick went next door and knocked hard on Rosalind’s door. “Rosalind, we need to get out of here!”
A few moments later the door unlocked, and Rosalind peered out, bleary-eyed. “What?”
“People are on their way. I don’t know who. But you and Trevelle need to get out of sight.”
“What about you?”
“Let me deal with this.”
A few minutes later, Reznick, Rosalind, and Trevelle had gathered up their gear and headed downstairs. They were standing in the hallway.
“Do you mind telling me what the hell happened?” Rosalind demanded.
Trevelle quickly explained to Rosalind how he had intercepted the message from Kazinsky. “There are people coming to kill you. Probably all of us.”
Rosalind looked surprisingly composed. “So we need to move.”
Trevelle began to shake. “Yeah, but where? What are we going to do? Where are we going to go?”
“You and Rosalind are going down to the basement,” Reznick said. “Get out of sight while I try and come up with a plan.”
Trevelle shook his head. “Sorry, man, I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I’m claustrophobic.”
“What?”
“I can’t go down there! I hate confined spaces. Basements. No windows. I hate being locked in.”
Reznick grabbed him by the arm. “Listen to me, you need to shape up. And focus. This is not just about you.”
“I swear to God, Jon, if you lock me in there, I’ll start screaming. I’ll panic. I have a deep fear of confined spaces.”
Reznick had envisioned heading up to the highest room in the house with a sniper rifle from Kazinsky’s collection and taking down any attackers as they headed toward the house. “This is not the time, my friend. I need you to help me help you.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do it. Please, don’t lock me in. I was locked in a closet when I was a child. I can’t deal with that again.”
Rosalind looked at Reznick. “You need a plan B. There must be another way.”
Reznick had heard enough. He smashed open the glass cabinet holding Kazinsky’s rack of rifles. He took down a sniper rifle with attached night vision sights and a sound suppressor. He found ammo in a liquor cabinet.
He turned to Trevelle. “Check your phone. Have you got a fix on any approaching vehicles?”
Trevelle pulled up a program that got him entry into Kazinsky’s home surveillance system, showing the driveway, front, and rear of the house. “Negative. All quiet so far.”
“Keep away from the windows. Do you hear me?”
Reznick bounded up the stairs to the second floor and crawled to the far window. He took out his binoculars from his backpack and focused on the driveway entrance about a half mile away.
A few minutes later, a silhouetted vehicle, lights off, crawled into view, slowing to a stop at the bottom of the driveway, partially concealed by huge oaks.
His mind was racing. He couldn’t believe they were here already. Had they been nearby? Was it chance? No matter, they were here now. “Think, goddamn it.”
He wondered whether he should lay down some fire. Disable the vehicle. Then pick them off one by one. He checked the silhouetted vehicle again. It was parked opposite some huge trees. Maybe they were waiting for backup. That would make sense.
One team to block access to the driveway while the other does the hit.
He figured they had a window of opportunity to escape. But it wouldn’t last long. They had to move.
Reznick went back downstairs to tell Dyer and Trevelle the grim news. “So, we’ve got a problem.”
Trevelle shook his head. “Oh man, fuck, seriously?”
“It might be nothing. But if they’re waiting for a second team, and if either of the teams is the Miami team or similarly equipped, we’ll have a fight on our hands.”
Dyer went to the downstairs window and peered through the blinds. “They’re still there.”
“We’ve got to hope that they’re working under the false assumption that we don’t know they’re coming.”
Trevelle nodded. “We’ve g
ot to use that head start.”
Reznick said, “Let’s get going.”
“Hang on,” Rosalind said. “I’m not sure this is the best strategy. Why don’t we call the cops?”
“Too late for that. My view? Best strategy in the circumstances is to move. And quickly.”
The three of them headed down into Kazinsky’s basement and through a creaking door into a garage. Inside was a Toyota Hilux pickup. He spotted a key fob hanging from a rusty nail on the wall. Reznick grabbed it and climbed into the driver’s seat. He saw it was keyless. A stroke of luck, finally. He started up the engine. It purred to life. “In the back, heads down.”
“Where are we going?” Trevelle asked.
Reznick edged the vehicle forward, and the garage doors automatically opened.
