Hard Kill (Jon Reznick Thriller Series Book 2)

by J. B. Turner

  “She did.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She said it was fourteen-hour days, but it was a fascinating glimpse into that world. Diplomats, politicians, Capitol Hill, all that. She loved it, but she didn’t go on about it. She asked me not to talk about it with anyone. She’s pretty discreet.”

  “I see. Did her parents ever visit her here?”

  “Never. She went back to New York regularly, usually on a Friday at the end of each month.”

  “Going back to that laptop—do you have any idea what happened to it?”

  “I have no idea, unless Caroline came back for it during the day. I guess she must have.”

  The young man said, “You mentioned something earlier about anything unusual in the last week or so.”

  Stamper nodded. “You remember something?”

  “I don’t know if it means anything, but I remember Caroline was howling and crying a week ago. Some guy had just dumped her.”

  “Some guy . . . What guy?”

  The kid screwed up his face and looked at his girlfriend. “What did she say his name was?”

  “Adam.”

  The kid nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one. Adam had broken up with her.”

  Stamper cleared his throat. “So this Adam was a boyfriend of hers. You met him?”

  The guy shook his head.

  “None of us have,” the girl said. “Caroline told us she’d started seeing this guy sometime in the summer. She was happy. But then he dumped her.”

  Stamper stood up. “Now listen, it’s very important that you tell us everything you know. We need you to really focus on this and remember anything you can about this guy Adam.”

  The kid began to snap his fingers. “She said he wasn’t answering her calls at the hospital when she called him.”

  “Hospital? A hospital here in DC?”

  The kid grimaced. “Honestly? I really don’t know. That’s all I remember.”

  Stamper nodded. “I’m going to get some of my team in and have a better look around Caroline’s room and the rest of the house, if that’s all right with you.”

  The girl shrugged. “OK, of course.”

  Stamper handed her a card and thanked them for their help, then followed Reznick out of the house and into the searing heat.

  After Stamper called out a three-man FBI team to conduct a thorough search of the townhouse, Reznick got back into the SUV’s passenger seat as Stamper slid into the driver’s seat, buckled up, and put in a call to the senior NSA computer expert assigned to the special access program. He requested all recurring calls from the landline and Caroline’s cell phone to anywhere in the DC area to be flagged and analyzed. Within ten minutes, the NSA guy was back on the phone, and it was clear that Caroline Lieber had been making multiple calls to Georgetown University Hospital.

  “That’s got to be our next stop,” Reznick said.

  Stamper was frowning, deep in thought. He made another call.

  “Hi, Lenny. It’s Roy Stamper. The human resources department of Georgetown University Hospital—I need to know where it’s located.” A long pause. “Arlington? OK, got that.” He ended the call and turned to Reznick. “Fifteenth Street North, Arlington.”

  Reznick nodded.

  Stamper turned the ignition key and they pulled away.

  Ten minutes later, the SUV’s GPS guided them into the parking garage of a large glass building.

  Reznick and Stamper took the elevator to the third floor and headed along a corridor to a reception area.

  Stamper flashed his badge and gave his best FBI smile.

  “Good morning, ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you, but we have urgent business. I’d like to see the vice president of human resources, Ms. Wendy Greninger.”

  “Have you got an appointment?”

  Stamper looked at her name tag. “Sadly no, Christine. But that’s not usually a problem for us.”

  “Hold on.” She buzzed her boss and picked up the phone. “Yes, two gentlemen from the FBI to see you, Ms. Greninger.” A few nods, then she hung up and pointed to a door opposite. “You’re in luck. She’s in the training room.”

  Stamper smiled. “Much obliged, thank you.”

  The receptionist smiled back, and flushed as Reznick gave a polite nod. As they walked toward the training room door, Reznick put his hand on Stamper’s shoulder. “Didn’t know you could be such a smooth talker, Roy.”

