Gone Bad (2 page)

“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 boots, 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?”

“Me.”

“Rendezvous times all in hand?”

“All set. Rest up. We leave as soon as it gets dark.”

FOUR

Meyerstein dropped off Jon Reznick on the fifth floor of the FBI’s DC HQ and headed up to the seventh floor. Just like the fifth, but highly secure. She could see the cameras watching him. The door said “Director.” She knocked twice, not too loud.

“It’s open.”

Meyerstein walked in and he pointed to a seat the other side of his desk.

“You look terrible. You okay?”

Meyerstein sat down and shifted in her seat. She couldn’t abide small talk about how people look, especially her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

O’Donoghue sighed and steepled his fingers. “Martha, I’m sorry I have to raise this again, but we have a problem.”

“I’m well aware of that, sir. Joint terrorism team already assembled.”

“I mean Jon Reznick.”

Meyerstein said nothing.

“What is it with you and him?”

Meyerstein felt herself flush. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“This will be the fourth time you’ve included him in a major investigation. And, yes, while the results speak for themselves, there are murmurings.”

“What kind of murmurings?”

“They say he’s getting into the heart of the FBI, and they don’t know anything about him. They feel uneasy. Is he linked to the CIA? That’s all they want to know.”

“And who exactly is
they
, sir?”

O’Donoghue picked up a piece of paper from his desk. He paused with it in his hand for a few moments before he handed it to her. “Read.”

Meyerstein saw the Department of Homeland Security seal. A personal letter from the director, dated six weeks earlier, outlining his “continuing concerns” over the legality and ethics of deploying Reznick in an “unspecified role” within “highly sensitive FBI investigations.” Her stomach tightened. He wanted Reznick out and Meyerstein “relieved of her duties.” She felt her heart rate quicken. “And you’ve been sitting on this for six weeks?”

O’Donoghue said nothing.

Meyerstein took a few moments to compose herself. She thought of her senior position within the FBI. And how she’d worked herself to the bone for years, pursuing investigations. She knew her health was suffering. She wondered, yet again, if it was all worth it. “Sir, do you think I do a good job?”

O’Donoghue sighed. “I think you do a great job.”

“So?”

“So … Look, Martha, sometimes it all comes down to politics.”

“Sir, I don’t give a damn about politics, internal struggles within an organization, all that bullshit. I’m committed to my family, like we all are. But I’m focussed on the work. Keeping our country safe. I won’t let anything get in the way of that.”

“Martha, doing nothing is not an option. Homeland Security needs this issue addressed.”

“And what exactly do you propose?”

“I want you to do your job, but without Reznick on the team.”

“Listen to me, sir. On this particular case, more than ever, I believe Jon Reznick is the perfect fit for my team. He knows Hunter Cain.”

“How?”

“Delta.”

O’Donoghue sighed long and hard. He looked at Meyerstein with a withering gaze.

“What?”

“Martha, there are murmurings within the FBI about Reznick’s role. It’s bothering people. There’s talk about your relationship with him.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Hang on – people think you and him might be an item. Heart ruling head. They say it’s unprofessional.”

“Now listen here, my relationship with Jon Reznick is strictly professional. Strictly.”

“Your personal life, family, all that, of course it’s your private concern. But when it crosses over into work, no one likes it.”

“Do you think I’m having some sort of relationship with him?”

O’Donoghue shifted in his seat.

“Is that it?” She raised her eyebrows.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s true he’s been part of my most pivotal investigations, but each and every time he’s been inscrutable. His instincts, his critical thinking … phenomenal.”

“Do you like him?”

“What does that mean?”

“Do you like him?”

“Yes, I like him. A lot. But I also admire him.”

“I believe he lost his wife in 9/11.”

Meyerstein felt her throat tighten. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Have you ever seen the CIA file on Reznick?”

“No.”

“Makes interesting reading.”

“How so?”

“Martha, this guy is … he’s out there.”

“You want to explain how he’s
out there
?”

“There was an investigation after an incident in Iraq. His unit was training members of the Iraqi army, and some Ba’athist sleeper opened fire on two of his Delta colleagues.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“There’s more.”

Meyerstein shrugged.

“Reznick killed the guy with one headshot.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“The Afghan had already been overpowered and he was in handcuffs. It’s a war crime.”

Meyerstein said nothing.

“The Afghan had a brother. Reznick put a gun to his head till he was told who gave the orders.”

“Jon Reznick is an honorable soldier and a fine man.”

“Putting a gun to a defenseless man’s head is not what we’re about.”