Trevelle said, “I can’t see a thing.”
Reznick’s eyes gradually began to adjust to the darkness. He could make out a dirt road at the rear of the property that led to woods. The GPS showed a forest trail leading from the rear of the location due south.
Dyer was crouched down in the back seat. “I’m scared, Jon.”
Reznick didn’t answer. He just drove the truck out of the garage and accelerated down the dirt road, headed for the opening in the trees.
Nineteen
It was the dead of night, and Meyerstein was sitting at her kitchen breakfast bar, unable to sleep. She sipped her cup of Earl Grey tea. Her cell phone rang, and she answered quickly.
“Assistant Director, sorry to call you at this time, but it’s urgent.” The voice belonged to Jenny Reilly, an up-and-coming FBI analyst.
Meyerstein was mentoring Reilly, who worked in the 24/7 Strategic Information and Operations Center based on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building. “What’ve you got? Have we found Reznick?”
“No, sorry.”
Meyerstein sighed. “So why the call?”
“Routine police patrol outside Gaithersburg, Maryland. Four people, on vacation from Central America. Only one could speak English, apparently. Loaded to the teeth with weaponry.”
“Is this connected to Reznick or Rosalind Dyer?”
“We believe both. We think these guys were tracking down Dyer, in particular. We believe Dyer and Reznick were hiding out in a house nearby, with a friend of Reznick’s from his Delta days. These four guys said they were hunters. And liked shooting.”
“They’ve come a long way to do some shooting.”
“Police checked the SUV. Destination in the GPS was a house owned by Edward Kazinsky. Turns out he’s a former Delta operator like Reznick.”
Meyerstein began mentally mapping out what had happened. “So Reznick was there.”
“One hundred percent.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Cops got into the house and Kazinsky was inside, alive. He was locked in a closet and says Reznick is with Rosalind Dyer and a black kid.”
“That must be the hacker, Trevelle Williams.”
“Correct, ma’am.”
“Jenny, I want this out to every agent. Let all field offices know.”
“The thing is, ma’am, they’ve dropped off the grid again. Not a trace of them. Digital or otherwise.”
“Get on it. We need to find Reznick and Dyer before it’s too late.”
Twenty
The headlights of the Toyota pierced the darkness surrounding the bone-dry dirt road as they powered through the forest of trees, clouds of dust behind them.
“Where the hell are we?” Trevelle asked.
Reznick glanced at the GPS. “Two miles and we’ll come to a proper road.”
“Then what?”
“Leave that to me.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means we need to keep moving.”
Reznick drove on past some old wooden shacks. “Hold on!” he said as they plunged through a stream in the woods and back onto the dirt road. A minute later, the headlights picked out the asphalt. He felt himself relax. “OK, we’re back in civilization.”
He was driving down a minor road in rural Maryland. Not a car in sight.
“What now?” Trevelle asked.
Reznick looked again at the GPS, which had gone blank. He wondered if the wiring had gotten dislodged on the rutted dirt road. “Shit. Damn thing died on us. Trevelle, help me out.”
Trevelle took out his cell phone. “Yeah, got it. We’re two miles from Rockville. Straight ahead on this road. Then what?”
“My plan is to leave Kazinsky’s truck and get another ride.”
“Do you mean steal a ride?” Dyer said.
“Got it,” Reznick replied.
“What about a diner? Usually cars in and around diners.”
“Cops will be out looking for us,” Reznick said. “Is there anywhere else that might be open twenty-four seven that has parking?”
“In this part of the world, I don’t think twenty-four seven is even a thing.”
Trevelle tapped furiously on his cell phone. “God bless Google Maps. Harris Teeter, south of Rockville. Supermarket. Straight ahead.”
Reznick drove on for a few hundred yards. He took a hard right turn and pulled into the near-empty parking lot, right next to a minivan. The lights of the supermarket bathed parts of the parking lot, but it was deathly quiet, no sign of anyone. “Let’s get inside, get a cup of coffee. Refuel. But ideally we need to get away from here, find a place to hide out. Just for twenty-four hours. Any ideas?”
Trevelle said, “I don’t know, maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“I have a friend, she lives in Potomac. That’s close, isn’t it?”