  Stamper groaned. “Gimme a break, Reznick.” He cleared his throat, and knocked on the door twice.

  A voice from inside shouted, “Come in!”

  Working on a laptop was a woman wearing a smart, dark-olive suit. She stood up and shook their hands.

  “FBI, ma’am. I appreciate you seeing us without any notice.”

  The woman nodded. “No problem at all. How can I help you gentlemen?”

  Stamper outlined that they were looking for a man called Adam who may or may not work at the hospital, and they would like access to the hospital records.

  “I see,” she said. “Can you tell me what this is in connection to?”

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose that, Ms. Greninger. We hope, with the hospital’s cooperation and consent, we can establish a few facts, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “I’ll have to run it past our CEO first.”

  “Excellent, thank you.”

  Greninger picked up the phone and dialed a number. The call dragged on for a couple of minutes as she explained the situation to the CEO. Eventually, she said, “Appreciate that,” and ended the call.

  She smiled at Stamper. “Presumably you want a list of only those named Adam who work at the hospital? In any capacity?”

  “Whether it’s full-time, part-time, medical, janitor, office worker, nurse . . . and their addresses and contact numbers, too.”

  Greninger got to her feet. “Just wait here.”

  Less than a quarter of an hour later, she returned with a printout.

  “There are five Adams employed by us,” she said. “All their details are here.” She looked at Reznick. “You ex-military?”

  Reznick said nothing.

  “I can tell. I served, many years back. Military intelligence.”

  Stamper took the list. “Thank you, Ms. Greninger. We appreciate your cooperation.”

  “If there’s anything else you guys need, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  Stamper said, “One final thing. We’d appreciate it if this conversation stayed within these four walls.”

  Greninger nodded. “That’s a given, and won’t be a problem.”

  They headed down to the parking garage and got into the car. Stamper quickly scanned the names and dialed the number of one of his team. “Josie—Roy here. I’ve got five names. I want you to run them through the system as soon as possible. Basically, I need the Adam who works at the hospital to be boyfriend material for a rich New York girl studying in DC.” He nodded. “Exactly. Trawl the cell phone records of all of them. Keep me informed.”

  Stamper ended the call and they headed back into DC, stopping off at Martin’s Tavern in Georgetown for a brunch of scrambled eggs, hash browns, toast, and coffee. After they’d eaten, Stamper emailed Meyerstein with an update.

  A few minutes later, his cell rang. “Yup.” He listened intently for a couple of minutes. Eventually, he spoke: “One long-term sick, one on sabbatical to India and one . . . doing what?” He nodded. “One retires next year, aged seventy-five . . . OK, that leaves . . . ?” He nodded again. “Forget the janitor. I’m interested in the doctor. There are logs of her speaking to his department on multiple occasions, is that right?” A pause. “That’s the one. Pull up everything we have on him. Speak soon.” He put his cell phone in his pocket. “Interesting.”

  “You got someone?”

  “We think so. Lives no more than two minutes from here.”

  Four

  The road through the woods was deserted as the headlights of Adam Ford’s car strafed the single lan
e ahead. Lightning bugs glanced off his windshield. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw the silhouettes of the men shadowing him, in the car behind. He was miles from civilization, somewhere off Route 40, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Southwest Virginia.

  As the miles wore on, he wondered what test they had in store for him.

  The headlights behind him flashed. It was the signal that he was to turn right up ahead.

  Ford spotted a homemade wooden sign with an arrow, and he headed down a dirt road for just over three miles until he came to a clearing. A man with fluorescent nightsticks guided him over to the left beside a clump of trees. He glanced in the rearview and noticed his shadows were no longer there.

  His stomach knotted as he parked the SUV. Two masked men, dressed in black and sporting submachine guns, approached.

  “Out of the car,” one drawled.

  Ford switched off his engine and got out of the vehicle. The same man stepped forward and frisked him. Then an electronic wand was run over his body.

