Hard Road (43 page)

He wondered if this was to change his appearance again. But he also knew the bio-material would definitely be on his person, leaving the bag behind.

Above him scuffed footsteps and urgent breathing as Caan climbed the stairs.

A surge of raw adrenaline shot through Reznick's veins. He ignored the terrible pain in his shoulder and bounded up the concrete steps two at a time knowing he was a sitting duck. But he had to catch the bastard.

Suck it up.

That's what Reznick told himself during the Delta selection process as he hit mental and physical walls. Suck it up. Enjoy the misery. It will not beat you. Nothing will ever beat you. Ever. He thought of his father wearing his medals at the Vietnam Memorial. Then he thought of Lauren in her hospital bed. But then he thought of his wife, the split second before the tower collapsed. He imagined the horror and fear that must have engulfed her as she disappeared into the dust and the concrete and twisted metal.

He had to do this. He would do this. And he would catch that fuck for all of them.

The adrenaline continued to surge through his body giving him huge amounts of energy. He heard the sound of a metal hatch creaking open. Some artificial light from the street leaked in, and the roar of traffic and peeping horns.

Reznick's stomach knotted as he climbed higher and higher and then emerged blinking onto a busy Arlington street. He was on a sidewalk. The sound of police sirens in the distance. He scanned his unfamiliar surroundings trying to get a fix on the target. The monolithic monstrosity that was the Pentagon loomed in the distance. But then he got a visual on a running figure in the distance. He was wearing a navy blue windbreaker with yellow lettering on the back.

He ran across the road as cars screeched to a halt and peeped their horns as he headed towards the Pentagon. “Hey buddy, you wanna look where you're goin'?”

Reznick kept focused on the distant figure. Through an underpass and across another road. He saw a sign for South Fern Street and then a sign for the Pentagon Metro. He was gaining ground.

Reznick saw a sign for South Rotary Road and ran towards hundreds of people milling around, police cars and FBI vehicles, red lights flashing. He saw a cordon and realised the Metro station had been evacuated.

Then he spotted Caan and what looked like an ID tag dangling from his neck. Reznick fixed his gaze on the jacket as he disappeared into the crowd. The last thing he saw was that his jacket had emblazoned on his back,
FBI
in yellow letters.

A cold finger of fear ran down Reznick's back as he ran towards the crowd staying focused as Caan made his way through the crowd.

Reznick barged through the crowds who parted, some shouting and yelling, until he came face to face with two huge cops who were standing behind some yellow police tape.

“Freeze, police!” one shouted.

Reznick put up his hands as he slowed down and walked toward the cop. He saw Caan head into the station.

“Easy, fella, keep your hands where I can see them?”

Anger gnawed in Reznick's guts. The bastard was getting away.

Reznick put out his hands as if the officer should cuff him. The cop obligingly pulled out his cuffs from his belt and Reznick kicked the gun out of his hands. Then he smashed him in the side of the face, knocking the cop out cold. The other cop went clumsily for his gun. Reznick moved quicker and kicked the cop in the guts. He fell to his knees and the gun fell from his hands.

He burst through the tape and down into the Metro. He headed down some stairs and then an escalator before he caught sight of Caan running past some automated ticket machines to the Pentagon screening area. Heavily armed Pentagon police with dogs blocked the way.

A shot of adrenaline coursed through his body one more time as one of the cops took aim and fired at him. The bullet whizzed past his head and ricocheted off some metal.

He sprinted down one escalator and then ran up another. Then another escalator.

Caan was on it. Then he was gone.

Then he caught sight of Caan running towards an escalator.

Reznick closed in.

At the bottom, Caan turned round and his black eyes met Reznick's. The face was puffy, the nose broken, cheekbones high.
It was him
. He grinned and unzipped his jacket.

Reznick didn't hesitate. He pointed the Beretta straight at Caan's forehead and aimed. Then squeezed the trigger twice. The shots rang out and echoed round the station. Caan collapsed as blood streamed from the side of his head.