“Real close,” Dyer said.
“She’s cool. But I don’t know if she’ll do this. It’s a big ask.”
“You wanna try?” Reznick said. “We need as much help as we can get. But she needs to be trustworthy. Do you trust her?”
“Hell yes, I trust her. Very much.”
“Does she have a car?” Reznick asked.
“Her parents have a car.”
“I’m going to ask you again,” Reznick said. “Can we really trust her? I thought I could trust Kazinsky. I was wrong.”
“I’m telling you, we can absolutely trust her. She’s cool. Ridiculously cool. She smokes some weed. But if you’re OK with that, she’ll be fine with you.”
“Send her an encrypted message.”
“And say what?”
“Tell her you need an urgent favor.”
Twenty-One
Thirty minutes later, Rosalind spotted a mud-splattered white Chevrolet Suburban driving into the parking lot. A young woman was driving, smoking a joint, waving through the window at them. She wondered if the girl should be behind the wheel but decided to let it slide. Her main concern was getting out of sight. “Interesting.”
Reznick turned to Trevelle. “Is this her?”
Trevelle grinned. “Oh yeah. She’s great.”
“Is she stoned?” Reznick said.
“Probably.”
The young woman rolled down her window. She was in her late twenties and had high cheekbones and long brown hair. She had a nose ring in her right nostril. “Trevelle, what the hell’s going on, man?”
“Fifi, it’s a long story. I know it’s late and this is all pretty weird. And I know I’m expecting a big favor, but you mind if my friends get a lift too?”
“Plenty of room. Jump in, guys.”
Rosalind slid in the back seat beside Reznick. Trevelle sat up front.
Fifi turned around and offered the joint to Dyer. “You want some grass?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Fifi shrugged. “Not a problem.” She looked at Trevelle. “Man, I haven’t seen you since . . . forever!”
Trevelle turned around and rolled his eyes. “We left the NSA on the same day. Fifi’s a lot of fun.”
Fifi laughed and drove off. “Lot of fun. Were the NSA pissed or what?”
“Mighty pissed,” Treve
lle said.
Rosalind interrupted the love-in. “I appreciate you helping us out.”
“Don’t sweat it, hon,” she said.
“Fifi, we’re looking for a place to disappear until tomorrow,” Trevelle told her.
“Disappear? I love it. Are you guys fugitives from the government?”
Trevelle laughed. “That’s exactly what we are.”
“Then I’m 100 percent your guy.”
“Got any suggestions?”
“Let me think. Oh yeah, I’ve got a suggestion. So as long as you guys haven’t murdered anyone or aren’t planning to kill anyone, I’m cool with it.”
Reznick said, “Appreciate that. And no, we haven’t murdered anyone. At least not yet.”
Fifi burst out laughing. “You guys are crazy. I love it! Well, here’s the thing. My parents are out of town. They have a cool place in Georgetown. I have the keys. Skiing in Europe or some such shit.”
Rosalind leaned forward. “And they won’t mind?”
“Probably. But if you’re just staying for a day or two, no problem. They won’t be back for another week. You mind telling me what this is all about?”
Rosalind said, “It’s complicated. And we’re going to need your discretion.”
“Whatever.” Fifi negotiated a few tight bends before she found a straight bit of road, just outside town. “OK,” she said, taking a long drag of the joint, “we’re finally on the move.”
“I owe you one,” Trevelle told her.
“Damn right you do.”
Fifi and Trevelle struck up an animated conversation, oblivious to the two adults in the back seat. They talked about South Beach, why she hadn’t visited him for six months, Fifi setting up a new cybersecurity consulting firm with two former NSA staffers, marijuana laws in Colorado, and why the President should be certified.
Rosalind zoned out and wound down her window, grateful for the cool night air rushing in. “That better?”
Reznick cleared his throat and did the same. “Smart move.” He looked at her. “How are you feeling? It’s crazy, right? Out of your comfort zone.”
Rosalind nodded, but she felt a million miles away. “You could say that.”
“Are you going to be OK?”
“I thought my lawyer would’ve called by now. He said he was going to call me by midnight at the latest. Just to give me an update. But I haven’t gotten a text or anything.”