by J. B. Turner
Banging on the wall from upstairs as the noise vibrated through the bricks. Through the pipework.
O’Keefe ignored it for a few minutes. Once he felt hyped up, he decided to turn it down. The banging from upstairs stopped. The sound of a baby crying next door. Raised voices. Maybe a family holed up in one of the shitty rooms.
He felt as if he was possessed. And he liked it. Actually loved it.
Memories flooded back from when he was a teenager. Charlie walking him and his brothers through the woods to a makeshift firing range. He remembered the feeling when Charlie ruffled his hair.
Once you learn to fight, no one will fuck with you. Once you learn to shoot, no one will fuck with you.
A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought.
O’Keefe ignored it for a few moments.
A series of sharp knocks followed.
O’Keefe wondered who it was. He got up from the floor and looked through the peephole.
A small woman, hair tied back. “Sir,” she said, “we need to speak to you about the noise. Can you open up so we can talk?”
O’Keefe picked up the remote, muted the TV, and opened the door, giving his best smile.
The woman, who looked Eastern European, smiled back. “Sir, I’m sorry, but we’ve had a complaint about the noise. We don’t allow too much noise as we have seven hundred guests within the hotel on any given night, and it’s not fair to the other guests.”
O’Keefe forced a fake smile. “You’re absolutely right. It isn’t fair. Apologies. I just got into town. I think I need to lie down.”
O’Keefe shut the door, still smiling. He wanted to rip the door off its hinges and throw it headfirst through his window.
His cell phone rang.
“And so the time has come.” The voice of Thomas “Mad Dog” Mills.
“Let’s do this.”
“Fuck them up good, bro. Blood in, blood out.”
The line went dead.
O’Keefe’s heart was racing. He went over to the filthy bed, opened the backpack again, and pulled out the rifle, scope, and magazine and ammo. Reassembled it all. The cold steel against his warm skin was reassuring. Then he opened a side zip pocket and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade heavily spiked with methamphetamine.
He rifled through the backpack and pulled out a travel garment bag. They had thought of everything. He laid it on the bed carefully, unzipped it, and pulled out the contents.
O’Keefe smiled as he inspected a dark-navy NYPD uniform, a badge, and shiny black shoes.
Thirty-Three
Lauren Reznick stood at the intersection of Seventh Avenue and West Forty-Fourth Street, being jostled by the huge Times Square crowds. Steam billowed out of subway grates into the air, still hot even after the sun had gone down. Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket.
“Hey, Dad, how are you?”
“I’m fine. More importantly, how are you? Are you still with your friends in Times Square?”
“They went to a café. That’s where I’m headed. We’re going to have something to eat and then catch the subway home.”
“Where are you?”
Lauren gave her location. “That’s where the café is. Satisfied?”
“First, get yourself into the café. Inside, away from the window. At the very least.”
“I got it.”
“There was another shooting close to Penn Station.”
“I saw that on Twitter.”
“The perp is still on the loose. And he’s in or around Times Square. You need to get inside or back to your apartment. Do not be out in the open, exposed.”
“I’m literally walking to the Europa Café. I’m about one hundred yards from it.”
“I’m going to stay on the line until you confirm to me that you are out of sight. And well away from the window.”
“Got it.”
Lauren passed a hotel and saw the lights of the café. She headed inside.
“Are you finally inside?”
“Yes, I’m inside. I’m shutting the door behind me as we speak.”
“Are your friends there?”
“Yeah, I can see them now. They’re not near the window. And they’re drinking coffee and eating muffins and sandwiches.”
“Lucky them. Right, stay there for now. And then leave the Times Square area. Walk over to Ninth Avenue, catch a cab, and get back to your apartment.”
Lauren’s friends waved her over to their table, and she pulled out a seat as a waitress approached. “Hang on, Dad.” She ordered a latte and a ham sandwich on rye. “Thank you.”
“You’re making me hungry,” Reznick said.
“What happened today?” Lauren asked.
