by J. B. Turner
Meyerstein watched as the footage rolled on. The young woman climbed into the back seat of a black Subaru SUV. Meyerstein called out the license plate. “Everyone, I want this license plate out to all our people! We need this car. Pull it up. She is now in a black Subaru SUV. Maryland plates. She’s out there.”
A middle-aged special agent shouted, “We got a fix. A good fix. We’re on it.”
Meyerstein looked over toward her computer specialist. “Where?”
“I-66 westbound. I repeat, I-66 westbound. One mile west of Arlington.”
Meyerstein passed the news on to Reznick. “You hear that, Jon? Black Subaru SUV.”
“How far away are we?”
“It was a superquick change into the new vehicle . . . they’re moving. A mile ahead of you.”
“What’s their next move?” Reznick pondered.
“They’ve left the city.”
“I’d guess the escape route is already in place.”
“We need to apprehend and take them down, ideally without loss of life.”
“These guys are not going to just meekly surrender, trust me.”
“Do what you have to do, Jon.”
Meyerstein stared ahead at drone footage of the two cars, a mile apart, weaving in and out of traffic, emergency vehicle lights blazing. She kept imagining Rosalind Dyer’s prostrate, lifeless body in the hotel room. And she knew Reznick must be feeling even worse than she was.
A sense of foreboding washed over her as the FBI vehicle accelerated faster.
Forty-Four
Fifteen minutes later, Reznick’s earpiece buzzed.
“Jon, they’ve gotten off the highway at Centreville, on Route 28 headed south.”
Reznick checked the GPS as they headed onto Route 28. “Got it. We’re about, what, a minute from them?”
“If that. You’re closing in.”
They whizzed through Centreville and sped out of the town. “Where are they headed, Martha? Gimme something.”
“Comptons Corner.”
“Then what?”
A beat. “Hang on, Jon, I’ve got two analysts trying to get through.” A few moments later: “After Comptons Corner, we have Manassas.”
Reznick’s mind began to race. “The name rings a bell. Why is that?”
“It’s rural Virginia.”
“I got it now,” he said. “Airport. There’s a tiny little airport.”
“What?”
The realization crashed through Reznick’s head like a rock. “Martha, listen to me. I remember the place.”
“What? This is a bad line. Say again?”
“I remember the place. The airport is occasionally used for clandestine operations by the Agency. I know; I’ve flown out of there several times.”
“Copy that, Jon. Bear with me, we’re working on this angle. Hold on . . .”
“Executive jets and all that based there. But the Agency has been known to use that particular airfield. And Max Charles is former CIA, isn’t he?”
“Copy that, Jon. Stand by. Did you hear what Jon said, people?”
Reznick checked the GPS, which showed them closing in on the target vehicle. Suddenly, up ahead, they saw the black Subaru. They sped on past the fields. “Got a visual, Martha! I repeat, we’ve got a visual! I repeat, we have eyes on the black Subaru!”
The car hit a hundred ten as they sped south of Manassas and swerved to avoid a slow-moving truck.
“Copy that, Jon.”
Up ahead, Reznick saw a sign for the airport and checked the GPS. “We seem to have lost them. No visual.”
“Damn!” Martha shouted.
“What is it?”
“They just smashed into a SWAT truck, and it took out two of our guys.”
Reznick felt his nerve ends twitching. He stared ahead. A few moments later, they drove past the burning SWAT truck. “Goddamn!” Suddenly, they turned a corner. The black Subaru was in the distance. It had stopped. Three guys running from the Subaru after the accident. “Got a visual on those fuckers!”
The driver shouted, “Two o’clock, Jon, we have three runners! I repeat, we have three runners. All males. Two agents down. Repeat, two agents down. Confirm.”
Reznick sat in the front seat, ready to explode. He could only watch as they closed in on the three runners. Then, in the distance, he saw them scaling the fence adjacent to the Global Jet compound.
The driver said, “Southeast of the terminal. We are now southeast.”
Reznick could see it wasn’t three males. “Got it!” It was two males and a female. He pointed to the chain-link fence. “Smash through the fence. I see the girl!”
The vehicle went onto the grass, plowed through the fence, and accelerated toward the trio of runners.
Reznick felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He felt his mind switching. Focusing on the targets. He wound down his window. The car was headed straight for the runners.
Suddenly the two guys turned around with handguns aimed at their swerving vehicle.
Reznick fired two ear-splitting gunshots through the passenger side window. He hit the chest of the bulkier of the two. The guy collapsed, blood spilling onto the blacktop. But the second dropped to the ground and got a shot off.
The driver’s-side window shattered, and the FBI agent slumped forward onto the steering wheel. The vehicle went into a skid.
“Christ!” Reznick shouted. “Driver hit! Repeat, our driver is hit.”
The Fed in the back seat leaned forward and pulled on the hand brake, screeching the vehicle to a halt.
Reznick jumped out of the car and aimed at the second guy running away. He fired two head shots. The guy fell to the ground, brains spilling out onto the asphalt. Reznick fixed his gaze on the girl in the distance. He ran hard after her. He could hear the Fed from the back seat panting close behind.
