Hard Shot (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  Lauren felt herself being lifted up and onto a gurney. She turned and her father’s face was touching hers. “Is it over, Dad?”

  “It’s all over. You’re safe now.”

  Epilogue

  Three months later, Jon Reznick was sitting beside his daughter, patiently waiting in a private room on the fourteenth floor of 1 Police Plaza in lower Manhattan, headquarters of the NYPD. The autumn sky outside was a pale blue. He wore a navy suit, white shirt, black Oxford shoes polished to a deep shine, black tie. He looked at his daughter, demure, wearing a navy dress and her late mother’s pearl earrings. She had been in therapy since her ordeal at O’Keefe’s hands. But she was slowly getting back to the confident young woman she’d been before the terrible series of events on July 4.

  The days following her kidnapping had been particularly tough for Lauren—more so, he thought, than after she’d been in a coma and nearly died. She’d headed back to Rockland and begun her recuperation. She walked and walked with Reznick, the sea a constant companion. The familiar salty air refreshing and energizing her. It was far from the hectic streets of New York City. But every night it was the same: Lauren awoke in a cold sweat, screaming, suffering flashbacks and nightmares.

  Reznick knew a former army psychologist who specialized in PTSD, and put Lauren in touch with him. The psychologist began to talk with her. She opened up. She talked about the incident. He listened, and gradually, she developed coping mechanisms to deal with the flashbacks.

  Lauren began to meditate and did yoga. Slowly she began to heal. It was a long-term project. But at least she was alive, and she was moving in the right direction. She seemed calmer and was even starting to want to talk to Reznick about her ordeal.

  The psychologist recommended she attend therapy in Vermont after returning to college in the fall.

  Reznick leaned over and held her hand. “Your mother would have been very proud of what you did.”

  Lauren sighed. “I hope so.”

  “I know so.”

  Lauren cleared her throat and gazed at the floor, lost in her thoughts of that long summer day.

  “I always meant to ask,” he said, “and don’t answer if you don’t want to . . .”

  “What?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t ask, I’m sorry. I know you’ve moved on.”

  “No, ask me, Dad. My therapist says it’s an important part of my rehabilitation to talk openly about it all.”

  “How did you feel in those minutes, trapped in that car with that crazy bastard, knowing he could kill you whenever he wanted?”

  “How did I feel? I felt alone. No one there to help me. And I was scared.” She looked at him and smiled. “Dad, you couldn’t have done any more on that day.”

  “I could’ve been with you. I should’ve stayed with you instead of going after the first two snipers. And this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Other people needed you. Besides, it happened for a reason, I think. It’s made me look at my life differently. What I want from it.”

  Reznick smiled back at her.

  “You know when I was in the car with him? I thought about what you always said. About working the problem. Trying to figure it out.”

  “Did you consider all your options?”

  “I guess.”

  “Bet that included considering whether you should jump out of the car or not.”

  Lauren nodded. “Yes, it did. But I figured I would end up dead or seriously messed up.”

  Reznick nodded and smiled. “You’re absolutely right.”

  “I tried to weigh it out. But there were no good choices.”

  “Smart girl. What you did was some serious critical thinking.”

  Lauren blushed the way her mother had when embarrassed. “I don’t know about that.”

  “You figured you would have a better chance of staying alive by staying put in the car. Waiting for the right moment.”

  “Correct.”

  “But you also got the gun. The spare gun. That was smart. Killer smart.”

  “I got lucky.”

  “What do I always say, Lauren? Sometimes, you make your own luck. You were looking for something to take the guy down with. And you found it.”

  “What would you have done differently, Dad?”

  Reznick sighed. “Hard to say. I probably would have found a way to grab the gun he was holding, twist it out of his hands, and disarm him. But that’s easier said than done. O’Keefe was strong, drugged up, right?”

  “Yes, he was. I didn’t stand a chance.”

  Reznick felt his throat tighten as he thought again of Lauren at the mercy of that maniac. “You nailed him. Good and proper.”

  “Would Mom have done the same in those circumstances?”

  Reznick smiled. “Your mother, God rest her soul, would have done exactly what you did. Except for one small point, I think.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “She would’ve emptied the whole magazine clip into him.”

  Lauren burst out laughing.

  “I’m not joking. She was a very determined, smart, and tough woman. And you’re just like her.”

  “There is one way I’m not like her.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I don’t want to be a lawyer.”

  “Fair enough. So, you had the internship experience in publishing. Is that where you’re headed?”

  Lauren shook her head. “No.”

  “Really? Thought that was where your future lay.”

  “It was. Things changed.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been seeking out some professional career advice.”

  Reznick nodded, impressed.

  “And I’ve also asked her if I can let you know . . .”

  “Her? Let me know what?”

  “Let you know that I’ve been taking advice from Assistant Director Meyerstein.”

  Reznick looked at his daughter, struggling to take it in. “Since when?”

  “Just the last few weeks. She had my number. I had hers. And I reached out to her.”

  “You did?”

  Lauren nodded. “She’s smart. She went to Duke. And I was thinking, maybe the FBI would suit me better.”

  “You’re thinking of joining the FBI?”

  “Yeah, I am. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Reznick took a few moments for the news to sink in. He shrugged. “If that’s what you want, Lauren, I fully support you. The only advice I would give you is to do what you want. If that’s the route you want to take, then that’s the route you’ve got to take. Do it.”

  “I’ve already inquired about the Collegiate Hiring Initiative for when I’m finished at Bennington.”

  Reznick smiled and hugged her tight. “You’re sure not wasting any time.”

  “I’m hoping the assistant director is going to be my mentor.”

  “Your mentor? I guess you’ve got it all figured out.”

  Lauren blushed again. “We’ll see.”