Reznick ran down the escalator, gun trained on Caan. He stepped over the body and then kneeled down beside him. Pressing his index finger to his neck he felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

Then he opened up Caan's jacket and ripped open a huge inside Velcro pocket. Inside were two white Christmas baubles with a glitter pattern.

Reznick carefully closed the jacket and was about to stand up when a voice behind him shouted, “Don't fucking move. FBI SWAT.”

Reznick froze.

“Drop the gun!”

Reznick loosened his grip and dropped the gun, making a heavy clunking sound as it hit the escalator.

“Turn around and take three steps backwards onto the concourse, hands on head.”

Reznick turned around, put his hands on his head and took three steps back. “Don't touch the Christmas baubles in his pocket, whatever you do! Look, I'm on your side. I've just taken this guy out. He was the target. Speak to Meyerstein of the FBI.”

“Shut the fuck up and listen. I want you to strip off. Top, jeans, shoes, socks. Right down to your undies.”

Reznick complied, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder. He stood in his boxer shorts, hands on head, blood dripping onto the stone concourse.

“Now slowly, turn around.”

He complied and stared straight at them. They stood, guns pointing at him, their gaze locked onto his muscled torso and the red Delta dagger tattooed on his chest.

“Very slowly, very slowly, take three steps towards us and then kneel down, with your hands still on your head.”

Reznick walked towards them and kneeled, hands on head. “Listen to me,” he said, “do not move that guy on the ground. Do not touch the Christmas baubles, do you hear me?” He could feel himself slipping away. He fought to remain conscious. Then he looked up at the lead SWAT guy. He saw Meyerstein appear from behind. She smiled and walked towards him.

Reznick smiled back. “What the hell took you so long?”

Then everything turned black.

FORTY-ONE

The hours that followed were a bit of a blur as Reznick lapsed in and out of consciousness. He felt cold and was losing blood fast as he was rushed to the emergency room of The George Washington Hospital. The voices of the paramedics and then the doctors and nurses echoed in his head as if in dream. His every breath induced searing pain in his shoulder wound.

“Goddamn,” he snarled.

Harsh hospital lights. Blurred faces staring down at him.

He felt himself drift away. Deeper and deeper into a far away land. Elisabeth's face was looking down on him. He felt her stroke his hair. “
It's OK, Jon. Everything's gonna be all right
.
”

When he came to, a young female doctor was smiling down at him, as she bandaged his shoulder wound. “Welcome back,” she said. “You got lucky. The bullet narrowly missed the brachial artery. That's the main artery that supplies blood to the arm and hand. That was a real close call, believe me.”

Reznick didn't feel lucky. He took a few moments to get his bearings. “I thought it was only a graze.” His throat was dry and he barely got the words out.

“We've given you strong antibiotics and that will hopefully keep infection at bay. No serious tissue damage; how, I don't know. However, you'll need to rest up for a few days.”

The doctor left the room and Reznick was on his own. He tried to move his shoulder and winced at the searing pain. He tried to sit up straight, but his head felt light. Damn.

Reznick looked around his room. It was all hospital fresh and white. The smell of disinfectant in the air.

His eyes felt heavy and he drifted off to sleep. He dreamed of Lauren. As a baby. As a toddler, walking on the beach, as he held her hand. And he dreamed of her as a young woman, talking about college. Talking about her mother late into the night. He dreamed of his wife on
that
day. It was the same dream. Before the towers fell. Then he was back home alone. The smell of the salt air and all before him the cool blue waters in the cove.

When Reznick came round again, he had been asleep for fourteen hours straight. He was aware that someone was in the room. He struggled to open his eyes. In his peripheral vision he saw Stamper and four unsmiling Feds. One was holding up a navy single-breasted suit and black Oxford shoes. Reznick turned and looked across at them. “What's all this?”

Stamper was chewing gum. “You're coming with us.”

