by J. B. Turner
A young Hispanic couple with two sons wearing Yankees shirts were crawling on the road near the cab. The boys were crying.
Reznick signaled them toward him. He grabbed the kids first and lifted them into the back of the cab, before ushering the grateful parents inside.
The mother was weeping. “Gracias, señor.”
Reznick indicated for the woman to get her head down. “Out of sight!” He slammed the door shut.
He banged on the side of the cab and crouched down below the driver’s open window. “Get the hell out of here! Move it!”
The cab sped away, narrowly avoiding mowing down a crowd of frightened people running across the street.
Reznick was relieved Lauren was hopefully out of harm’s way along with the young family. He turned and stared up at the building. Unbelievably, the crack of semiautomatic gunfire continued. Shot after shot. All from the same place. Concentrated gunfire. Short bursts. It was as if the shooters were picking targets rather than aiming randomly. So who were they shooting at? And why weren’t the cops rushing the building? He scanned the courthouse roof again. Perfect line of sight to the stadium. What hell was this? Terrorism? Lone wolf? Independence Day. Either made sense.
He had been trained to put himself in harm’s way. His mental strength had been tested to the brink of endurance, and sometimes beyond, time after time. While the average person would naturally run or hide in fear when confronted with death, his reaction was to confront it. He processed fear differently.
He got to his feet and pushed through the fleeing crowds toward the courthouse.
Reznick edged past an older couple that had frozen in panic. “That way,” he said, pointing. “Head that way and you’ll be safe.” He reached an intersection, and the scene that greeted him was horrifying. Dead police officers sprawled on the street and sidewalk, bleeding. Paramedics and fellow cops and passersby screamed for assistance.
A few cops had their weapons trained on the art deco courthouse across the street. The crack of gunfire sounded, and a bullet ricocheted off the ground.
Reznick dove behind a police car as bullets began to rain down, piercing the vehicle’s bodywork and shattering the glass.
“Sir, get out of here!” a cop yelled, grabbing him by the shoulder.
Reznick knew immediately that it was cops being targeted. This was not international terrorism, which was usually aimed at mass casualties. It was targeted killings. The shooters were clearly intent on taking down uniformed officers. Was that the end goal? Or was causing chaos and distraction amid law enforcement just a precursor to the real plan?
The firing seemed to have died down. Sounds of more screaming, shouting, car alarms, and police sirens filled the humid air.
“Sir, you need to get the fuck out of here!” the cop said.
“FBI! I’m here to help!” Reznick’s mind was racing. He turned and broke cover, dashing across East 161st Street. A chopper whirred overhead. More cops had fallen in the latest barrage. Quite a few were dead.
The bullets had stopped.
In the distance, Reznick saw people trying to take cover inside a diner. Under tables, cowering in corners. Some were pointing frantically up the street, not far from a side entrance to the courthouse. He turned and saw two men on the ground with rifles taking aim at the NYPD chopper. Semiautomatic fire crackled. The chopper lurched and spun out of control. A rotor blade fell off, crashing to the ground. Black smoke billowed in the air.
The chopper rotated wildly before dropping out of the sky, crushing passing cars headed down East 161st Street and bursting into flames, incinerating people fleeing from the Yankee Tavern.
Chaos in all directions.
Reznick crouched behind an SUV as flames licked the sky. A frightened young couple huddled in a vehicle outside a deli. He watched the riflemen get up from the ground and climb into a white van. It was like they were on the clock. Then he saw the vehicle reverse out of its parking space at high speed.
A brave injured cop lying on the ground fired off several shots in vain. The van accelerated down the street, leaving a scene of utter devastation in its wake: black smoke filling the azure-blue sky, a burning chopper, dead cops, and screaming families.
Reznick felt a switch flip inside him, accompanied by a surge of adrenaline. He sprinted across the street after the van. Running hard. Heart pounding. Faster. Faster.
A cop screamed from behind a cruiser, “Are you crazy? Get down!”