  A few moments later, Meyerstein herself entered the room. She wore a navy suit, a pale-pink blouse, and pointed navy shoes. She smiled at them both. “I think they’re waiting for the Reznicks.”

  Reznick turned to look at Lauren. “You ready?”

  “I got this, Dad.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  They followed Meyerstein out of the small waiting room, down a long corridor, and into the huge fourteenth-floor office of NYPD police commissioner Jimmy Mulroy.

  Standing beside Commissioner Mulroy were the governor of New York and the mayor of New York City. Each took their turn to shake Reznick’s and his daughter’s hands and give a word of thanks and appreciation.

  The governor then took a few minutes to recall the “terrible” events that had unfolded in July.

  Reznick and Lauren stood in front of them, listening intently. They were both presented with New York’s highest civilian award for exceptional citizenship and outstanding achievement, the Bronze Me
dallion.

  The governor pinned the medal on Reznick. “I feel very humbled, Mr. Reznick. What you did, single-handed, that day was above and beyond any bravery I’ve read about.”

  “I did what I could, sir, that’s all.”

  “Thank God you did.”

  The commissioner stepped forward and spoke in reverential tones to Reznick, thanking him profusely. The mayor took a few minutes to chat with him as if they were old friends.

  Reznick soaked up the bullshit, feeling distinctly uncomfortable at all the praise. It wasn’t his style.

  When he had gotten the invitation, his first instinct had been to turn it down. He wasn’t a fan of ceremonies and formalities. He was an under-the-radar kind of guy who liked to sidestep that kind of thing. But on reflection, he knew that it was both disrespectful to the people of New York, in whose name the medal was given, and to the families of the fallen officers, if he didn’t turn up. But what he did ask was for the ceremony to be strictly private—no media, no photographs, no PR. And his request had been granted.

  The governor pinned the medal on Lauren and shook her hand. “Young lady, it takes some guts to do what you did. We’re all so proud of you. But perhaps more than anything, your heroic attempts to save Officer Bryce on West Forty-Third Street, when everyone else was running for cover amid the shootings and carnage, were exemplary.”

  Lauren gave a polite nod. “Thank you, sir.”

  The commissioner stepped forward and shook her hand. “Great job, Miss Reznick.”

  Lauren again gave a polite nod. “Thank you, sir.”

  Finally, the mayor said, “There is someone else who wants to say thank you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  The office door opened.

  NYPD officer Fergus Bryce entered in a wheelchair, resplendent in a smart navy police uniform, his wife by his side. They were flanked by four beautiful kids.

  Bryce looked up at Lauren and shook her hand. “You saved my life, Miss Reznick. I owe you so much. I owe you everything. So does my family. We’re truly blessed.”

  Lauren blinked away the tears as his wife stepped forward and hugged her tight before the children did too.

  Reznick stood and watched, heart swelling with pride. The commissioner bowed his head and said a prayer.

  When the prayer was finished, Reznick turned around. Standing at the far side of the office was Martha Meyerstein, head held high, smiling back at him.

  Reznick walked over to her. “Helluva day.”

  “Indeed. I’m very glad you decided to come, Jon. I had this idea that you would scrunch up the invite and throw it into Penobscot Bay, just like you did when you got the invite to the White House.”

  “This is different.”

  “You could have opted out. I would’ve understood.”

  “What? And miss meeting the governor, the commissioner, and the mayor at the same time? Are you kidding me?”

  Meyerstein shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I’m glad you got this recognition.”

  “I’m glad my daughter’s alive. And I’m glad you’re helping her. She told me all about it. That makes me happy.”

  Meyerstein sighed and gave a nervous smile. “She’s very bright.”

  “Good shot too.”

  “Yes, and a helluva good shot too. Jon, I’ve got some news for you.”

  Reznick shrugged. “What kind of news?”

  “About the report from our SWAT team leader in New York.”

  “It had crossed my mind.”

  “You can rest easy. The report didn’t mention what you did in Gowanus. Not a word.”

  Reznick nodded, relieved after having the threat of an FBI investigation hanging over him. “How long have you known?”

  “A little while. Wanted to tell you face-to-face. The guy did you a serious favor. You might want to buy him a drink if you ever see him again.”

  “Did you have anything to do with his decision?”

  “I couldn’t possibly comment.”

  “I crossed the line. I know that.”

  “What’s done is done.”

  Reznick cleared his throat. “I was wondering . . .”

  “Wondering . . . wondering about what?”

  “Wondering whether you want to go for a drink? That is, if you don’t have to fly back down to DC.”

  “You got anywhere in mind?”

  “Lauren mentioned a rooftop bar in the East Village. I was going to take her there for a treat.”

  “A rooftop bar? You don’t strike me as a rooftop bar kind of guy.”

  “I’m not. But it’s a beautiful autumn day in New York, and the bar’s got great views, apparently. What do you say? Would you like to join us?”

  Meyerstein looked over at Lauren, then back at Reznick. “Count me in, tough guy.”

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my editor, Jack Butler, and everyone at Amazon Publishing for their enthusiasm, hard work, and belief in the Jon Reznick thriller series. I would also like to thank my loyal readers. Thanks also to Faith Black Ross for her terrific work on this book and to Caitlin Alexander in New York, who looked over an early draft.

  Last but by no means least, thank you to my family and friends for their encouragement and support. None more so than my wife, Susan.

  About the Author

  Photo © 2013 John Need

  J. B. Turner is a former journalist and the author of the Jon Reznick series of action thrillers (Hard Road, Hard Kill, Hard Wired, Hard Way, Hard Fall, and Hard Hit), the American Ghost series of black-ops thrillers (Rogue, Reckoning, and Requiem), and the Deborah Jones political thrillers (Miami Requiem and Dark Waters). He has a keen interest in geopolitics. He lives in Scotland with his wife and two children.