“Not until you tell me how my daughter is.”

Stamper smiled. “She's opened her eyes.”

Reznick closed his eyes as relief flooded through his body. He realised how close he'd come to losing her.

“You wanna get ready, Reznick?”

“Are we going on a date, Roy?”

Stamper shook his head and grinned. “You're crazy, do you know that?”

Reznick eased himself out of his bed and winced. His shoulder was heavily bandaged. His hands were cut from the shards of glass, but the wounds had all been cleaned up. He put on his shirt, taking an age to button it up. He got on his suit, and tried to tie his shoe laces, but couldn't manage it. Stamper kneeled down to help.

Reznick looked in the mirror. It didn't look like him. He looked like a stockbroker. He was wearing an expensive navy single-breasted suit, white shirt, pale blue tie, black Oxford shoes. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt the need to wear a suit.

He was signed out and escorted to the elevator. Inside, Reznick turned to Stamper. “How did you know my size?”

Stamper chewed his gum and tried to stifle a smile. “We measured you up when you were unconscious, tough guy.”

Reznick shook his head and smiled. “So, are you going to let me know what this is all about? Where are we going?”

“You'll see.”

It was dark when they left the hospital's staff entrance to go to a waiting car in the basement garage. He was strapped into the back seat and they drove off. The DC traffic was a crawl, despite it being evening. He stared out at the passing people driving past, going about their business, unaware of what really happened down in the Metro. His thoughts were scrambled. He thought of Lauren way down in Pensacola, safe and alive, and for that, he was truly thankful. But he also thought of Maddox and wondered what his role was in the whole operation.

A short while later, Reznick caught a glimpse of the Hoover building – FBI HQ.

“What's going on, Roy?” Reznick asked.

Stamper shook his head as they drove towards a basement garage and IDs scanned in an electronic reader. He was marched into the building and taken up to the
seventh floor. They got off the elevator and he was escorted along a corridor to the executive conference room. The FBI's most senior executives, including Meyerstein – clapped him in.

Reznick felt light headed as he was introduced to the Director and was toasted with single malt, thanking him for his efforts. A letter was read out from the President. Reznick felt embarrassed at being the
center
of attention.

He shrugged off his natural inclination to avoid such gatherings and knocked back the amber liquid, feeling a warm glow inside. The morphine combined with the whisky also took the edge off the pain. After several minutes of excruciating small talk with some FBI executives, and a rambling speech from the Assistant Director about “the American way”, Meyerstein asked Reznick round to her office.

“Take the weight off,” she said, sitting on the edge of her desk, hands folded demurely.

Reznick slumped down and took a few moments to take in her office. The shiny mahogany desk was uncluttered, a gold-leaf-framed black and white photo of Meyerstein with her kids, playing in a park. On the wall to his left, a huge plasma screen, showing a
real-time
feed from Lower Manhattan. Opposite that was a wall covered in awards and a few pictures of Meyerstein with the Director and the President.

She shifted on the desk and looked at him, face impassive. “How are you feeling?”

“I've felt better.”

“Well, for what it's worth, you scrub up well.”

“Jon Reznick, style icon, what do you think? Front cover of GQ, right?”

Meyerstein smiled and edged off her desk, before sitting down in a black leather seat behind her mahogany desk. “What I'm going to say does not go beyond these four walls, am I clear?”

“I'm listening.”

“This didn't happen. None of it.”

“I understand.”

“The incident is going to be described as an undercover surveillance operation and a gunman killing a couple of Feds. Then he was cornered and shot. There shall never be any reference to bio-materials or any foreign governments or their operatives by you to anyone, ever. This never happened. Are we clear?”

“Whatever you say.”

Meyerstein looked at him with her cool blue eyes and smiled. “We are in your debt, Jon. But I think we rode our luck, don't you?”

“Sometimes you make your own luck.”

“I can't remember when I had so many hard calls to make. But I guess, sometimes, the rule book is just a guide, right?”