Reznick ran for three blocks along Walton Avenue as if his life depended on it, until he reached the intersection at 158th Street. He was standing in the middle of the road, vehicles moving all around him, as the van disappeared from sight, lost in traffic. He pulled out his gun. Fleeing motorists swerved to avoid him.
A motorcyclist slowed down.
Reznick pointed the gun at him, flashing his FBI ID, glad to have the official identification in his wallet. “Emergency!”
The motorcyclist flipped up his visor. “Fuck is going on?”
Reznick hauled the guy off the Yamaha. “Emergency!”
“Are you kidding me, man?”
Reznick got on the bike, revved it hard. He opened up the throttle and gunned the bike down Walton Avenue, heading south, away from the chaos around the stadium. The pursuit was underway. He careened through a red light and nearly crashed headlong into a truck. He accelerated hard, riding like a maniac, desperate to catch sight of the vehicle. There were traffic cameras everywhere, and he knew the cops would have a fix on the van. At least he hoped they would. But certainly, experts at the NYPD’s lower Manhattan headquarters would be tracking the van’s position. So where the hell was backup?
A minute later, farther up the road, Reznick thought he spotted the van, snaking through traffic.
He revved the bike to the max. He was closing in.
Up ahead, the van ran a stop sign.
Reznick swerved hard to avoid a pickup truck. Head down, he crouched behind the windshield, hanging on to the bike for dear life as he gave pursuit.
Five
The Strategic Information Operations Center (SIOC), the FBI’s global command post on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building in Washington, DC, was tense. Most members of the crisis action team were watching the real-time events unfold in New York on the huge video wall. Dozens of special agents were liaising on secure phone lines with colleagues in New York and also with the FBI’s Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia, as they coordinated the response of law enforcement and intelligence agencies. And all the while, SIOC was sifting through the vast amount of footage and information that was pouring in from all directions as the attack developed.
FBI assistant director Martha Meyerstein stood, arms crossed, watching the motorcycle pursue the white van, the footage streaming from an NYPD surveillance drone.
“I want a close-up of the guy on the motorbike,” she said. “What’s taking so long? And can we get the other real-time TV news feeds—NBC, CNN, Fox—so I can get the big picture of exactly what the hell is happening?”
The other screens on the video wall filled up with live TV news feeds from outside Yankee Stadium. Police were pushing back crowds, some of them attendees who’d come for the game, and the usual gawkers drawn to any notable event. Confusion, panic, and pandemonium broke out, then settled, then broke out again. In the background, paramedics attended to the wounded officers, desperately fighting to save lives. So far, other than those killed by the falling helicopter, all the victims appeared to be police officers.
Meyerstein tried to process the crazy chain of events. The full enormity of what was happening was playing out on live TV across America. The cold-blooded killings would reverberate across not only the intelligence community but the nation as a whole. And the fact that the attack had taken place on Independence Day might very well be symbolic. The question remained: Was this a terrorist attack on the nation, like 9/11, or was this an act of domestic terrorism from an anti-government militia intent on decimating the
police?
Meyerstein’s gaze was drawn back to the live coverage from a news chopper tracking the pursuit and beaming it into millions of households across America. The guy on the motorcycle was still pursuing the white cargo van through the Bronx. She couldn’t believe not only how reckless the pursuer was but also how courageous. He wasn’t wearing a helmet or protective leather. But he was dogged in his determination to stick with the van despite the high speeds they were reaching.
A young analyst shouted across the room, “I’ve got a visual of the pursuer!”
“From when?”
“From two minutes and ten seconds ago. And you’re not going to believe it.”
“Spit it out!”
“It’s Reznick! Jon Reznick is in pursuit. He’s the guy on the bike.”
Meyerstein turned around and looked at the analyst, who was sitting in front of a laptop. “What?!”
“That is Jon Reznick. On the bike. That’s him!”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive, ma’am. We’ve pieced together the footage.”
“Play it!”
