Hard Wired: A Jon Reznick Thriller (Jon Reznick series Book 3)

by JB Turner

  The miles on the freeway were being eaten up as he wondered what Meyerstein was thinking. He saw the way the wind was blowing. He knew the deaths of Tiny and Dorfman were connected. And he knew the Iranian connection would mean the American intelligence agencies would want him out. He knew how American intelligence agencies worked. How they thought. He knew the mission to Tehran was top secret and the Pentagon and CIA couldn't have a trace of that mission being divulged in any form.

  He knew the CIA would claim they wanted to keep him safe at a secure facility. He knew this was bullshit. It was all what was in American interests. And to hell with anyone else. They would take him off the case. Keep him against his will at a military base. Or if need be, kill him.

  Did Meyerstein see this? The Feds didn't always know what the CIA got up to. One thing Reznick did know was he sure as hell wasn't going to sit around and let another Delta buddy die. Not Blaine. He thought of his kids and the vow he'd made.

  He headed off the freeway for twenty miles and took some back roads south before getting back on I-95.

  He needed to be alert. He couldn't be predictable. He knew they would be looking for him. Everywhere. But slowly, as the miles clicked by, the plan was starting to take shape. Crystallize.

  He figured a car journey would take a day and a half without sleep. And it would mean a number of cars being stolen, increasing the risk of getting caught. The airports and train stations in and around DC, including Baltimore, would be targeted.

  Richmond was only two hours south of DC and had an international airport with multiple destinations. He was going to hop on a flight. He needed somewhere far enough away from L.A. but close enough to reach it with a few hours drive.

  Just before two o'clock he parked up at a garage opposite the main terminal at Richmond International Airport. He went to a bathroom and locked a stall, ripped open the lining of his jacket and pulled out two thousand dollars in cash, a fake passport and two fake credit cards and fake driving license under the name Ronald Barr.

  Reznick ate a slice of pizza inside the terminal, drank some Coke and looked at the flight boards. New York, Los Angeles, Boston, Miami and . . . Las Vegas.

  He bought a ticket for a Delta flight, leaving 4.45 p.m.

  He got in line, was frisked by security, answered some dumb-ass question from a security official before he was ushered into coach class.

  Once on board and seated, Reznick closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep. Five hours later, they touched down.

  It was dark when he left the terminal at Las Vegas and hired a Chevrolet Camaro. He headed off into the desert night. He cranked up the air-con. Just before midnight he stopped off in Baker in the Mojave for a beer and to stretch his legs. A huge thermometer in the deserted town showed it was 91 degrees Fahrenheit, the air like glue. Sweat stuck to his top.

  Reznick went into the bar, a country song playing in the background. Two olds guys playing pool, Fox News on with the volume down. "Heineken," he said.

  The bartender handed over a chilled bottle of beer and Reznick sat down in a stool. "Hard day, honey?" she asked.

  Reznick glanced up at the TV, which showed firefighters fighting fierce blazes near Los Angeles and took a couple of gulps. It felt good. "Had worse."

  "Where you headed at this time of night? You going to Vegas? Because if you are, I'd love a ride."

  "Sorry, opposite direction."

  "I love LA. You ever been there, honey?"

  "Couple of times."

  "Had a lot of fun times in LA, let me tell you."

  Reznick gulped the rest of the beer, quenching his thirst. "Is that right?"

  "Lot of fun." She turned and pointed up to the TV. "Don't worry, honey that's away in the San Gabriel Mountains above Azusa." She turned to face Reznick. "I take it you're not going there."

  Reznick pushed the empty beer bottle towards her. "Same again."

  She got another cold beer from the fridge, prized off the metal top and handed it to Reznick.

  Reznick gave her twenty dollars. "Keep the change."

  "Thank you." She smiled at Reznick. "You look dog tired, honey. Whoever you're working for is driving you too hard, that's for sure."

  Reznick gulped some beer as the TV flashed up a picture of Blaine. He pointed at the screen. "You wanna turn that up?"

  She pointed the control at the TV and cranked up the volume. "Sure thing, honey."

