The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  They’re not from the same team, Cam noted with startling confusion.

  “Special Agent Kershaw, FBI,” the voice warned.

  FBI? Cam could hear the man’s footsteps draw closer.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” the agent said, as he snatched the pistol from Cam’s hand. “That’s a CIA hit team outside with a dozen more on the way. You need to come with me now. I’m your only way out alive.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  They emerged from the woods in a full sprint and spilled out into a back lot behind a shopping center. With his gun still fixed on Cam, Agent Kershaw motioned his prisoner to the car.

  “Let’s go,” Kershaw ordered.

  Without argument, Cam jumped into the passenger seat. The SUV pulled away and tore around the building and east onto Ridgeland Boulevard.

  “Suspect in custody,” the agent called out, gasping for breath. “I repeat, I have Cameron Lyle in custody.”

  “I don’t get it, what is this?” Cam asked. “How do you know that was a hit team?”

  Rand chuckled sarcastically at his captive’s lack of situational awareness. “Because, whatever the hell you stole from them, they plan on killing you for it.”

  Cam was stunned. How did the FBI know about the heist? Did we not hide our tracks at all?

  “I, on the other hand, am not here to kill you,” Rand assured him.

  The Tahoe careened around another corner. Rand punched the gas, still anxiously gripping his pistol in his hand. The SUV now darted toward the interstate.

  “So, what the hell does the FBI want with me?”

  Rand smiled. He’d waited for this moment for so long. “The Wynn job. Hamilton. We put it all together. You guys are good!”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You’re with the Knights of Medina, aren’t you?” Cam guessed. “Let me outta this fucking car right now!”

  “Knights of who? You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

  Rand yanked the wheel and slammed the brakes as the Tahoe dug into a sharp turn and came to a sudden stop. He jumped out and walked around to the passenger side.

  The adrenaline-rushed agent opened the door and yanked his prisoner out at gunpoint. Rand forced his captive’s hands behind his back and the moment he reached for a set of zip ties, Cam thrust his weight down and slid to the right. The maneuver was executed within the blink of an eye and after a slippery tussle, Cam grasped Rand’s wrist, trying to loosen the FBI agent’s grip on the pistol.

  Rand was strong and well-trained. Instinct immediately guided the bottom of his right foot to Cam’s chest, where it made direct contact—a seamless counter-assault on his adversary. The former Navy SEAL gasped and fell backward. Rand’s gun was again trained on Cam.

  “On the ground, asshole!” the agent yelled.

  “You’re making a huge mistake—”

  “I said on the ground!”

  Cam’s eyes wandered above the agent’s shoulder—just in time to catch a dusty sedan turn in their direction from the adjacent intersection.

  “Shit,” Cam blurted out.

  Rand wasn’t biting. But that all changed seconds later when Cam’s reaction was supported by the sound of screeching tires behind him. The agent quickly spun and pinched his weapon toward the oncoming dark green Ford Mercury.

  As Rand peered down the barrel of his FBI-issued .40 caliber Glock, he saw that the car wasn’t slowing but gaining momentum toward him. His training told him to squeeze four immediate rounds into the windshield. But there was something holding him back—these were CIA agents.

  Screw it.

  Rand released the air in his lungs and began pulling the trigger. Everything was in slow motion now. Silence blanketed the street as three cloudy bursts appeared in the car’s windshield. And in one fluid motion, Rand released a fourth round before diving for cover behind his SUV.

  The Ford swept to his left and spun out in the small parking lot just off the main street. Within seconds, two men leapt from the Mercury as their shots echoed in the morning air, pinging off the opposite side of the Tahoe.

  “FBI, hold your fire!” Rand yelled, his back now pressed against the passenger door.

  To his surprise, the command was returned with more gunfire. He could hear two sets of footsteps against the pavement—one approaching him slowly, the other flanking him from the side. Both attackers continued with sporadic, well-placed rounds of fire.

  Rand quickly checked over his shoulder. Shit! Cameron Lyle was gone.

  “Shots fired! Shots fired! Target is on the move!” he yelled over the channel, hoping Briggs and Vacano were coming to his aid.

  He was about to be in the crossfire of two shooters and needed to quickly find another position. He rolled right and unleashed a flurry of rounds, then darted into the open toward a small liquor store.

  After a full sprint, he found cover along the outside wall of the building. Sixty feet away, a CIA agent grunted in pain as a .40 caliber round bore through his shoulder. There was now one injured and one still on the attack.

  Where the hell is my backup?

  Rand popped his head around to check the area and spotted the injured shooter squirming behind a large trash can. The second shooter, however, was suddenly unaccounted for. Everything was happening too fast.

  The abbreviated silence was interrupted by a powerful blast of semi-automatic rifle fire. Rand crouched in defense as sparks of hot shrapnel lit up around him. The rapid bursts blanketed his position. He began inching his way against the concrete building, blindly returning fire at the CIA agent closing in on him from thirty yards.