  “He’s clean.” The man cocked his head in the direction of a rutted dirt road. “Follow me.”

  Ford did as he was told, flashlights leading the way. Sweat ran down his back, insects buzzing all around. The air was thick, like glue. He could smell the forest. Dead leaves. Bark. Earth. Behind him, the sound of heavy footsteps.

  They walked on for perhaps half a mile until they got to what looked like a heavily camouflaged wooden shed, most likely a bird blind.

  The man opened the door. “After you.”

  Ford did as he was told and stepped inside. It smelled musty. A blue light was switched on. At the far end was a sniper rifle with a night-vision scope, resting on a tripod.

  The masked man said, “This is your final test.”

  “I’ve already aced the long-range sniper tests.”

  “We know you have. But that was to test accuracy.”

  Ford said nothing, wondering what the man meant.

  The man cocked his head in the direction of the rifle and tripod. “It’s all set up for you. The weighting, the sights—it’s perfect. I double-checked it myself.”

  Ford nodded.

  “OK, let’s do this. Assume position.”

  Ford complied, and laid himself flat on the floor behind the tripod. He used his left hand to support the butt of the rifle.

  “We’ve checked wind speed and we’ve adjusted the scopes. It’s all in place.”

  Ford placed the butt of the stock firmly in the pocket of his right shoulder. Then, with his right hand, he gripped the small of the stock. He placed his index finger on the trigger and planted his elbows on the wooden floor.

  He closed his eyes and took a couple of breaths, enabling him to relax as much as possible. Upon opening his eyes, he saw through the pale green of the night vision what the scope’s crosshairs were aligned with—and his blood ran cold.

  A hooded man, with his back to Ford, was tied by ropes to a tree. The range finder showed he was 1097 yards away. Ford watched the man writhe as he tried to escape. But it was to no avail.

  Ford’s stomach knotted. “What’s this?”

  Behind him, the masked man said, “This is your test. Do nothing until I give the order. Do you understand?”

  “Understood.”

  “OK, zero your weapon.”

  Ford said nothing. He adjusted the scope so that the back of the writhing man’s head was in the center of the crosshairs. He zoned out as his training kicked in. A sniper had to take into account the myriad factors that could influence a bullet’s trajectory: distance to the target, wind direction, wind speed, the angle of the sniper to the target, not to mention the temperature.

  He felt calm. Assured.

  He focused on his breathing. He felt detached.

  “Do you know who this man is?”

  “Nope.”

  “His name’s O’Grady. Do you want to know why he’s the target?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m gonna tell you. This man has compromised the operation. That can’t be allowed. Do you understand?”

  “Absolutely. I understand.”

  “When you’re ready. It must be a head shot.”

  The man’s head was now hung low, as if he knew what awaited him. For a split second, Ford stared through the night-vision scope and tried to imagine the terror the man was feeling underneath the hood. He felt the cold metal on his trigger finger. He paused for a few moments.

  He knew that military snipers who shoot over three hundred yards invariably aim for the chest. The loss of blood and the trauma will inevitably kill the target. But this was to be a head shot, usually used at close range.

  He breathed in slowly, his yoga and meditation techniques kicking in. He peered through the scope and got the hooded head perfectly within the crosshairs. He was aiming for the “apricot,” or the medulla oblongata, the part of the brain that controls involuntary movement at the base of the skull.

  He felt the cold steel again on the ball of his finger and squeezed the trigger. The recoil was surprisingly slight. The noise blasted around the hide.

  Through the scope, he saw the hooded man’s head slump forward. Then two masked men emerged from the wooded area to the side.

  Ford watched, fascinated, as one took a hunting knife from his belt and cut the rope that held the man to the tree. The body fell forward and the other man unrolled a body bag on the ground. They lifted the body into the bag.

  “Move away from the rifle,” the masked man said.

  Ford got to his feet.

