The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series)

by S. L. Jones

  “But—”

  “Do it, Mom. Please. Promise me it will be the first thing you do.”

  She looked at her son and the man he’d grown into. He was tall, fit, and handsome. His piercing blue eyes were still able to disarm her after all these years.

  “Okay, honey. Okay.”

  “I love you, Mom. And please be careful.”

  “I love you too, honey.”

  Chapter 16

  TRENT TURNER STUDIED the image of his brother’s assassin on the screen of his XHD3 and headed back to his car. He knew there was something familiar about the man but couldn’t quite place him. A vibration from the device broke his train of thought. An envelope flashed in the corner of the screen. He opened up the secure-messaging application and began to read.

  Heckler: Tak is off the grid. Message loud and clear. BOMBTRACK received, stealth confirmed. You’re clear on this end. Let me know what you need.

  The message took him by surprise. He knew the delayed response meant something had been going on with his handler. The fact Tak had shared their secret with someone else meant one of two things. Either Tak was passing him over to The Island so they could bring him in, or he had been put on another operation, and Heckler was someone he could trust for help. He wondered if he was just being paranoid. It wasn’t out of the question that the handlers at The Shop were a tight-knit group and could trust one another implicitly.

  The icon on his screen showed Heckler was online. They had worked together on several operations in the past, but Trent still had doubts about his intention. He launched the chat interface and responded.

  Finger: Hi, Heckler, I was expecting Tak, considering the situation.

  Heckler: I know. He would be here if it was an option. I’m sure you understand that. Tak left me clear instructions on this. We’re very close. You can trust me.

  Turner had no way to confirm whether Heckler was on his side. He struggled as he mulled over the options and decided he couldn’t take a chance with trusting him.

  Finger: Sorry, but I think I’m going to have to fly solo on this one. I appreciate the offer.

  Heckler: Tak told me to expect this. His instructions were to tell you to “feed Cannibal himself and your flick.” I have no idea what that means, but he said you would understand.

  Trent cracked a smile and realized Tak would have already thought every possible outcome out. This was as funny as it was brilliant. Nobody at The Shop would understand what that meant. Energized, he opened up the Cannibal application and typed in three words—“Eddy Merckx Goldfinger”—and submitted the search. The double entendre in the application’s name was something they had kept to themselves. Cycling was another thing the pair had in common, and Cannibal was the nickname of legendary cyclist Eddy Merckx. Less than a second later, a note from Tak popped up on his screen.

  Finger,

  If you’re reading this, there’s no doubt you’re working with Heckler on something and he’s followed my instructions. I obfuscated this note within Cannibal’s code in case of a rainy day. It will only show on your device, so don’t sweat it being discovered. Good thing you don’t suck at trivia or you’d be up shit’s creek right about now!

  Listen, you can trust Heckler as if he were me. This note is meant to be a failsafe in case something critical is in the works preventing me from giving you the news myself. No worries here on my end. I’ve probably just won the lottery and bugged out to paradise! Seriously, though, take care of yourself, and keep Heckler online. Knowing the kind of situations you get yourself into, you’ll probably need him!

  Catch you on the flip side,

  Tak

  He shook his head and laughed. The note was vintage Tak and quickly erased any doubts he had about Heckler being on the level. He needed some good news right about now, and this had been a welcome relief.

  Finger: Heckler, we’re good. Thanks for the support. Could you check to see if Cannibal has any intel on the image I’m about to send you?

  Heckler: Sure thing. Just pass it along.

  Finger: Check your contacts with MI6. He may be Czech or Russian, and he’s likely been around the Brits.

  Heckler: Got it.

  Finger: I’ll also need you to check the Washington, DC area for possible connections to the death of Ryan Turner. I’ll need everything you have on that. I’ll send you a fingerprint to go with the photo if my device manages to pull one up.

  Heckler: Anything else?

  Finger: There’s one other thing. Cannibal’s proximity search reported a homicide in DC. There were some interesting details about it in the FBI’s system. Some sort of wireless hacking device and a laptop were found at the scene.

  Heckler: Sounds like it’s right up your alley.

  Finger: It’s probably nothing, but it wouldn’t hurt to run the correlation algorithm to see if anything pops up. It sounds like there could be more to it, based on the collective freak-out they’re having at the bureau. The dead guy is the son of a man who will be of particular interest to Addy.

  Heckler: Should I pass the info along then?

  Finger: If there’s anything to it, I’ll work on it while I’m taking care of my current situation. If I can find anything interesting on this, it might help me get a warmer reception when I come back online. After pulling this move, I’ll need all of the help I can get.

  Heckler: Roger that. I’ll analyze the results and get them to you directly.

  Finger: Tx.

  Chapter 17

  Safe house, Twinbrook, Maryland

  BRUCE CAMPBELL CONTEMPLATED being on Pavel Kozlov’s shit list. He was absolutely furious with himself for letting the skinny bastard outsmart him at the Metro station. The morning’s six-mile run was meant help him to blow off some steam, but it did his temperamental mind little good.