  The newsreader's voice said, "The missing man is a well known Hollywood security consultant, Blaine Vincenza. Police are concerned for his safety and have asked Mr. Vincenza to contact them at the earliest opportunity as his family fear for his well-being. He may need medication for a heart complaint."

  Reznick gulped the rest of the beer. He pushed the empty bottle towards the bartender. "Gotta go."

  "You not staying for another, honey?"

  Reznick's mind was already thinking ahead. "Maybe another time."

  "Take care honey."

  Reznick headed out of the cool bar into the stifling desert night. He got back in the hire car and drove hard west along 95. His next stop LA.

  EIGHTEEN

  "We got something!" Stamper shouted across the Command Room in the FBI's HQ on the 5th floor.

  Meyerstein rubbed her eyes and stared up at the image of Reznick on the big screen. "We're sure this is him?"

  Stamper nodded. "This is the one and only Jon Reznick, disembarking from a Delta flight from Richmond, and walking the arrivals hall at McCarron International, Las Vegas, three hours ago."

  Meyerstein shook her head. "How the hell did we allow him to get this far?"

  "Blindsighted us again, Martha. We had to prioritize. Dulles and Reagan International were covered, not to mention Baltimore. The biggies. The obvious choices."

  "He'll be headed for L.A."

  Stamper nodded.

  "What've we got in place?"

  "LA field office is on this, as is Vegas."

  Meyerstein's phone rang and she picked up. "Yeah."

  "Ma'am, Special Agent Thomas Clarkson, something on Reznick."

  Meyerstein knew Clarkson, a smart rookie who worked on the 4th floor. "We've already got the Vegas lead, Thomas."

  "We now know what car he's driving. It's a Chevrolet Camaro."

  "Where did he pick it up?"

  "Avis rental at McCarron. License plate is being circulated. He's using false ID. The name's Ronald Barr."

  Meyerstein closed her eyes and shook her head. "Goddamn. Okay, Thomas, good work. Feed this into all US intelligence agencies. We need to find him."

  "Will do, ma'am."

  Meyerstein ended the call and relayed the news to Stamper. "He has a deep connection to Vincenza and his kids. That's what's driving this whole thing now."

  Stamper said nothing.

  "What is it?"

  "We could do without this, Martha."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Martha, we're being made to look stupid."

  "Okay, Roy, I get the picture."

  Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair.

  "What is he playing at? He needs to keep the hell out the way."

  "Roy, I said I get the picture."

  "Martha, how many times do you have to defend Reznick? He's getting in the way."

  "Look, I know this is not ideal. He might know other Vincenza connections in the city, which might lead him to this guy. I think he'll be in touch with us again to work this case."

  "Martha, this is wrong. Langley doesn't like this guy. They think he's getting favorable treatment from you. Any deal with him we cut in the past to get back Luntz is over. And we need to move on."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "I'm saying we need to cut our ties with Reznick once and for all."

  "And why would we do that? Hasn't he been invaluable in the past?"

  Stamper shook his head. "Martha, you're reading this wrong."

  "I'm reading this wrong. How am I reading this wrong?"

  "I think thi
s time he's gone too far. I think he's at odds with what we're about."

  Meyerstein stared at Stamper, as she remained silent.

  Stamper shrugged. "What?"

  "Next time you start questioning my judgment, we're going to have a discussion about a future posting for you. Do you understand me?"

  Meyerstein's phone began to ring.

  Stamper flushed.

  Meyerstein stared at Stamper. "Did you hear what I said?"

  "Loud and clear."

  "Get to it, then. Find me Reznick."

  Stamper left the room and Meyerstein picked up the phone.

  "Meyerstein."

  A man clearing his throat. "Martha, it's O'Donoghue."

  Meyerstein nodded. She was surprised that the Director of the FBI was still awake. "Sir, what can I do for you?"

  "Martha, I've just got out of a meeting with the Director of the CIA and this Iranian thing has got them spooked."

  Meyerstein said nothing.

  "What is also worrying them is Reznick."

  "Sir, I think . . ."