“I can’t tell you right now. But I will . . .”
“When? I want to know.”
Her father sighed. “Later. When this is over. There’s one guy still on the loose.”
“What does he look like?”
A pause. “Aryan Brotherhood. They’re very distinctive.”
“Seriously?”
“The youngest brother of the two nutcases that killed the cops outside Yankee Stadium. He killed the two cops in the Financial District. And the attorney general.”
Lauren went quiet.
“Now do you see why I want you to get the hell out of there?”
“I understand that, Dad.”
“This guy on the loose is hyper-violent. He has nothing to lose. Nothing.”
“Dad, I’m out of sight.”
“So, stay where you are.”
“Will do. We’re fine. There are cops on every corner. Where are you?”
“Not far. Couple hundred yards. Maybe less.”
“You want to join us for coffee and sandwiches?”
“Maybe another time.”
Two shots rang out on the street. Then the screaming began.
“What was that, Lauren?”
Lauren saw people running down the street. “Shots fired! Did you hear that, Dad?”
“Get down! Hide! Do not make a move! I’m on my way!”
Thirty-Four
Reznick could still hear the sound of semiautomatic gunfire coming through his cell phone. He was running down Seventh Avenue. Dodging cars and cabs as he sprinted across Broadway at Forty-Fifth Street. “Stay on the line, Lauren!”
“I will, Dad.”
“Do not make a run for it!” Reznick said. “Is there a basement or storeroom to hide out in?”
He was close enough to the Europa Café to hear more rifle shots. Then high-pitched screaming.
“Man down, Dad!” Lauren said. Her voice was surprisingly calm, authoritative. “One cop down. Outside Hard Rock Cafe. Two cops. I repeat, two cops! More, maybe, I think.”
“Stay right where you are. Do you understand? Do not move! Keep down! Out of sight! Away from windows!”
“People out on the street are pointing up at a building farther down West Forty-Third. I think he’s really close to us.”
“He’s probably firing from a high floor close to you. Now listen . . .”
More shots. People were running in every direction.
“Dad, he’s hit another cop, he’s bleeding out. He’s been shot, crawling outside.”
“Leave him be! Stay inside! Do you hear? Do not attend to him. Under no circumstances are you to make a move at this time!”
“He’s losing blood.”
Fleeing pedestrians were slamming into Reznick. It was like trying to run against the ocean’s current. “Lauren, listen to me!”
“I can see him. I need to get him off the street.”
Reznick felt rising panic as he raced toward the location. “Lauren! Do not break cover! Stay put! Help is on the way! I’m nearly there.”
Suddenly, the line went dead. He put his phone back in his pocket. He was going out of his mind.
His earpiece crackled to life. “Jon, it’s Martha. Gunshots on West Forty-Third Street! Repeat, gunshots on Forty-Third Street. Officers down. Repea
t. Five officers down.”
Reznick barged past a swarm of people. “Copy that. I’m a block away. Lauren is in a café nearby. I just spoke to her.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Affirmative. She’s there right now. I’m closing in.”
“The ESU is headed there, on foot.”
But for Reznick, as he ran those last hundred yards, struggling to get past the huge panicking crowds, his mind was in a free fall with worry for his daughter.
Thirty-Five
Lauren’s friends grabbed her arm as she tried to leave the café. Customers huddled under tables and behind the counter.
“Don’t be so stupid, Lauren! Stay here, that’s what your dad said!”
Lauren pulled her arm away. She would not cower in fear. Her father had instilled that in her.
“Are you insane? Get down!”
“What the hell is wrong with you all?”
A man hiding behind a table pointed at her. “Do not fucking go out there, lady, do you hear me? You’ll put us all at risk.”
“There’s an injured man out there. What’s wrong with you?”
Lauren looked out the café window at the people fleeing the scene. She could see five injured officers, one only yards from the café, blood pouring from his mouth. He was reaching out as if trying to crawl to safety. Sirens blared.