  Going back to working as a bodyguard would be like a kick in the teeth. He felt he was entitled to a bit of slack—after all, if it wasn’t for him the high-profile Russian would either be in jail or dead. It was simple: Kozlov couldn’t be convicted without any witnesses, so snuffing out a couple of FBI agents had been a small price to pay for job security.

  He was working in the cinder block detached garage of the safe house, taking care of business that needed to be done in private. The walls were off-white, and the building was empty aside from a makeshift plywood table piled with dirty rags and a random collection of power tools. He used a solvent to scrub down the black Chrysler 300 and strip away its temporary coat of paint. The car was slowly turning back to its original color of metallic gray.

  Campbell anxiously waited for a call from Kozlov. He wasn’t on edge because one of the targets had gotten away—that detail had become the least of his worries. His real concern was how his boss would react when he found out he had killed the son of such a powerful man.

  His cell phone started to play the opening for “Back in Black” by AC/DC. He picked it up off the table, looked at the display and confirmed it was the Russian.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “It seems that it’s raining fuckups in Washington,” Pavel Kozlov said. His thick Russian accent dripping with sarcasm.

  “It wasn’t one of my better days,” Campbell admitted.

  “You are lucky. Today I feel like being generous.”

  Campbell winced. He knew there was always a catch.

  “I have something to keep you occupied while Dimitri locates our missing friend,” Kozlov continued. “Log on to your computer to get the information. I want you to get started immediately. If you can take care of this minor detail for me, you will have earned yourself another chance.”

  The line went dead.

  Campbell headed into the house, went into the study and pulled out his laptop. He hated computers, and the shit the organization made him do to log on kept getting more complicated. The soldier used a bookmark saved on his desktop to connect to their server. He spoke the predetermined code words into the laptop’s built-in camera, and when the screen
told him to, he blinked three times and turned his head to the right and then to the left.

  Footsteps in the background signaled his driver walking into the room. He could sense the man was reading over his shoulder, but Campbell ignored him. It only took a couple of clicks and the laptop displayed a surveillance photo. The man looked like he was a professional. Campbell scrolled down the page to read the details:

  Subject: Aliaksandr Petrov

  Nationality: Russian

  Known languages: Russian (native), English (British), Spanish (Castellano), French (Canadian)

  Age: Late thirties

  Height: 6’ 2”

  Profession: Assassin

  Proficiencies: Expert marksman, trained sniper, hand-to-hand combat, explosives

  Details: Approach with caution. Hired to eliminate the operative known as The American. Operation completed.

  Last Known Location (11 hours ago): Suite 129, Hilton Garden Inn, 8301 Boone Boulevard, Tysons Corner, VA 22182

  If you can take care of this minor detail for me, you will have earned yourself another chance.

  Kozlov’s words were telling. Bruce Campbell wasn’t familiar with the individual on the screen, but he had heard of The American. The man had recently crippled their European operation. Those who were lucky enough to survive said the operative worked with devastating effect, like a one-man army. It was obvious to Campbell that any person capable of eliminating The American would be a difficult man to kill.

  He couldn’t resist clicking on the hyperlink to pull up The American’s profile. There were some blurry images that were obviously taken from video surveillance cameras, but as he scrolled through the photos he came to a few professional shots where The American, whose alias was listed as Ryan Turner, wore a numbered bib across his chest that read “Boston Marathon.” His employer was listed as a computer company, but that didn’t make much sense. Now that he was dead it didn’t really matter.

  “The American? He doesn’t look like much,” the driver said dismissively.

  Campbell shook his head. “You’d better stick to driving.”

  Chapter 18

  Marriot Hotel, Woodley Park, Washington, DC

  ETZY MILLAR WOKE to the sound of the latest CNN headlines. Pain from his ribs shot through his body as he eased himself up into a sitting position. He gathered up the makeshift bandage that had fallen off his hand during the night and looked down at the patches of dried blood his wound had left on the sheets.

  Forty-eight hours ago he would have been worried about the stains on the sheets, but today they were the least of his concerns. He shivered involuntarily as the events from the previous night rushed through his head. He shook them away and turned to the television. He was still in a state of denial. The newscaster launched into a story about the abduction of a journalist in Gaza City.

  She detailed the abductee’s exposé of a DEVGRU operative last year. An image of the soldier flashed on the screen, his face mostly obscured by a bushy beard typical of those worn by American soldiers serving in the Middle East. This was a story Millar knew well. He remembered the media frenzy when the operative’s identity had been revealed. The soldier had been part of a mission that had taken out several key figures of a radical Islamist terrorist organization.

  The newscaster reminded Millar that the SEAL’s name was Brendan Manion. The classified details that the captured journalist published, which included the soldier’s name, provided the terrorists with enough motivation and information to exact revenge. Within a week a US-based terror cell had hunted down and murdered Manion’s wife and unborn child. Soon after the soldier had buried his family, he was killed in a Black Hawk helicopter crash in Afghanistan.

