Gone Bad Read online

  GONE BAD

  A Jon Reznick Novella

  J.B. TURNER

  Published by J.B. Turner

  Copyright © J.B. Turner, 2015

  Cover Design Stuart Bache

  e-book formatting by Guido Henkel

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of events to real life, or of characters to actual persons, is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.

  To Susan

  Interested in a free book?

  Find out how to get your free copy of J. B. Turner’s crime thriller DARK WATERS - the follow-up to Miami Requiem - at the end of this book.

  The car crossed the state line just after midnight.

  Hunter Cain shifted in the passenger seat as he dragged hard on a cigarette. He stared out as the headlights pierced the dark Florida highway.

  “How long till we hit the diner?” he asked.

  The driver cleared his throat. “Twenty minutes.”

  Cain stared straight. “You wanna step on it?”

  The driver nodded.

  The miles flew by. He counted down the minutes in his head. The more he thought of what lay ahead, the crazier he felt.

  The neon-lit diner came into view and the driver pulled up beside a Chevy pick-up. They went inside and sat down in a corner booth.

  Cain looked around. A couple of grizzly trucker types, an old man reading a paper at the counter, country music in the background. The waitress approached and smiled. “Hi guys. What can I get you?”

  Cain ordered scrambled eggs, toast, black coffee and pancakes. The driver ordered hash browns and strong coffee. The waitress smiled. He waited a few moments till she was out of earshot. “I appreciate your help with this, bro.”

  The driver smiled. “Forget it.”

  A few minutes later the waitress returned with their order. “Here you go, guys.”

  Cain ate his food. It was the best food he’d tasted in more than eight long years. He waited till the waitress left them alone. “Are they expecting me?”

  “Oh yeah.” The driver grinned as he ate his hash browns.

  Cain’s gaze wandered round the diner for a few moments. He finished his food as the place slowly emptied. It wasn’t long till it was just Cain, the driver, a waitress and the black short-order cook he could see in the back.

  “Feeling better?” the driver asked.

  Cain nodded.

  The driver used his tongue to prize some food out from between his front teeth. He got to his feet and cocked his head in the direction of the bathroom. “Gonna take a leak before we head off. Be a minute.”

  Cain said nothing. He watched the driver head through the swing doors to the bathroom. Took a few moments to compose himself. Felt the plans were coming together. In fact, felt crazier than he had for a long, long time. He took a deep breath and headed to the bathroom.

  Pushed open the doors and went inside. No one in the stalls.

  The driver stood at the urinal and turned round. “Last stop till we get you out of sight.”

  Cain walked toward the man. He pulled a knife out of his back pocket and thrust it hard into the driver’s carotid artery. He collapsed in a pool of blood, gurgling for life.

  Cain kneeled down. Liked what he saw. The man’s eyes were filled with tears as he bled out on the tile floor. “Nothing personal, bro. Just the way it is.”

  Then he stabbed the driver through the heart. Again and again.

  ONE

  Late in a near-deserted New York dive bar. Jon Reznick was listening to a job offer as he drank draft beer out of a Styrofoam cup. His friend and old Delta buddy, Brad Jameson, leaned in close as they sat on stools at Jeremy’s Ale House, a few blocks from Wall Street.

  “You need to think about this, man,” Jameson said. “It’s right up your street.”

  Reznick glanced at his watch and sighed. Had to catch an early flight from JFK.

  “Jon, I’m telling you,” – Jameson was leaning in close – “guy like you’ll make a goddamn fortune in the Middle East.”

  Reznick zoned out as he stole a glance at the rerun of a Giants game on the TV. Gulped the rest of his beer.

  “Purely advisory role … high six-figure sum for eighteen months’ work.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?”

  Reznick grabbed another cold beer and leaned on the bar. “I’ve kinda moved away from that sort of stuff, Brad. It’s not really what I do.”

  “Here’s where I’m at, Jon. Three clients are asking for the same thing.”

  “Foreign governments, you mean.”

  “Sort of … in a roundabout way.”

  “So I’d be discussing strategies with these foreign-government advisers?”

  Jameson leaned in close. “High six figures, man. Year and a half and you’re home and dry. And here’s the thing – my firm has some pretty kick-ass financial accountants who take care of our business. We work it so you pay zero tax.”

  Reznick nodded. The money Jameson was talking about was very tempting. But he knew it meant being based overseas, undoubtedly in some shithole like Riyadh.

  Jameson leaned in closer. “I’ll arrange it so we get you a phenomenal apartment, gated community, pool, and I absolutely fucking guarantee … absolutely fucking guarantee that you get a crazy generous expense account. I don’t think I’d be lying to say you’d clear a million bucks, all in, for one stint. You won’t have to spend a dime. And you get the money transferred to whatever account in whatever country you want.”

  “Tell me some more about this client. This government.”

