Hard Wired (Jon Reznick, #3)

by J.B. Turner

gasps. “Goin’ cold. Real fucking cold, man.” “Charles, is there anyone in Miami I should call?” “Too late, man . . .” “What d’you mean?” “She’s gone. Wife and my boy aren’t moving . . . Blood everywhere, man.” He began to sob. Reznick’s mind flashed up terrible images. “Cold. So goddamn cold, Jon. Can’t feel anything, man.” “You will not fucking die on me, you hear? You will not fucking die on me!”

“What?” “Yeah . . . Be careful, man. They’re gonna kill us all . . .” The last moments of Charles Burns’s life were played out in a mangled wreck on I-95, amid the skyscrapers and residential towers of downtown Miami. According to eyewitnesses, his car flipped over after he lost control. Paramedics arrived on the scene after two minutes, but there was nothing they could do. Major trauma to the heart, lungs, and liver, as well as a broken spine

might have fallen asleep at the wheel. The following day, the Herald reported that officers close to the investigation cited the driver’s “mental health issues,” which may have contributed to the terrible crash. The steady drip of stories continued for five consecutive days. And they covered everything there was to know about the former Ranger and Delta Force operator, who was dubbed “a good guy, but troubled” by unnamed former colleagues. The newspapers and local cable channels built up a picture of a veteran who was having difficulties

Everything, that is, apart from the call he made to Jon Reznick. A week after the crash, under a perfect, blue Miami sky, Reznick stood on the periphery of the group of mourners at the Burns family’s graveside, where the funeral of Tiny, his wife, Lanelle, and their eight-year-old son, John, was commencing. Tiny’s family and friends held each other tight for comfort and support. Tears spilled down the mourners’ faces as a few began to sob openly. It took six big guys to carry Tiny’s