The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  “Get legal over here. Now!” he demanded to the poor soul on the other end of the line.

  “Our apologies for the surprise visit,” Rand interjected. “But this information is extremely time sensitive.”

  “Do you have a warrant?” Hanley asked.

  “No. But I can assure you one is being drafted as we speak. I guess we could keep you around for another four to five hours while we wait for it to be executed.”

  Hanley considered the meddling threat for a moment. He had a poker game lined up with his pals in a couple hours and could almost taste the forty-year-old Scotch. He wasn’t about to miss it.

  “Fine. I’ll give you a name, but that’s it. Our work here is extremely sensitive to the security of our clients and I’m not about to put any of it at risk. That said, most of our departments use private networks, but we have specific IPs assigned to management personnel. The lower level employees—interns, assistants, junior programmers—they all share IPs with their respective departments.”

  “Well, in that case, this should be a snap,” replied Rand.

  A gray-haired corporate attorney entered the office with a soft knock. “Marty, everything okay in here?”

  “Yeah, Walt. I think we’re fine.”

  The lawyer took a moment to measure up the room. These were clearly federal agents.

  “I want to see some identification, gentlemen,” the attorney finally said.

  Agents Kershaw and Reynolds flashed their ID badges at the lawyer, who took another look at the agents before giving a nod to Hanley. The look of disgust on his face was unmistakable as he walked out of the office.

  “Give me the IP address and I’ll tell you who it’s assigned to and you can get the fuck out of my office,” Hanley growled through his pearly white teeth.

  Rand proceeded to read off the numbers as the CIO punched them into his database. Within seconds, it highlighted one name from a list of dozens—William Montgomery. The executive turned his laptop around to face the agents.

  They focused on it with anxious intensity.

  “Trip Montgomery,” Hanley offered. “Director of our Critical Infrastructure Division.”

  Rand peered up from the laptop. “So, he’s a hacker?”

  “This isn’t some collective of revolutionaries launching sloppy attacks from their parents’ basements, Agent Kershaw. Our team is made up of the most professionally skilled cyber security analysts and engineers in the world.”

  The pieces were falling quickly into place.

  “So, he’s a hacker,” repeated Rand.

  The executive shook his head in frustration. “Look, I have no idea what Mr. Montgomery does in his free time. At Spartan Cyber Security, he is the Director of Critical Infrastructure. His office is down the hall, but he hasn’t been here in weeks.”

  “Did he take vacation time or something?”

  “Well, sort of. He took the last two weeks off but was supposed to be back yesterday.”

  Rand looked up in disbelief. “He hasn’t returned?”

  “No.”

  “Is it odd that he wouldn’t be back yet? Maybe he extended his vacation?” Reynolds wondered aloud.

  “No, it doesn’t work like that around here,” Hanley corrected. “It’s very odd that he hasn’t checked in. Listen, agents, Trip is a stand-up guy. A brilliant programmer, a hard-worker who’s well-respected around the building.”

  “Can we see his office?” Rand abruptly requested.

  Martin Hanley just wanted it all to be over. In the hopes he’d be shuffling a deck of cards and sipping Scotch soon, he took the agents down the hall to the office of William Montgomery.

  They barged in to find the walls adorned with an old battle flag and several framed photos. But, surprisingly, his desk had been cleared off.

  “Does he have a computer?” Rand asked.

  “All our staff are given laptops and most of the time they take them home at night. Trip apparently left with his.”

  Kershaw and Reynolds scanned the office and locked in on the photos hanging from the wall.

  “Who’s this?” Rand quizzed.

  “That was his older brother, Mark. He was a Navy SEAL.”

  “Was?”

  “Yeah, he was killed in Afghanistan, I believe.”

  “When?”

  “Had to be five or six years ago,” Hanley guessed.

  The agents exchanged knowing looks.

  “Does Trip have any other military acquaintances, friends of Mark’s maybe?” Rand pressed.

  “I have no idea, he doesn’t talk much about his personal life.”

  “Thanks for your assistance, Mr. Hanley. I’ll be in touch if we need anything else,” Rand abruptly promised. “Please keep this office locked for now, I’ll be sending a team over to collect these file cabinets and belongings, with a warrant, of course. We’ll show ourselves out.”

  Relieved, Hanley ushered them out of the office and through the hallway.

  The agents made their way to the elevator and down to the lobby. They brushed past the guard and darted to the gray sedan outside, which still sat haphazardly at the bottom of the marble steps.

  “What the hell was that?” Reynolds asked, as he climbed behind the wheel and checked over his shoulder. “I mean, it can’t be a coincidence that the guy you’re looking for hasn’t shown back up for work. You think he’s on the run? Or dead?”

  Rand thought about that for a moment and was suddenly able to see things from a broader viewpoint—with remarkable clarity.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “But it makes absolute sense that he’s nowhere to be found. He’s either faked his own death, started a new life, or he’s actually been killed.” Rand Kershaw’s mind raced.