  His heart sank when he turned the corner of the building. The metal fencing behind the liquor store guaranteed there would be no escape route here. Rand was outgunned and pinned down, trapped like an animal.

  His plight was elevated by the popping of secondary gunfire—a pistol. At first, Rand assumed the previously injured attacker had gotten back into the fight, only increasing the odds he would die. Seconds later, he realized the 9mm was returning fire, not supporting it.

  Now pinned between a dumpster and the wall, Rand could see the advancing CIA operative was being driven back by something—or someone. To his shock, the bullet-riddled Chevy Tahoe peeled around the building in reverse between he and the shooter. There in the driver’s seat was Cameron Lyle—completely unhinged, firing from the window as the Tahoe screeched to a stop.

  “Get in!”

  Rand unleashed his last four rounds and leapt into the backseat. With a sudden jerk of acceleration, the Tahoe roared through the front lot and disappeared from sight as a few desperate shots from an assault rifle ricocheted against the rear doors.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Rand reached for his right ear with concern, then patted both of his pockets.

  “My earpiece!”

  “We just survived a firefight and you’re looking for an earpiece?” Cam shouted.

  Rand’s eyes shifted to Cam, then to the floorboard. He’d lost the upper hand and desperately needed to regain it. With breakneck precision, he snapped his Glock to Cam’s face, only to be matched with equal speed. The two pistols hung ominously in the air.

  The Tahoe sprinted down the four-lane city street and, without taking his eyes off the FBI agent, Cam accelerated with purpose: 80…90…100. The Chevy was nearly floating now.

  “You pull that trigger and we’re both dead,” he threatened.

  110…115.

  Rand found himself again in an unwinnable situation. After a brief gut check, he reluctantly lowered his weapon. But Cameron wasn�
��t reciprocating—his 9mm still frozen in the air like a death wish.

  “I’ll lower this as soon as you throw your cellphone out the window,” Cam demanded. “Do it. Now!”

  “I need to—”

  “You need to throw that goddamn phone out before they track our location. Don’t make me cancel you, man. I just risked my damn life back there.”

  “I’m turning it off, Cameron. Completely off—untraceable,” Rand said, doing his best to hold on to his only line to the outside world.

  “Fine. Turn it off and give it to me!”

  Rand dug into his pocket and pulled the cellphone out. He shut the power down and handed it to the wild-eyed man behind the wheel.

  The Tahoe’s speed leveled off and a slight calm began to fill the cab.

  To the agent’s relief, Cam finally lowered his gun and veered onto a side street. Both men were completely turned around now, with absolutely no idea where they were.

  After a moment of pause, Cam zeroed in on a pharmacy he remembered from his childhood. Having grown up in neighboring Hockessin, it was a familiar landmark in an otherwise unfamiliar part of town.

  . . .

  CIA Black Site, just outside Los Angeles, California

  “You lost them?” Carson screamed into the phone. “You’re supposed to be the best goddamn surveillance team in the world, and you lose one retired SEAL and an FBI field agent? You’re pathetic!”

  He slammed the phone down in frustration and reached for his bottled water. Cameron Lyle had slipped his noose twice in the last week—something no man had ever accomplished before.

  Seconds later, his assistant appeared from the shadows and joined the rest of the ops team, who were now scattered among the abandoned third floor. The place buzzed with energy. Something was up.

  Carson sat frustrated as Kevin approached. “What is it?”

  “We’ve got Michael Lyle on the grid, sir.”

  The enraged vet jumped from his seat. Thank God for small favors.

  “We’re still working Cameron and the FBI agent,” Kevin continued. “But facial recognition got a hit on Michael at Denver International forty-nine hours ago.”

  “Where was he headed?” Carson was eager for a victory that would end this madness once and for all.

  “We don’t know exactly, but he was at the international terminal when security cams caught him getting off an escalator. There were only three flights that left the terminal within an hour of the video.”

  “Locations?”

  Kevin shuffled through some paperwork. “One flight to Dublin, another to Amsterdam, and a third to Barcelona with a stop at JFK. We checked the New York footage—nothing there, which leaves Dublin and Amsterdam.”

  “Perfect. Activate our agents in those two cities. I want teams on the ground within the hour.”

  “Recon or assault?”

  “Both.”

  . . .

  Dalkey District, Dublin, Ireland

  Michael Lyle waited patiently for his food delivery of chicken cordon with a side of egg noodles ordered from a quaint little restaurant down the street.

  It was his third day in Dublin and the low-budget bottle of Irish whiskey was almost dry. Time was drifting painfully slow.

  Michael was snapped from his wandering thoughts by Corin, who peeled around the corner from his cluttered office. The look on his face said it all.

  “I think I’ve done it,” the young Irishman proclaimed.

  “Don’t mess with me,” Michael threatened, as he sat up from the couch. “I swear to God—”

  “No, seriously. I mean, it’s not really earth-shattering, but I think I cracked it.”