A woman behind the counter reached over and gave Lauren a pile of hand towels.
Lauren pushed open the door and ran to the officer. He looked up, eyes glassy. She could hear screaming coming from everywhere. She pressed the towels tight against his neck wound and turned around. “Please, someone,” she said. “He’s lost a lot of blood! Someone call 911!”
It was a surreal scene in which everything seemed slowed down. Dead and dying victims. Lights. Chaos.
People ignored the dying officer as they ran past. She turned and looked down the street and saw people peering down from the windows and roofs of adjacent buildings, filming on their cell phones. “Why won’t anyone help this officer? We need to get him to a hospital.”
A police officer carrying a bottle of Gatorade kneeled down beside her. “Quick! Take his legs and I’ll take his arms. Get him in my car over there!”
“Thank you, Officer. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Just got here.”
Lauren and the man lifted the bleeding cop into the back of a police car.
“Get in the back with him,” he said. “Let’s get him to a hospital.”
Lauren did as she was told.
The cop started up the car and sped off down West Forty-Third Street, blue lights on, running the lights until Ninth Avenue. Then he took a left, nearly knocking down a couple in the crosswalk.
Lauren glanced at the rearview mirror and noticed the guy’s eyes were bloodshot and glazed. “Where are we going? There’s no hospital over here.”
The cop turned around and pointed a gun at her head. “Stop whining and shut the fuck up.”
Thirty-Six
Reznick saw the bloodied bodies of cops strewn across West Forty-Third Street, bathed in the red and blue lights of ambulances and cop cars. Paramedics and other cops and passersby worked frantically to treat the officers. He shoved through the crowds on the sidewalk, past a hotel, and finally got to the café.
He went inside and people were screaming, near hysterical.
“FBI!” he shouted. “Do not move until this area is secured. Is that understood? You need to pay attention and not move from here.”
There was sobbing from some of the customers.
“We’ll get you out of here when we can. But I’m also looking for Lauren Reznick. I’m her father.” He looked around, people hugging each other, petrified. “Anyone?”
A twentysomething black girl pointed outside. “She went to help an officer. We told her not to.”
Reznick’s heart sank. “So where is she?”
A Hispanic man behind the counter said, “I saw her getting in the back of a cop car with the injured cop.”
“And a cop was driving the car?”
“Yes, he was. Positive.”
Reznick felt a wave of relief that she was alive. He went out on the street and saw the ESU team pouring into a hotel. He saw Fogerty, the young guy he met earlier. “Hey, Danny, what’s going on?”
“Shooter on a high floor.”
“Is he still there?”
“We don’t know. I heard a report a few moments ago that he might have fled. But he might also be hiding out. We’re gonna check it out.”
Reznick patted him on the back. “Best of luck, son.”
The ESU guy stormed past him and into the hotel as Reznick surveyed the scene on West Forty-Third Street. It was like a war zone. His mind flashed back to Fallujah, all those years ago. Bodies strewn on the backstreets. Fallen soldiers. Dead civilians. Screaming. Dying. Blood.
His earpiece crackled to life.
“Jon, it’s Martha!”
“Shooter might be gone, according to one of the ESU guys. And we’ve got bodies everywhere on West Forty-Third. It’s like a scene from hell.”
“It’s even worse than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re piecing together a sequence of events from surveillance cameras. O’Keefe is wearing a cop uniform.”
The words skidded across his mind in slow motion. “No!”
“I’m looking at the still image now. Two minutes forty-three seconds ago. Lauren is helping him lift an injured cop into the back of a police cruiser.”
Panic and a sense of dread began to set in. “Jesus, no!”
“The uniform helped O’Keefe blend in as he left. Made it look plausible, especially by having him and a bystander, Lauren, carry a dying cop away from the scene.”
“Where is the vehicle? I need to know! Which way did they go? Tell me!”
“We have it headed south on Ninth Avenue.” She hesitated. “Into the Lincoln Tunnel.”