  “Which would all indicate he’s pulled off another job,” Reynolds surmised.

  “Exactly,” chimed Rand. It all masterfully came together. “Holy shit…they just pulled off a goddamn job! I just had the wrong one. I had the wrong one!” A giant grin spilled across Rand’s face as he threw his head back and laughed.

  “They told me you were crazy, Kershaw, but you’re freaking me out.”

  “Yeah, I hear that a lot.”

  “Then where to now?”

  “Take me to your field office, I need to set up an ops center. I don’t have time to get back to Vegas.”

  “An ops center at the San Fran office?”

  Without answering, Rand pulled his cellphone from his pocket and punched in a few numbers before bringing it to his ear.

  “This is Special Agent Rand Kershaw from the Las Vegas Armed Robbery Division, I need a temporary ops center ready in thirty minutes. I could use a digital forensics analyst and any other agents who can lend a hand. We’ve got a time-sensitive mark on a high-value target. William ‘Trip’ Montgomery.”

  After a confirmation, he hung up the phone and shoved it back into his pocket.

  “You’re starting to piece this together, aren’t you?” Reynolds asked with an optimistic giddiness.

  “Trip Montgomery is one of my three suspects,” Rand confirmed. “Something’s happened to him. He was pulling a job somewhere, I just know it. We need to follow this kid’s trail and it’ll lead me right to all three of them.”

  “So your thieves have pulled off another heist, huh?”

  “Yep. And I think I know which one.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rook paced slowly toward the steps of an old brick building. He grabbed hold of an iron handrail and began climbing the cobblestone steps. It was the
re he noticed the dark, ashy mark left on one of the columns. It had been marked within the last hour—a signal he’d hoped to never see. Rook halted his climb and took a moment to contemplate—his life flashed vividly in front him.

  After a brief pause, he continued to the top of the steps, then turned around and gazed at the quiet street behind him. Above, the orange clouds reflected the setting sun, beautifully clashing with a purple sky to form a collage over the streets of Bruges. The cold Belgian air filled his lungs. The aging millionaire pulled his coat collar tightly against his neck and reached for the large wooden door of his home.

  Christopher hurried to the foyer with outstretched hands, where he reached for Rook’s overcoat, then gently placed it over his forearm. Rook glanced around the well-decorated lobby before finally making eye contact with his trusted butler.

  “They’re waiting for you in the library, sir.”

  Rook checked over his shoulder and noticed blood drops on the marble floor. His eyes followed them to a wide hallway that led to the administrative wing. He could see now—down the hall where the shadows opened to an adjacent room—a body lying on the floor in a dark pool of blood. It was one of his private security guards; he suspected the rest of them were dead as well. Rook looked again to Christopher who stood like a statue.

  “Were you able to hit the alarm?” Rook asked under his breath.

  “I was. They should arrive at any moment.”

  “And the Huntsmen?”

  Christopher hung his head. “No, sir. There wasn’t time.”

  “Quite alright, my friend.”

  “It has been an honor to serve you, my lord,” the butler said in a low, soft British accent.

  “The honor has been all mine, Christopher. Your family will be well taken care of. You’ve done very well, old chap.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  And with that, the butler turned and disappeared down a hallway. Rook peered into the foyer mirror and tugged at his suit, then tightened his tie. He appeared as respectable as he could for such an important moment. The studious Knight took one last look at himself: his face was old; his hair gray. The man staring back at him was tired and weary.

  Rook stood tall and marched up the main hallway to the atrium where another member of his security detail was slumped dead over a chair against the wall.

  The library sat tucked in the northeast corner of the building, just beyond the solid gold statue of Zeus set in a flowing fountain. After a brief hesitation, Rook continued his walk to the library, counting his footsteps for reasons he couldn’t explain.

  The door was slightly ajar. He stood for a moment before opening it, then swept in with the last bit of energy he had left and made his way to his favorite chair—an antique from the Victorian period, decorated with purple and gold silk accents. The prideful Brit unbuttoned his jacket and sat down.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” the American stranger uttered from the shadows of the opposite corner of the room.

  “And I, you,” Rook quickly replied.

  “My name is Carson.”

  Rook looked up at his guest for the first time. “US Intelligence, I presume?”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” the middle-aged spook assured. “You took something from me and I want it back.” His words were sharp and annunciated.

  “Save your breath, Mr. Carson. If you think for one bloody moment that I’m going to squeal and squirm like the measly foot soldiers you pick up and torture in the desert, you are sorely mistaken. We can either bury this row here and now, or you can—go fuck yourself as you Americans like to say.”

  Carson chuckled under his breath. He liked the ferocity of the old man.

  “I don’t have it, and you know damn well I don’t,” Rook continued after an awkward silence.

  “Yes, we’re aware of that. In fact, I’m almost certain your little thieves have disappeared. Even from you,” Carson pointed out. “Which means you’re really no good to me in terms of tracking the asset down. But you will tell me the identities of your American henchmen.”