  The masked man got out a cell phone and made a call. “Yeah, it’s done.” He handed the phone to Ford. “They want to talk to you.”

  Ford held the phone up to his ear. “Yeah.”

  “You passed.”

  Ford sighed. “What now?”

  “The big one.”

  “You got a timescale?”

  “When we know, you’ll know.”

  “When will I hear from you again?”

  “Soon.”

  He was about to respond, but the line was already dead.

  Five

  Reznick had been in the back of the stifling surveillance van for almost a day, its air conditioner broken, when Adam Ford pulled up outside his Georgetown home in a smart Mercedes convertible.

  “Think I got something,” he whispered into his lapel microphone.

  Ford got out of the car, bag slung over his shoulder. He was lean and tall, with a strong jawline. Cropped blond hair, tanned complexion. He wore cargo pants, Topsiders, and a navy polo shirt. An all-American guy. But he also seemed to exude a superior air as he sauntered toward his house.

  Reznick picked up the camera and zoomed in on Ford, taking some shots through the glass of the window. He watched as Ford walked up the stone stoop and pulled out his keys. Before opening the door, the doctor checked his watch and looked around. His gaze fell on the van.

  Reznick froze, the only sound his heart beating. It seemed as though Ford was staring straight into the lens of the camera. Reznick swallowed hard. He’d been holding his breath for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, Ford turned around and opened his front door, shutting it behind him with his foot.

  Reznick exhaled. “Target inside house.” He sent the photos via instant message to Meyerstein. Three minutes later, she called back.

  “Our computer analysis shows that this is a perfect match for Adam Ford.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “Look, I’m going to get Stamper down there now. He can talk to this doctor, find out what he knows. I want you to just stay in the van and see if he heads off anywhere. We’ll check his cell traffic. You OK with that?”

  “Fine by me.”

  She hung up.

  Half an hour later, Stamper and his team pulled up in an SUV outside Ford’s house. Reznick watched as Ford answered the door in his bathrobe, still toweling his wet hair, and ushered the Feds inside. A mere fifteen minutes later, Stamper and
his men drove off.

  His phone rang. It was Stamper.

  “Hey, Jon.”

  “How did you get on?”

  “He seemed very relaxed when I was asking questions. Very smart, very cool. And he didn’t seem unduly flustered, even when I asked if he knew the whereabouts of Caroline Lieber.”

  “Where had he been?”

  “Visiting an old friend in Southwest Virginia, apparently. We’ll check it out.”

  “So you asked about Caroline Lieber?”

  Stamper sighed down the line. “According to him, she occasionally helped out with his homeless outreach program. He said they were never an item, and that was that. No spark there for him. But she had thought there was something serious between them, and he had to get the Director of Medicine to speak to her directly about calling him at the hospital.”

  “So she was just spinning a line to her friends?”

  “That’s what he’s saying.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “It’s hard to say. He said she had once stayed overnight, and he slept on the sofa.”

  “Why did she stay over?”

  “Well, according to him, she’d been locked out of her home after an argument with her roommates.”

  “So he doesn’t know where she is?”

  “No. We’ve checked the calls to his registered cell. Nothing. Says he never gave her his cell number. That’s why she called the hospital.”

  Reznick groaned. “Backing up his story.”

  “I think we’re wasting our time with this guy. I’ve got a couple things to check out, but the main thrust of the investigation is the Iranians.”

  “What else do we know about this Lieber girl’s movements?”

  “The GPS on her phone had her on the Georgetown campus. But after that, she just seems to have vanished. Turned up for her classes a couple days ago, and then gone. Nothing.”

  “What about a forensic search of his home?”

  “I just spoke to Meyerstein. She wants you to stay where you are. Just in case.”

  Reznick sighed. “And all the time, O’Grady’s off the grid. The same as Caroline Lieber. What the fuck is going on?”

  “Sit tight, Jon, and let’s see how this goes. Chances are, though, Ford has nothing to do with any of this.”