  Images of the candlelight vigils that had been held around the nation for his family flashed on the screen. Millar supposed the journalist’s kidnapping was karma coming back around.

  His thoughts returned to the previous evening. He caught his first break when he made it to the hotel room on Capitol Hill. It was the place where he and his friend Max launched their DC hacking exploits from. The room was paid for by Max’s father’s office to accommodate out-of-towners heading into the District to meet with him. The room was normally empty, and the staff at the Hotel George’s front desk knew Millar well. Getting a key to the suite was easy, especially since nobody wanted to feel the wrath of the man who paid the bill.

  Working up the courage to open the door to the room had been daunting. The hacker stood there for five agonizing minutes before he made a move. First he slid the card key through the lock and ran down the hall. The fact that the beep didn’t spark off gunshots had been encouraging, but Etzy Millar still had a hard time mustering up the courage to go inside. His fear that the assassin was on the other side of the door gave way to the reality that the killer could possibly show up in the hallway. The possibility that he could have been followed provided enough motivation for him to do the deed.

  When he whipped the door open, Millar was momentarily relieved that the lights had been left on by the hotel’s turndown service. He let out an awkward scream and froze when he saw a flurry of movement from the curtains. It only took a second to resign himself to defeat and hope that his death would be quick. By the time he realized it was the vent from the air conditioner blowing on the curtains, his mental state was frayed. It took a minute for him to get his heart rate down and recover.

  Millar was relieved to see his laptop sitting on the desk where he had left it. It was the reason he’d risked returning to the hotel. The computer contained the only copy of the bot software he had, and it was also where he kept the source code for the shadow program he had deployed. He pilfered a dark blue backpack from the dresser, an obvious souvenir meant for the suite’s next occupant, and stuffed his laptop inside.

  An envelope in the nightstand labeled “Petty Cash” had nine hundred and fifty-six dollars inside. It was more than enough for him to score a hotel room while he considered his next move. He stuffed his laptop into the backpack and quickly headed down the stairs and out the door to E Street.

  The local portion of the morning newscast snapped him back to the present. It opened up with what Millar feared most.

  “And now we turn it over to our Washington, DC local correspondent, Layne Stewart,” the newscaster said as the screen displayed a dramatic graphic titled “Maryland Senator’s Son Murdered.”

  “Thank you, Kate,” Stewart said in a solemn tone. “There are no new developments in the fatal shooting that occurred last night in Northwest, Washington, DC outside the upscale Mazza Gallerie shopping mall. The victim was Maximillian Soller II, the son of Maryland senator and majority leader Maximillian Soller.” Stewart paused and ruffled his brow for dramatic effect. “The twenty-one-year-old was shot to death following what witnesses have called a dramatic car chase southbound on Wisconsin Avenue.”

  The screen flashed to an image of the crumpled car with yellow police tape blocking off the perimeter. The footage showed forensic investigators examining the crime scene.

  “His BMW sports car,” Stewart continued, “crashed at high speed into an entrance of the shopping mall, where a man fled the scene and was chased by a gunman. A police spokesman confirmed to CNN that both the gunman and the individual who fled the scene are still at large.”

  The newscaster looked down to reference his notes and looked back into the camera.

  “At this early stage of the investigation, neither man has been identified. Investigators say that the gunman arrived in a black, late-model Chrysler 300 with Maryland tag EST 5-4-4. Anyone with information on this crime should call the tip hotline that has been set up for this case at 2-0-2-5-5-5-5-5-5-5. There is a hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar reward being offered for information leading to the arrest of the suspects.”

  The gravity of the situation started to sink in, and his hands began to shake. Life as Etzy Millar knew it was over. Max was dead, and it was only a matter of time before his fingerprints were identified from handlin
g the equipment he’d left at the scene. The images broadcasted from the crime scene confirmed his fears. The three yellow letters on the back of the navy-blue jackets—FBI—meant the investigation had already been escalated, and he only had one option left.

  Chapter 19

  Gas station, Tysons Corner, Virginia

  HE PUT ON his turn signal and slowed down to pull into the gas station. His mind had been tortured all night, and he had found it difficult to sleep. He was distracted by emotion and knew his lack of focus was dangerous. Ryan’s death haunted his every thought.

  Trent Turner considered the pain his brother’s wife and kids must be feeling right now. He wished with all his being that there was some way he could turn back the clock and take his brother’s place.

  He considered the stroke of luck he had last night with his mother’s book. The reagent he had treated the cover with did its job, and the nanoparticles illuminated the faint traces of the assassin’s fingerprint. The new technology impressed him.

  Heckler had sent him what they were able to learn from the fingerprint and composite image he had gotten from his mother in less than an hour. The information that came back was no surprise. It turned out that the man who had killed his brother was a Russian called Aliaksandr Petrov. He was a freelance assassin who was once a top agent for Russia’s counterpart to the CIA, the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or SVR for short. The Shop’s contacts at MI6 confirmed that Petrov was an extremely capable individual and had spent a lot of time in Britain.