Up on one of the big screens, the edited footage began to play.
The shooting started and the NYPD surveillance cameras outside the stadium showed Jon Reznick and his daughter taking cover. Lauren disappeared into the crowds as she ran away from the stadium. The footage then showed Reznick emerging from the fleeing crowds, running past the dead and dying cops.
Meyerstein stared up at the video wall, dumbstruck.
The footage rolled on. Reznick took cover behind a police cruiser for a few moments, then headed toward the courthouse from where the gunfire was coming. Then an NYPD surveillance camera captured Reznick hauling a poor guy off his motorcycle before beginning the high-speed chase to catch up with the sniper guys in the van.
“Facial recognition has just confirmed the match against our records, ma’am,” the analyst said. “That is 100 percent Jon Reznick. But at this stage, we don’t know who the young woman is that he was with.”
Meyerstein said, “That’s his daughter, Lauren Reznick.”
The analyst keyed in the name. “I’m on it.”
Meyerstein shook her head, realizing she might be about to watch Reznick get killed live on air. She began to pace the room, eyes on the live chopper feed showing Reznick virtually hanging off the motorcycle as he rocketed around a corner, risking life and limb. “He needs backup! Where’s the NYPD? Where’s Homeland Security? Where is the goddamn New York FBI?”
“Homeland Security agents are on the ground,” the analyst shouted back. “Multiple police cars converging on this part of the Bronx; all the resources were down beside Yankee Stadium, and that’s where all the carnage was.”
“Damn! What about a perimeter?”
“Police are setting up a three-mile radius at this moment.”
Meyerstein felt herself getting more and more agitated. “And we’re having to rely on a news helicopter to cover this?”
“NYPD are getting their own helicopter up in the air as we speak.”
Meyerstein shook her head. “Not good enough,” she said. “Not acceptable.”
Her cell phone rang.
“Martha, what the hell is happening in New York?” The voice belonged to Bill O’Donoghue, director of the FBI.
Meyerstein’s heart sank. The last thing she needed was for the finger-pointing to start already. She needed to focus on the important task at hand. Besides, she was only even in the office on the Fourth because she’d wanted to catch up on a backlog of paperwork, assuming it would be a quiet day. “I am aware of the situation, sir . . .”
“Should we prepare for further attacks? Are there others out there?”
“We’re exploring that possibility.”
“I’ve just spoken to Herb Fonseca, the President’s national security adviser, and he says the President wants answers. Fast.”
“Herb always wants answers fast, Bill. Look, we’re up to our eyes in it. Gimme an hour.”
“We haven’t got an hour.”
“We’re analyzing all the surveillance and news footage as it comes in. It could take some time to establish what exactly is going on.”
“We need people on the ground. This chase is playing out on live TV.”
“I’m well aware of that. I’m already in the office, watching the whole thing. Have been for the last three and a half minutes.”
“Where are you exactly?”
“SIOC, fifth floor.”
“I was told there’s a guy pursuing the suspects on a motorcycle. Is that right?”
“Correct. And guess what? Jon Reznick is the guy in pursuit. Just got confirmation.”
“What the hell? Our Jon Reznick?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Shit, you’ve got to be kidding,” O’Donoghue said.
“Where are you? I thought you were on vacation.”
“I am. We’re in the Hamptons, but I’m leaving my family and coming in. It’s a major attack, clearly. But I’m concerned that the damage will only be compounded by Reznick.”
Meyerstein bristled at the criticism. Her boss had always been wary of the ex-Delta operator and government hit man working in any capacity for the FBI. He didn’t like the way Reznick crossed boundaries, unconcerned with the legality of his actions. O’Donoghue, a stickler for detail and protocol, worried about taking the fall if it were ever revealed that the FBI was allowing a former assassin to work on highly classified operations without any congressional oversight. But right now he seemed to be ignoring the big picture of the terrorist attack.