The girl was sprinting past a huge gas tank, toward an executive jet idling near the far terminal, occasionally glancing backward.
Reznick sprinted after her. “Freeze!”
The girl didn’t stop. She was frantic as she ran, glancing behind her once more.
Reznick stopped, took aim, and fired off two shots. Both hit her back. The girl collapsed on the ground, a gun falling from her hand. Reznick ran toward her.
The girl was writhing in pain and reaching for the gun.
Reznick didn’t hesitate. He simply drilled a single shot to the side of her head. He stared down at her, feeling nothing. The girl who had poisoned and killed Dyer was dead.
His earpiece crackled into life as the executive jet’s engines revved into life. “Jon, it’s over,” Meyerstein said. “Stand down. Do you hear?”
Reznick’s eyes were focused on the plane. “Who’s on board? We need to know.”
Silence.
“Registration says . . . the aircraft belongs to Max Charles’s company. Passenger manifest says he’s on the plane.” Reznick was about to take off running when Meyerstein added, “But the decision has been made. You must abort. I repeat, abort. Mission is finished.”
Reznick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “No.”
“Jon, that’s an order! We can pick up Charles wherever he lands.”
“And what if he lands outside US jurisdiction? Then what?”
“Jon, you need to stand down.”
Reznick said nothing.
The roar of the engines in the distance was the only thing he could hear.
Forty-Five
Charles picked up the binoculars and stared out the Gulfstream’s window. “Are you fucking kidding me? Christ, they’re lying on the ground near the perimeter. All three of them are dead.”
Black stared through the glass and flushed a deep red. “We need to get out of here.”
Charles unbuckled himself.
“Where are you going?” Black asked.
“We need to get this show on the road.” He slid out of his seat and walked up to the locked flight deck door. He pressed his thumb against th
e biometric scanner.
The Guatemalan pilot, a naturalized American, turned around as the door opened.
“We need to move,” Charles said. “The mission has been compromised.”
“Where’s my sister? We’re not leaving without her.”
“She didn’t make it,” Charles said. “I’m sorry.”
The pilot stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“They were running for the plane when the FBI breached the perimeter fence. All three of them are dead.”
“I’m not leaving without her. No way.”
“She’s dead!” Charles handed him the binoculars. “Take a look for yourself.”
The pilot was shaking as he scanned the perimeter fence. He lowered the binoculars, tears filling his eyes. “My sister! I have to go get her.” He started to unbuckle his safety belt.
“Listen to me. There’s no time. You need to get us out of here! Right now.”
“I cannot leave without the body of my sister. I couldn’t live with myself.”
“She’s gone. Get us the fuck out of here!”
“I can’t. They haven’t given us clearance yet.”
Charles pulled out his gun, aimed it at the pilot. “Fuck them. We take off. Now!”
The pilot shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “I cannot. I will not.”
“Wrong choice, son.” Charles pulled the trigger. Blood and brain matter exploded onto his fresh clothes. The sound nearly deafened him in the enclosed space. The acrid smell of gun smoke filled the cabin.
He hauled the dead pilot from his seat. “You stupid motherfucker!” He dragged him through the cockpit to the back of the plane, a trail of blood on the carpet.
Black stared at Charles. “You killed him?”
“He wasn’t going to move without his sister. Strap this fucker into a rear seat, then get yourself strapped in.”
“What?”
“That’s an order!” Charles shouted.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to fly us out of the country.”
“Do you have clearance?”
“Let me worry about that.”
Charles went back into the cockpit, locked the door, and slumped down in the pilot’s seat. He wiped down the mess with some paper towels, then put on the headset. He’d been flight certified by the CIA and the Federal Aviation Administration.
He punched in the dials he knew so well. Then he edged the Gulfstream into position for takeoff at the far end of the runway.
Forty-Six
Reznick had officially gone rogue. Batshit rogue. And he didn’t give a damn.
He raced along a perimeter path that ran parallel to the fence surrounding the airport. He had a good line of sight on the Gulfstream on the runway in the distance. He got into position. Then he unzipped his backpack.
He quickly assembled the sniper rifle with its laser sights. Locked and loaded. He thumbed off the safety.
Reznick lay down in the low grass and peered through the crosshairs. He focused. He had the flight deck in his sights. “Martha, the plane seems ready to take off. It’s getting into position. I’ve got a shot. Clean shot.”
“Copy that, Jon. The plane does not have takeoff clearance.”
“I copy that. But that doesn’t seem to have fazed them. I’m telling you, they’re ignoring that. They’re in position on the runway. I’d guess they’re doing final checks. Then they’re ready to disappear.”
The Gulfstream moved slowly forward.
“It is moving forward down the north runway.” Reznick stared through the crosshairs. He saw the face of Max Charles in the pilot’s seat. He relayed the information.
“That’s impossible.”
“Negative. It’s happening. He is at the controls. He’s running the show.”
“Jon, there is no clearance.”
“I want to take a shot. It’s moving. Do you hear me?”
“Jon, I hear you. Yes, I can see it.”
“I want the shot.” Reznick trained the crosshairs on the plane.