  "Hold on. I think it would be in everyone's interests if he is found and taken to a secure location. Do you understand?"

  "With respect sir, I don't agree."

  "What do you mean you don't agree? I'm giving you a direct order."

  "Sir, firstly, I think the reason Reznick did a runner was because he knew what we had in store for him. Secondly, I think he's useful on the outside, leading us to Vincenza and the Iranians."

  "Martha, you're too close to this. What's apparent is that you are losing control of this situation."

  Meyerstein bristled at his words and criticism. "Sir, give me 48 hours and I'll have this cleaned up."

  A long sigh down the line. "We want Reznick out of the way."

  "And I'm saying sir, let me deal with this."

  "What's the latest?"

  "Reznick is on the move. Headed to Los Angeles. False name."

  "Okay, what do you propose to do?"

  Meyerstein sighed feeling herself more and more annoyed by his tone. "What I propose is that I head to LA and make contact with Reznick myself. This is where it's going to play out."

  A long silence opened up before O'Donoghue spoke. "Okay, 48 hours."

  Meyerstein said, "On one condition."

  "And what's that?"

  "I won't be going there to trap Reznick for the CIA."

  O'Donoghue said nothing.

  "I can work this case with Reznick."

  A beat. "Very well, head to LA. Update me as soon as you make contact with Reznick."

  "Thank you sir."

  "One final thing."

  "What's that, sir?"

  "Be careful. Reznick is a dangerous man."

  NINETEEN

  The morning sun peeked through a gap in the shabby houses opposite the boxing gym in a rundown part of East L.A, dusty palm trees hanging limp in the dead air. Reznick was sitting in a parked car drinking his second coffee of the day. He stared across the street as an old Hispanic man opened up the shabby door and went inside.

  Reznick waited a couple of minutes. He got out the car and headed across the street, followed the man inside. The sound of footsteps on the floor above. He headed up a flight a stairs to a first floor landing. The smell of stale sweat, photos of boxers on walls. He noticed a few black and white shots of Roberto Duran. The Panamanian brawler, one of the greatest boxers ever. A guy raised in the slums of El Chorrillo. A fighter Reznick's father admired. Manos de Piedra. Hands of Stone. Tough. Win at all costs. Reznick remembered his father reading boxing articles about Duran to him when he was a boy. He had listened intently. He admired Duran's almost monastic dedication. Unbowed, and mostly unconquered.

  Further down the corridor he noticed a set of stairs leading down into a deceptively spacious gym.

  Reznick entered the gym and the old Hispanic man turned around, rheumy brown eyes creasing up.

  "Can I help you, son?"

  "Looking for a friend of mine."

  "What kind of friend?"

  "Way back in the day. He learned to box here. Little white kid. Blaine."

  A smile washed over the man's leathery face. "Blaine? You kidding me? You one of Blaine's friends?"

  Reznick nodded.

  "Man, that was a long time ago."

  "I believe he still comes back here. Recruits the guys from the gym for security jobs he has."

  The man went quiet for a few moments. "You're asking a lot of questions. Why you want to speak to him?"

  "I'm an old friend."

  "You box?"

  "I have boxed."

  "When?"

  "In the Marines."

  The man grinned. "You get your ass kicked?"

  "Not too often."

  The man sighed. "Not seen Blaine for a couple of weeks."

  Reznick nodded. "I believe his mother still lives round here."

  "Not any more. He moved his momma away. Neighborhood getting too crazy. Shame really."

  Reznick said nothing.

  "I remember the day Mrs. Vincenza brought Blaine in. He was getting pushed around. White kid amongst a lot of Hispanic guys, can be tough."

  Reznick said nothing, happy to let the man talk.

  "His mother was a nice lady. Lost her husband in Vietnam. And she wanted her son to get toughened up."

  "You must've done a pretty good job."

  "This is a proper boxing gym, son."

  Reznick looked around at the walls, pictures of tough local fighters. "So I see."

  "Listen, you know LA at all?"

  "Some."