  Jameson cleared his throat and leaned in close. “Qatar. They’re getting a helluva reputation.”

  “Too hot.”

  Jameson closed his eyes and gulped some beer. “Are you fucking kidding, Jon? Too hot? Man, you’ve been in Somalia. Now that was fucking hot, right?”

  Reznick glanced up at the TV showing a slow-motion touchdown replay.

  “You wanna know who’ll be with you?”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  “We got six SAS signed up, four Delta …”

  “Who?”

  “You won’t know them. Left in the last year. After us. But I’ve checked them out. Top-drawer, man. Keen. Young.”

  “That’s ten. Eleven if you count me.”

  “Three ex-Navy SEALs.”

  “Fourteen. That it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Reznick glugged the rest of his beer. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Jon, I need you there, man. My eyes and ears.”

  “Said I’ll think about it.”

  Jameson grinned and put his business card in Reznick’s pocket. “I live three blocks from here. You wanna talk about this later today, before you head home, or if you’ve got any queries, don’t hesitate to call, you hear me?”

  Reznick said nothing.

  “Hey, you wanna crash at my place? Angela won’t mind.”

  “I’ve already booked into a place off Times Square.”

  Jameson showed his hands. “Hey, just a suggestion. Don’t want to cramp your style …”

  Reznick said nothing.

  “Jon, look, I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch.”

  “Forget it.”


  “You know how it is. You get involved in stuff, before you know it, it’s like, where the fuck has the time gone.”

  Reznick smiled. “Tell me about it.”

  Jameson stared at him long and hard. “You’re miles away, man.”

  “Been a long day. Flight down from Maine and all that. Got an early start.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Reznick saw two guys enter the bar. Dark suits, white shirts and tight-knotted ties. He recognized them immediately. One was speaking into a cellphone, both looking in his direction.

  Reznick said, “Two interesting characters at the door.”

  Jameson glanced sideways. “Hedge fund kids from Wall Street?”

  Reznick shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

  Jameson stole another sideways glance. “I see what you mean. Interesting.”

  The two men were walking up to Reznick and his friend.

  Jameson said, “Think we’re gonna have company.”

  Reznick said nothing.

  The two men looked at Reznick. The taller one, behind, stared down at him. “We need you to come with us, sir.”

  Jameson turned round and snarled. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Reznick held up his hand to quieten his former Delta colleague. “No problem. I know these guys.”

  Jameson said, “You sure?”

  Reznick nodded. “I got your card, Brad. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Jon, are you okay there?”

  Reznick shrugged and got off his stool. “What do you think?”

  Jameson grinned and lifted his bottle of beer. “Catch you round, Jon. And phone, goddamit.” He stepped forward and hugged Reznick. “I love you, man. This is a serious offer. Think about it.”

  “I will.” Reznick extricated himself from Jameson’s bear-like grip and followed the two men out into the steamy New York air. Parked right outside was a black SUV.

  The back door opened. FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein stared out.

  “Sorry to cut your night short, Jon. We got a problem.”

  TWO

  The car pulled away and headed along FDR Drive toward uptown Manhattan.

  Meyerstein turned and looked at Reznick. “You smell like a goddamn brewery.”

  Reznick stared straight ahead. “You wanna cut to the chase?”

  Meyerstein sighed. “We hope you can help us.”

  “I don’t know … I’m considering heading overseas for a while.”

  “So I believe.”

  Reznick smiled. “Roving bug, huh?” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows. She knew what he meant. Listening in to cellphone conversations.

  “I couldn’t possibly comment.” Just a hint of irony in her voice.

  “I’m serious. I’ve got a big offer to think over. And I’ve got to give an answer in the next twenty-four hours.”

  Meyerstein sighed. “I see.”

  Reznick shifted in his seat as they sped on. “Where we going? Got a room at the Hilton, Times Square. Need to pick up my gear.”

  “We’ll get that sent on.”

  Reznick ran a hand through his damp hair. “You got some water?” The driver passed back a bottle of chilled water and Reznick gulped it down.

  Meyerstein said, “Like I said, we got a problem. And we’re on the clock ourselves.”

  “So where we headed? Don’t know if I’m too keen signing up to a little FBI investigation without knowing more.”

  The car ran over a pothole and jolted them in their seats.

  “A situation’s emerging.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  “Anti-government militia leader escaped from a maximum-security prison.”

  Reznick said nothing.

  “I know, it doesn’t sound good, but it happened. And we’ve got intelligence saying there may be a reason for the escape. Pre-planned.”

  “You mean he got out with inside help, and is planning to carry out some sort of terrorist attack, right?”

  “Pretty much in one, yeah.”

  “So how did he escape?”

  “Pulled a toilet from a cell wall and got through a vent in a maintenance tunnel.”

  “As you do.”

  Meyerstein rolled her eyes. “Jon, I could do without the sarcasm. I’ve had it up to here.”