“Sir, with respect, you seem to be missing the major point that Jon Reznick is the good guy, chasing the bad guys. He is responding to this terrible incident. He’s the one chasing down the snipers responsible for this massacre. He’s on our goddamn side, sir.”
Meyerstein was struggling to keep her anger in check.
“I keep on hearing that, Martha. But he’s trouble. He attracts trouble.”
“Sir, this is a serious attack on New York. That’s the story, not the potential fallout if the identity of the guy who’s pursuing the terrorists is revealed.”
“Don’t downplay how serious this could be for us within the intelligence community, Martha.”
“This attack is an intelligence failure, sir. Our failure. We have to take responsibility for this.”
“We also have to take responsibility for people who work for us. In particular, Jon Reznick. Everyone will be asking questions. Who is this guy? Why did he act this way? What’s his background? We need to consider how this will all play out. The media will have a field day, you can bet. They’ll be looking for a hero, and they will find out who he is. It’s bad enough that we didn’t have any inkling of this terrible attack before it happened. When the finger-pointing starts, it’s going to get worse.”
“Sir, with respect, we can worry about that another day. First and foremost, these guys need to be neutralized.”
“What about the NYPD?” O’Donoghue cleared his throat. “Where the hell are they?”
“Sir, with respect again, today’s fatalities were mostly cops. They’re having to respond to this on multiple fronts. They’re mustering as many units as possible, and of course field office emergency plans have been activated across the city.”
“But where are the cops? It can’t just be Reznick in pursuit.”
“They’re on the ground and in the air and are closing in. Reznick just happens to be who the news cameras are focusing on because he’s closest to the snipers’ vehicle.”
“Goddamn, never a break. Keep me updated. I’m heading in to New York. And I want you there too, on the next plane. The shit’s gonna hit the fan on this.”
Six
Reznick was tearing through the Bronx streets at high speed on the bike. Down side streets, running red lights and sailing through crosswalks. He screwed up his eyes against the harsh sunlight. He felt the adrenaline coursing through his body. The va
n ahead veered sharply right as it headed north along Third Avenue, driving deeper and deeper into the Bronx. He hung on to the bike as he sped on, past grim skyscrapers, graffiti scrawled on walls, and metal shutters.
Reznick accelerated harder as he weaved in and out of traffic. The van sped along East Tremont Avenue, traffic flashing past.
Semi-industrial. Urban wasteland.
Reznick was so close to the van, he could smell its dirty exhaust fumes. The van made a sharp left around a corner, onto a busy shopping street. Then another sharp turn at a nail salon and down Mapes Avenue.
A young Hispanic woman wearing headphones, oblivious to the pursuit, stepped out onto the road. For a moment, Reznick was sure the van was going to run her over, but the driver swerved at the last second. Crashed headlong into a bodega, knocking over the guy standing outside, sending him flying through the air.
Reznick braked hard and jumped off the bike, taking cover at the rear of the van, where gas was already spilling out of the tank. He trained his gun on the smoking vehicle’s passenger door. “FBI! Get out of the fucking car, hands up!”
Slowly, a guy wearing navy coveralls emerged from that side of the van. The tinted windows meant Reznick couldn’t see who else was inside.
“Hands up!” Reznick shouted. “Let me see them!”
The guy—tattooed, white—spun around, holding a sniper rifle.
Reznick fired two shots to the chest. The guy fell to the ground, dropping the weapon onto the road. His eyes were open wide but he was dead. Rivulets of blood trickled down the asphalt incline.
Reznick trained his gun on the driver’s side.
“Driver, slowly come out with your hands in the air!”
Suddenly, two shots were fired out of the dark rear windows, glass shattering.
Reznick flung himself to the ground and crawled behind a parked car. He crouched down low as another salvo of bullets was fired in his direction. Metal splintered and glass smashed all around as Reznick lay on the ground. He crawled under the car and rolled out the other side. Onlookers began to scream.
In the chaos, the driver had bolted out of the van and was now sprinting along the street, carrying the rifle.