“Sometimes we need people like Jon Reznick. I wasn’t there. Neither were you. We don’t know what it was like.”

“Martha, okay, here’s what I’m going to do. I hear what you’re saying. And I get that. But I need a commitment from you that this issue will be addressed as a matter of urgency.”

“I can give that, but not just now. I have work to do.”

“I’m going to write to Homeland Security and suggest you head across there to speak with them direct. How does that sound? It’s the best I can do.”

“Fine.”

Meyerstein got to her feet. “Anything else, sir?”

“Be careful. And keep an eye on Reznick.”

Meyerstein said nothing.

“I don’t like the sound of this case. Red flags all over the place.”

FIVE

Reznick took some more coffee as he sat around an oval table on the fifth floor of the FBI’s Washington headquarters along with the rest of Meyerstein’s hand-picked team. He’d been introduced to a plethora of counter-terrorism specialists from US intelligence agencies. CIA, Homeland Security, NSA. Plus federal police and a US marshal. And FBI profiler and behavioral analyst Michael Malone.

When Meyerstein walked in and sat down, she arranged a pile of papers, briefing documents and her iPad in front of her. There was a huge screen on the wall. She picked up a remote control and pointed it at the screen. It flashed up a picture of Cain taken inside Leavenworth US Penitentiary, Kansas. The eyes hooded. Cold, dead blue.

Reznick stared long and hard at the picture as the memories flooded back.

“People don’t usually escape from Leavenworth,” Meyerstein said. “I know it, you know it, and I’m sure most of the prison population of America knows it. But this man, Hunter Cain, managed that feat. Quite something. Quite, quite something.”

A few nods as others scribbled down notes.

Reznick had showered in her office beforehand and freshened up with a new set of clothes. He gulped some more black coffee as his system was roused from the previous night’s booze. He’d also popped a Dexedrine, which did the trick. His senses were finally switching on.

Meyerstein stared at the screen. “What do we know about this guy? Caucasian male, forty-one years old, spent nearly a decade inside after being given a twenty-year stretch for terrorism offences. He was raised in Florida, but we can’t assume he’ll return there. He’s highly dangerous. Propensity for extreme violence.”

A man in a gray suit cleared his throat. “Assistant Director, James Harrison, Central Intelligence Agency. I think it is important at the outset that I put my cards on the table.”

Meyerstein shrugged. “Sure.”

“We have a record of Hunter Cain working overseas briefly as a security contractor in Baghdad.”

“For?”

“Gemini Solutions. Based out of Atlanta.”

“We haven’t got that. Why hasn’t that been passed on?”

Harrison shifted in his seat. “It’s the Agency. You know how it is.”

“No, I don’t know how it is, James. What the hell is the point if we don’t share information?”

“There’s a feeling that if we have an asset …”

Meyerstein stared at him. “I’m sorry, an asset? You’re saying Cain is one of your guys?”

Harrison leaned back in his seat. He looked uneasy. “He was known to us. He was a point of contact within that firm.”

“Point of contact?”

“He was passing on intelligence.”

“Go on.”

“He worked alongside Shia paramilitaries at one time; we wanted to know what was happening. His crew tagged along with them in the early days of the liberation, but gradually he started feeding us information on these guys. Where they were based. Their alliances. Where they hung out. And from there, we got an entry into Shia politicians. We were able to work with them, identifying Ba’athists, you know the stuff.”

“When did Cain leave Gemini?”

“Late 2006.”

“Then he went home?”

“Pretty poor mental state. Some described him as clean gone.”

“Did he get help?”

“He dropped off our radar.”

“I see. And then …”

“And then, he apparently formed this militia.”

“Did you know about them? Did you try and make contact with him?”

“I don’t know what happened.”

Meyerstein folded her arms. “So we’ve got this disturbed, highly trained killing machine who’s been brutalized in Iraq?”

Harrison nodded.

Meyerstein’s gaze wandered round the table. “Jon Reznick, who some of you will already know, was in Delta Force. He actually knows Cain from their time together.” She looked across at Reznick. “First, we need to track him down. But assuming we do, give me some more about this guy.”

Reznick leaned back in his seat, all eyes on him. “Hunter Cain, like all Delta operators, is very self-contained. He can happily work alone, or in a team. Phenomenally fit, as you’d expect. But what set him apart was his intelligence. High critical-thinking skills. Comfortable with high-pressure situations, again like all Delta. Most interesting facet? Sadist. Enjoyed killing. So much so that he once cut off the fingers of a Taliban prisoner as a keepsake. Big one for trophies.”