  Reznick blew out his cheeks. “What have we got on this guy?”

  “He’s served eight of a twenty-year sentence for planning terrorism. Heads up a Florida militia. Highly trained, highly organized and ruthless. Rumored to have killed bikers, Aryan Brotherhood, blacks, anyone who crosses him. Organizes his militia along paramilitary lines. Divided into cells. Take down one, but you can’t take them all. Highly intelligent. Killed a guard last year for, in his words, looking at me funny.”

  “So how do you need my help? Sounds like a simple matter – track him down, take him back.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “How?”

  “Here’s the thing, Jon.”

  “What?”

  “You might know him.”

  Reznick felt his stomach knot. “You mind explaining?”

  Meyerstein opened her briefcase and passed him a black-and-white photo.

  Reznick stared at it. He recognized the man in the picture. Slightly puffier than he remembered.

  “You know him, don’t you?”

  “You know full well I do.”

  Meyerstein pulled out another photo and passed it over. In color, a bit faded, showing Reznick and the same man in Baghdad. “He’s ex-Delta too, isn’t he?”

  Reznick stared long and hard at the picture.

  “He poses a considerable danger to the American public till he’s caught.”

  “And he heads up a militia?”

  “Amongst other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Numerous analysts are working on this as we speak.”

  “You wanna cut the shit, Meyerstein? What’s he planning? What do you know?”

  “Timothy McVeigh … ring a bell?”

  “Course. Oklahoma bomber. Blew up the Federal Building, right?”

  “Cain worshipped him. Had a picture up on his cell wall.”

  Reznick looked out of the window and shook his head. “Fuck.”

  “Bottom line? This former Delta operator’s planning to carry out a terrorist attack. Large-scale.”

  “Got any details?”

  “Analysis shows it’ll be here on American soil, against American citizens. And before you ask, that’s all we know.”

  THREE

  Hunter Cain saw the farmhouse lights up ahead; no power lines for miles. He pressed on down the dirt road as the headlights lit up his path. Ahead he saw the owner, silhouetted on his front porch, carrying a shotgun and flashlight. The old man used the beam of the light to guide Cain to a huge open barn.

  Cain drove inside and pulled up beside a 50s Buick. He switched off the ignition and slid the keys under the seat. Then he got out, hauled a tarpaulin over his car and headed into the house.

  The old man patted him on the back. “You’ll be safe here.”

  Cain nodded. “Need a shower and a fresh set of clothes.”

  “All in your room. Anything else?”

  “You gotta burn my clothes.”

  “No problem. Leave them in the basket outside your room.”

  “What time you up?”

  “Four.”

  “You wanna wake me then?”

  “Okay.”

  Cain hugged the old man tight. He felt strangely elated. “Great to breathe fresh air again.”

  “No one’ll catch you here, I promise.”

  Cain went upstairs, showered and got into his bed. His mind raced as he stared up at the ceiling fan, his thoughts making sleep impossible.

  At 4.03 the old man shook Cain from his sleep. He put on khaki tee shirt, combat trousers, black bo
ots, and headed downstairs. A radio played classical music softly in the background.

  The old man served him a bowl of porridge, scrambled eggs and toast, freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee. They sat silently. No need for small talk.

  The old man left the table and returned a few minutes later with a backpack.

  “What’ve we got here?” Cain asked.

  “New ID papers, fake passport, and ten thousand dollars in cash for living costs.”

  Cain nodded. Smart. No credit cards. “What else?”

  “Just what I was told to get you. Two 9mm Glocks, foldaway sniper rifle, knives, ammo, maps, layout. It’s all there.”

  “Good man.”

  When the first shards of sunlight peeked over the horizon, the old man drove Cain nearly a mile down a back road to a clearing in the woods. It was a makeshift shooting range. The targets were life-size mannequins. More than two hundred yards away. He pulled the rifle from the backpack confidently. Had it locked and loaded in seconds.

  Cain shot each and every target. It didn’t take long for him to get his range again. The old man watched, silent again, face impassive. He saw Cain shoot the plastic heads to pieces and leave the mannequins headless. He hadn’t shot a gun in years. But his training all those years ago kicked in. It was like he hadn’t been away.

  The old man drove Cain back to the house and showed him to a basement gym. He worked out for two solid hours. Lifting weights, skipping, using the punching bag, doing hundreds of press-ups and sit-ups till he was bathed in sweat.

  He went outside. The old man handed him a bottle of chilled water.

  Cain gulped it down and sat on the porch.

  “You might want to get some sleep for the rest of the day.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re on the move once it gets dark.”

  “Pensacola?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where?”

  “Ormond Beach.”

  “Why the change?”

  “We want to do this right. They think Pensacola’s … too close to home.”

  Cain nodded. He saw the logic. “Who’s taking me?”