Reznick turned and began sprinting toward Ninth Avenue. “Martha, stay on the line. You need to stay on the line.”
“Jon, we’ve alerted New Jersey cops. They’re handling it.”
“I don’t give a shit. That’s my daughter.”
Reznick was running down the Midtown street, ignoring the snarled-up traffic, crowds, and chaos. He felt his heart racing like it was going to explode. But he ran even faster. He had to get to Lauren.
A sense of foreboding washed over him, filling him with a terrible, sickening dread.
Thirty-Seven
Lauren was desperately trying to stem the bleeding of the NYPD officer lying sprawled on the back seat of the speeding car. She pressed the towels against his throat. He was gargling blood, trying to speak. She turned and looked at the man reflected in the rearview mirror.
The driver, dressed as a cop, gulped down the Gatorade and grinned. Eyes crazy wide, pupils dilated. His lower arm was exposed, showing an Aryan Brotherhood tattoo. “Well, this is fun, huh? Helluva day in New York City, right?”
Lauren felt panicky. She wondered how she had been so stupid. “Please, you need to get this police officer to a hospital.”
“And that’s exactly where I’m taking him.”
“Are you serious?”
The driver laughed as if he had lost his mind. “No. Absolutely not. I’m going to let that fucker bleed out in his own patrol car. What do you think of that?”
“This man is no threat to you. He needs immediate treatment.”
“He’s going to die like a dog. That’s what he is. The motherfucker!”
Lauren looked at the injured officer. His eyes were rolling around in his head as if he were struggling to stay conscious. The driver sped on, headed through the Lincoln Tunnel and into Union City, New Jersey, negotiating the sharp turns. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Listen, honey, I’m not going to kill a nice white girl like you. But you need to understand that the cops, like the one bleeding out, killed my father in cold bloo
d. My father! How would you like that to happen to your father?”
The dying cop’s eyes were filled with tears.
Lauren pressed the blood-soaked towels tighter. She whispered, “Please hang in there, Officer. Stay with us. Do you understand?”
The driver began to laugh and mimicked her voice. “Stay with us! Gimme a break, will you? Listen to yourself. You think he cares about you? He cares about his salary. About his standing in the community. His pension. His bowling on a Tuesday night. His fucking St. Paddy’s Day Parade pipes and drums bullshit.”
“For God’s sake,” Lauren snapped, “what is wrong with you?”
The driver reached around and pointed the gun at her forehead again, one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road. “You wanna know? You really want to know?”
Lauren wondered if she might be able to shove the gun aside and escape. But she knew she could be seriously injured or killed if she tried it. Besides, the officer would die too. She needed to keep the shooter talking. “Yes, I do want to know. Tell me.”
“The cops ripped the heart out of my family. Don’t you fucking understand? Can you comprehend what I’m saying?”
Lauren nodded.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “I can look at your face and see you don’t get it. I can look into your eyes and see everything there is to know about you. I bet you were brought up with lots of money. And you sure as hell don’t care for me, my kind, or my father. What do you know about loss? What do you know about anything?”
“I lost my mother on 9/11. Happy?”
“Well, I apologize, maybe you do understand my anger. My hurt. Maybe I’ve misread you.”
“Please, you need to stop. What you’re doing is wrong. It’s disgusting.”
“Oh, listen to little Miss Butter Wouldn’t Melt in My Fucking Mouth! You think you’ve got a right to judge me? To sit in judgment of me or my family? Until you’ve walked in my shoes, you don’t know shit.”
Lauren focused on the cop, trying to ignore the madman. Warm blood had seeped through the towels onto her hands. Her mind flashed to the images of the falling towers on 9/11. A cataclysmic mass terrorist attack. She began to think of her mother again. Her final helpless moments. Had she been trapped high up in the tower in lower Manhattan? Had she said a silent prayer? Had she thought of her baby daughter at that moment? What was she thinking in those desperate last minutes? And now, all these years later, Lauren herself was staring into the abyss on the streets of New York. On the Fourth of July of all days.