  "A lot of the guys that Blaine hires are for close protection work for some big shots. Bit of muscle for premieres and the after parties. The guy who runs some of the operations is one of my old fighters. Pedro Mendes."

  "Where can I find Pedro?"

  The old man pointed behind Reznick. "Ask him yourself?"

  Reznick turned round and saw a little guy, impossibly lean, veins bulging out of his neck. Dark brown eyes fixed on him.

  "What you want?"

  "I'm a friend of Blaine's. I was told you might be able to help?"

  Mendes shrugged. "Who are you? Are you a cop?"

  "Ex-Delta buddy."

  Mendes gave an exaggerated nod. "You don't look like ex-Delta to me. Look like one of those candyass boys from West Hollywood." He grinned like a jackal.

  Reznick stared back at him. "How old are you?"

  "Fuck is it to do with you? Come in here asking about Blaine? I don't know you. I don't give a fuck for you." Mendes stared at him, nerve ends twitching.

  "I'm sure you can box. But I'm not sure you can fight. You wanna see the difference?"

  Mendes spat on the floor and glared at Reznick. "You do a lot of talking, don't you?" He stood, snarling. He was about six or seven yards from Reznick. Then he rushed forward to land a haymaker with his right.

  Reznick took a step forward and slammed his left forearm into the neck of the oncoming Mendes. The boxer dropped to the ground, out cold. He'd hit the carotid sinus. He picked up the unconscious Hispanic guy and slapped him a few times on the face.

  He came too, eyes half back in his head.

  Reznick grabbed his neck and the man winced. "Okay, here's how it's gonna work, Pedro. I'm an old friend of Blaine, and I'm trying to reach him. Where can I find him?"

  Mendes shook his head and Reznick squeezed tight. He winced. "Okay . . ."

  Reznick loosened his grip. "Speak."

  "He occasionally goes to a restaurant in Studio City."

  "I don't want occasionally. I'm not interested in occasionally. I want to know where to find him."

  "Okay, every night he dines at the same place."

  "Every night?"

  "Every night."

  "What's the name of the restaurant?"

  "Nobu in Malibu."

  "What does he drive?"

  "Ferrari. Black."

  Reznick said, "Doesn't sound like the sort of place
Blaine would eat or the car he'd drive."

  "He moves with a lot of interesting people these days. He likes to be seen out and about and with the right set of wheels."

  Reznick grabbed the guy by throat. "Don't fuck with me. If you're not telling the truth, I know where to find you. Do you understand?"

  The guy nodded, eyes closed tight as Reznick pressed into his windpipe.

  Reznick loosened his grip and the guy coughed and spluttered. He turned to the old man. "Appreciate that."

  Then he turned and headed out onto the streets as a harsh LA sun began to beat down.

  TWENTY

  Just after noon, Jerry Morlach was escorted to a corner table in the sun-drenched roof terrace of members-only club Soho House in West Hollywood. It was located high above Sunset on the top two floors of a high-rise. He was lunching with a French art-house producer with a penchant, according to rumors, for cocaine, hookers and any starlets who crossed his gaze. He smiled as his lunch guest arrived. The producer ordered a bottle or Chablis and a salad whilst Morlach stuck with his usual steak, rare, washed down by Perrier. Morlach listened patiently as the producer talked incessantly, rubbed his nose frequently and visited the bathroom on four separate occasions.

  Morlach took it all in his stride. He stared out at the downtown skyscrapers. He had seen it all in his time, mixing with the movers and shakers of Hollywood over the last twenty five years, providing the financial backing for producers to pursue their dreams. He didn't give a damn about films. He didn't give a damn about art. He cared about the money. He needed big returns. His clients demanded it. Their money had to be invested in sure-fire winners. Blockbusters. Big name summer hits. But he had seen that art house films and indie films provided a spectacular returns for a modest outlay.

  Morlach's mind wandered as the Frenchman got more animated, talking about 'the struggle' and 'basic conflict' amongst the characters, which he insisted, was vital to great cinema. He let him drone on as his thoughts turned to the unexpected delivery. The documentation was postmarked Dubai, but this concealed the true geographical origin of the package.