Silence.
The Gulfstream was gathering speed on the runway. “Martha . . . I have a clean shot. Repeat, clean shot. Innocent people’s lives have been lost. This fucker could crash the plane into a building. He might land at another airport and kill whoever is in his path. We need to stop him!”
“Do what you have to do. Do you copy?”
“Copy that.” Reznick took careful aim as the Gulfstream picked up speed down the runway. He focused on the flight deck windshield. “OK, you bastard!” He held his breath. Squeezed the trigger. He fired five shots in quick succession, exploding the Gulfstream’s windshield.
The plane was still accelerating, gathering speed.
Reznick aimed for the right engine. He fired multiple shots, each ripping through the metal. He then fired at the plane’s passenger windows. He needed to decompress the plane. And quick.
The Gulfstream continued accelerating fast. Getting farther and farther away.
Reznick locked on to the plane’s right wing through the crosshairs. He guessed he had only one more chance before the plane would be out of range. He fired. Three hard shots.
A ball of flames erupted out of the Gulfstream’s fuel tanks. The plane veered off the runway, engulfed in a fireball. The blazing jet, still gathering speed, plowed through a perimeter fence, exploding again with a thunderous bang. The ground shook.
Flames licked the sky as an inferno spread through the adjacent woods.
Forty-Seven
The sky turned burnt orange as the acrid smell of jet fuel and choking black smoke filled the rural Virginia air. Two fire engines, sirens blaring and lights blazing, rushed to the scene.
Reznick quickly took the rifle apart. He placed the components carefully in his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He got up, turned, and walked back down the perimeter path. He spotted a group of cops swarming through the fence, guns trained on him.
A burly Fed stepped out of an SUV, badge raised, to intercept them. He pointed to Reznick. “He’s with us! He’s one of us! Stand down!”
Slowly, the cops lowered their weapons as Reznick approached.
The Fed put an arm around Reznick. “You OK, Jon?”
Reznick nodded as he brushed past the cops. He walked past the bodies of the woman and the two men he had gunned down.
“What the hell happened?” the Fed asked.
“Long, long story, my friend.”
“Glad you’re OK, man.”
Reznick looked around. Black smoke was still rising.
Forty-Eight
Just over an hour later, Reznick was being debriefed by an ashen-faced Meyerstein in her office on the seventh floor of the Hoover Building.
“What in God’s name, Jon?”
Reznick was slumped in a seat, head bowed. He didn’t want to talk. His thoughts were only for Rosalind Dyer. Also for her grieving family in protective FBI custody.
“I asked what happened.”
“The threat was neutralized. Contained within the airport.”
Meyerstein was quiet as she got up from her seat and stared out the window. “Do you understand what you did? I gave permission for you to take him out, not blow everything to hell.”
“It had to be done.”
“This will be difficult to contain—the story, I mean.”
Reznick said nothing. He understood why Meyerstein saw the airport incident and deaths only as a disaster. He didn’t blame her. It was a mess. But he couldn’t help wondering if it was a mess that could have been avoided.
He should have just told the Feds where Dyer was and gotten her to safety. But it was pointless to beat himself up over what might have been. He knew that. The reality was Dyer was dead and the fallout at the airport would rumble on. There was nothing he could do to change that now.
It was a damn mess.
“The press are going to have a field day over this.”
“Don’t they always.”
“They will have questions. But so do I. A lot of questions, about how we took down Max Charles and at what price.”
Reznick stayed silent.
“What have you got to say for yourself, Jon?”
“I think there are a lot of questions, sure. About how Max Charles could be allowed to act on behalf of the Pentagon. The only reason this went on for so long was because he was working on the inside but accountable to no one. He was doing their dirty work. And what about the deaths of the seven men? What about that?”
Meyerstein shook her head.
“You know who we’re forgetting in all this? Rosalind Dyer. Her bravery. Who’s talking about how this operation to silence her was carried out? And how she was killed while under FBI protection?”
Meyerstein shook her head. “Jon, that’s enough!”
“Martha, this was a fuckup. An FBI fuckup. No one should have been allowed in her room. No one. That’s the reality.”
“Now is not the time or place.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Jon, please.”
“They were determined to take her out. We had ample warning. And still this happened.”
Meyerstein turned and stared at him. “I have to take responsibility for this. I told you to do whatever it took. I will shoulder the responsibility. I just imagined you had a clean shot.”
Reznick sighed. “It didn’t work out like that. But what choice did I have? To let Max Charles and his goons fly off to Guatemala? Never be seen again? Maybe land at another American airport? Then what? He would’ve killed anyone who got in their way.”
“You did your best, as always, Jon. We fell short.”
“The teams that Charles assembled. Is the threat over?”
“We believe the threat is over for now. But in light of what happened, Trevelle will need to find a new base.”
Reznick knew that made sense. “I want to call in one last favor.”
Meyerstein stared at him, unblinking.
“I don’t want any charges brought against Trevelle or Fifi.”
“That’s not my call to make, Jon.”
“Make it your call, Martha. They risked their lives for Rosalind so she could tell her story.”