  Corin pulled up next to Michael on the couch. The stout American could see the excitement in the young man’s eyes. The philologist was truly passionate about his work.

  “Okay, I composed a formulaic process that breaks down basic syntax and—”

  “Speak English. What the hell does it say?”

  “It reads like instructions of some sort,” Corin explained, placing a photocopy of the tablet on the coffee table. “It says, ‘Release the valve and blood shall flow.’” Corin’s finger traced the tablet photo as he read. “Then, ‘Push, or move, toward the face of Medina.’” Corin paused for effect. “And finally, there’s this last part, ‘Activate the Sun, and the stars shall open.’”

  “What the hell?” Michael tried to wrap his head around the words. “Release the valve,” he repeated. “Push toward the face and activate the sun.”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” confirmed Corin.

  The deciphered message played repeatedly in Michael’s head as he tried to visualize the strange elements of the device. It slowly began to make sense. These are instructions on how to turn the damn thing on!

  The bigger question, however, was what would happen once the device was activated?

  “I need a computer,” Michael demanded.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  They made their way down the hall and into the office—a poorly lit sanctuary of pin-up posters and action figures. Several expensive monitors lined the wall.

  “This is a closed network, right?” Michael asked.

  “Of course, only the best.”

  Michael typed away until he landed on a peculiar Internet forum—the same message board they had previously been contacting Rook through. He and Cam were now using it for their own cryptic communications.

  Michael logged in and posted a short message.

  LibertyBell_12: we crossed the positive with negative.

  It was a message Cam would understand. And now that it had been posted, Michael needed to move.

  “Corin, this has been a real pleasure,” he began. “But I’m afraid it’s time for me to go.”

  After copying the translation onto a small piece of paper, Michael grabbed an extra pair of jeans from the floor and a set of keys off the coffee table, shoving both into his backpack and dashing to the front door.

  “That’s it?” Corin asked with confusion.

  “That’s it. I owe you one, me auld flower—to use the Dublin vernacular for friend.”

  “But what about your food?”

  “It’s all yours!”

  And with that, Michael left the apartment, exited the building and began walking westward to the nearby DART station. His work in Dublin was complete.

  He paced up the footpath along Ardeevin Road, then ducked into a pharmacy. He used cash to purchase an envelope and a few stamps, then quickly left. Michael continued up Ardeevin to the station and slid a few Euros into a ticket kiosk outside. With a push through the turnstiles, he descended a set of stairs to the platform below.

  Michael checked his surroundings and shoved the notebook paper into the envelope. The finishing touch was written on the front with a black permanent marker.

  P.O. BOX 2499

  PHILADEPLHIA, PA 19130

  He checked his watch—it was nine minutes until the next train would arrive. Michael marched to the end of the platform where a postal kiosk sat in a corner behind two vending machines. He stuck three Priority stamps on the outside and slid the envelope into a small mail shoot. While it would take four days to arrive in the States, it was an insurance policy that assured the decrypted information would be passed on in the event something happened to him.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Cameron Lyle and Rand Kershaw sat face-to-face in the booth of a diner, located just over the Delaware River off Interstate 295 in Pennsylvania.

  “So, what’s our s
tatus here, Cameron? What’s your play?” the agent asked.

  Cam inhaled, deep in thought. “I’m not holding you hostage. It’s not like that. You can walk out that door right now. But you’re not taking me with you.”

  Rand glanced at the front door. It was time to lay his cards on the table. “I know everything,” he stated.

  “I don’t see any crystal ball in your hands.”

  “I know that you and Trip Montgomery held up the Wynn in Las Vegas and that you donated most of the loot to St. Jude’s. The third member of your team is your little brother, Michael.”

  Just then, the waitress came to refill their coffee, putting Rand’s big reveal on a momentary hold.

  “You can’t prove anything,” Cam pointed out once she was out of earshot. He was absolutely stunned that Rand knew that much.

  A sly grin appeared on the FBI agent’s face. “I can prove everything. How a year earlier Trip orchestrated a cyberattack on Hamilton, and how he used a dummy corporation—Boro Industries—to transfer the final payment of over a million water filters to suffering children in Africa.”

  The agent was getting too close for comfort now. Cam maintained his best poker face, but a rage began to swell within him. Rand took note of the increased pulse in Cam’s neck, the reddening of his ears. I’ve struck a nerve, he thought.

  “You seem to have it all figured out,” Cam blankly stated.

  “That’s the thing,” confessed Rand. “I still haven’t figured out why you would board a cargo ship at open sea and steal a CIA asset.” He began to chuckle at the soldier sitting across from him. “I mean, what the hell were you guys thinking?”

  Cam was saved from having to answer by the arrival of their food. The waitress dropped plates of pancakes, eggs, bacon and other sides amongst the table. And just as quickly as she had brought the food, she was gone again.