  “You have no idea who we are, do you, Mr. Carson?”

  “Yeah, yeah. The grand and illustrious Knights of Medina,” Carson acknowledged with flare. “I know all about your little club, it’s how we found Dr. Diaz. Outlawed by most governors, not even the crown acknowledges your existence. You’re no more than a bunch of delusional old men trying to grasp at the pages of history with tales of glory and honor. Spare me the bullshit. This is the real world, and what I’m about to do to you will make you wish you never swore an allegiance to this goddamn knighthood.”

  Rook was snapped from the moment by a loud crash outside. It was abruptly followed by more commotion and sporadic gunfire in the distance. His reinforcements had arrived. But with the rattle of more gunfire and unintelligible yelling, he knew they would never reach him.

  “That’s the sound of defeat, Rook. The jackals aren’t at the door, they’re sitting comfortably in your library. Now give me the names of your three cowboys and I’ll end this honorably—quickly and humanely—for every one of your men. You just have to give me the names.”

  Rook knew the protocol. He had helped write it. “My father raised sheep when I was a boy,” he slowly began. “And one day a few men snuck onto our property during the night and stole some of his sheep. They came again the next night. And the next. My father stood at his window each morning before sunrise, watching a handful of his sheep being marched away. Then one day, it just stopped. The men didn’t come to take his sheep anymore. My mother—”

  Rook paused to loosen his tie. A playful grin washed over his face as he regaled his childhood. “My mother asked him, ‘Why are they not stealing our sheep anymore?’ And my father, a quiet man with little initiative, replied, ‘I slaughtered the sheep. I would rather go without than give to those who don’t deserve.’”

  He wasn’t going to tell the agent anything. That much was clear.

  “Great story,” Carson responded. He pulled a pistol from his waistband and placed it against Rook’s forehead. “I’m not asking again, you senile, old bastard!”

  The Knight sat breathless in his favorite chair. Carson lowered his aim.

  The first shot went through the top of Rook’s knee. He flinched softly, biting into his lip. The second shot tore through his forearm, shattering every bone below the elbow. The old man grunted through the pain, but still didn’t move.

  Through growing frustration, Carson felt a little respect for the old dog. The agent stepped back and looked over the prisoner, who sat proudly with his hands on the armrests.

  Rook quivered in pain and began to fade in and out of consciousness.

  The third and final shot was placed directly into the Knight’s forehead. His neck snapped lifelessly against the chair as his arms slid into his lap.

  Seconds after the last gunshot, another agent entered the library. “Everything good, sir?”

  “Yeah,” replied Carson as he examined Rook’s lifeless body. “Grab every document and device you can. We have three minutes.”

  “Roger that,” the young agent replied before bolting out of the room.

  Carson checked his watch and holstered his pistol. He took one last look at the great Intimate Secretary of the Knights of Medina. The agent knew enough about the knighthood to know they were a threat. With the swipe of his smartphone, he ordered the execution of all known members. They would all—with the exception of two—be dead within the hour. The two highest ranking members, Seneschal and Grand Master, had both managed to remain anonymous to the CIA. Carson was hopeful that an analysis of the data being taken from Rook’s estate would yield him that information.
/>   Minutes later, a commercial van packed with books, ledgers, hard-drives, and a single laptop computer, pulled away from the scene. Bruges police arrived shortly after. There were no witnesses, no distinguishable fingerprints, and no clues of any kind. Just fifteen dead bodies scattered throughout the building.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Just outside Westcliffe, Colorado

  The brothers found themselves hidden among the vivid landscapes of Colorado, in a grungy motel room.

  Cam burst in and flopped into a chair near the front window. Michael sat on the bed, flipping through static channels on an old television.

  Nestled off a two-way interstate in the middle of nowhere, the motel held strategic value with plenty of tactical advantages. For starters, they could see for miles in almost every direction. In the backdrop, as if protruding from thin air, stood the Sangre de Cristo Mountains—offering a quick escape to a familiar fighting environment. But, more importantly, there was a working payphone out front.

  “Were you able to reach anyone?” Michael asked.

  “No.”

  “I can’t believe they hung us out to dry. I don’t understand; you’d think these assholes would want their expensive toys back.”

  “You’d think so,” Cam sighed through a chug of beer.

  “What if they’re all dead?”

  “They’re not.”

  “But everyone from the mountain is dead,” Michael pleaded. “Trip’s dead. Hell, we buried him in the side of a mountain, Cam!”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “We didn’t even tell Elena!”

  “Calm down, Michael. We can’t even consider notifying anyone that he’s dead.”

  “We’ve become monsters.”

  “Stop whatever it is you’re doing, bro.” Cam had heard enough. “We will let Elena know as soon as this is over. I promise. But what do you think she’ll do if we just call her out of the blue and tell her Trip’s dead?”