The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series)

by S. L. Jones

  The Russian smiled unkindly. “Have you ever watched a man being tortured?”

  Eden gave the Russian a dirty look. She decided to answer his stupid question in kind by flicking her middle finger up and leveling it at his face. Kozlov’s stare hardened, and she noticed a change in his demeanor. Her resolve to do something was strengthening by the second. She could see the rage burning in his eyes and her fear began to melt away.

  A smile formed on her face as she realized the extent of her insult. The heated exchange reminded her of her teenage years. When she’d sparred with the big boys on the mat and had proven the utility of the martial arts. She didn’t lose often then, and she wasn’t planning to now. She kicked off her shoes as she sensed the big Russian losing control.

  Chapter 129

  Interstate 90 East, Chicago, Illinois

  THE TWO MEN had just picked up some weapons from one of Jake Sanders’s contacts in Chicago. They chose Heckler & Koch MP5s with tactical torches, some ballistic-level IIIa SafeGuard vests, and retained their personal sidearms for the operation. There would be no communication devices. They had decided they would stick together. They had no complaints about the quality of the kit, especially on such short notice.

  “We’re gonna light those fuckers up,” Rudy Pagano said, his thick New York drawl reflecting his anger. “I still can’t believe what happened in Poolesville.”

  Sanders had been thinking about the same thing trying to psych himself up. “Un-fuckin’-believable,” he agreed.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m all right. It’s just fucked.”

  Pagano took his eyes off the road and looked over at his friend. “I hear ya.”

  The team was a close-knit crew, and their loss was starting to sink in, especially since they were the only two left.

  Sanders shook his head. “And that bullshit with Culder…”

  Pagano started laughing. “She must’ve really gotten to you, tough guy.”

  “Yeah, fuck off already,” Sanders spat. “This job is getting crazier every year. The shit we do…I don’t know, man.” He realized this was a bad subject to discuss just before the operation. Doubt could get them killed.

  Pagano kept his eyes on the road as they neared the Bratva compound and as if reading his mind, changed the subject. “Too bad the locals didn’t have more details about this place,” he said.

  “Fuck it,” Sanders barked as he stared out the side window. “We’ve got what we need to do some damage. How long until we’re there?”

  “A couple minutes.”

  “Cool.”

  Sanders smiled. He had just enough time to check his voicemail. Secretly he hoped it had been Cathy Moynihan trying to call him, but he’d never hear the end of it if Pagano knew that. Hearing from her would give him some much-needed motivation. He navigated to his voicemail and put the phone to his ear.

  “Mr. Sanders,” the message began. “This is FBI Deputy Director Ivor Hood. One of our agents, Cathy Moynihan, who works out of the WFO, has gone missing, and, according to Ms. Moynihan’s last report, you are the last person she was with.” Sanders’s eyes glazed over. “I see that you are a former employee of the bureau, Mr. Sanders, although Ms. Moynihan was under the impression that you were still employed here, based on her communication. Obviously she had been misinformed.” His adrenaline began to flow as he processed the deputy director’s last sentence. “Please give me a call as soon as you receive this message. We are very concerned about Ms. Moynihan. She was supposed to check in hours ago and has not yet made contact. Her car was found abandoned on the side of the road near Leesburg, VA, this afternoon. You can reach me at…” He provided the area code and number for him to dial.

  When the message ended, Sanders was left frozen, the phone still held to his ear. His head spun as he processed what he’d just heard, and everything around him faded out. He was in denial. He pressed the button to replay the message. His eyes were still glazed, and he hoped somehow that the words would be different this time. When it finished playing for the second time, he slowly turned toward Pagano and took a deep breath.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Sanders said. He passed the phone to Pagano so he could hear the message.

  Now everything had changed. Their world had been turned upside down.

  Pagano parked the car out of sight from the Bratva compound and turned to Sanders.

  “Man, I don’t know,” Pagano said, the confusion evident. “I mean, I guess it’s possible that Hood wouldn’t know about us, but shit, it’s not like I’m feelin’ all warm and fuzzy about it, if you know what I mean.”

  Sanders squirmed in his seat before breaking the uncomfortable silence. “He’s prick-arrogant enough to think he’s above it all. I mean, shit, if you’re on his good side it’s a happy day, but we both know what happens when Culder’s got a serious beef.”

  Pagano’s thoughts turned to the incident on the plane. “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “Good thing you didn’t waste her.”

  Sanders’s eyes narrowed, and Pagano thought better of the comment.

  “Sorry, man. I know you dug that bird.” He saw his friend’s reaction to his use of past tense and quickly said, “She’s probably fine. Culder couldn’t have brought someone else in to do the deed that fast.”

  Sanders felt like shit. “What if she’s not? I’ll have a hard time explaining that I had nothing to do with it, based on the circumstances.” He shook his head. “What the fuck do we do now?”

  “We do what we’re paid to do,” Pagano said. “We won’t let Culder know Hood called us, and we’ll sort that shit out tomorrow.” He looked down at the picture of Trent Turner on the seat between them. “That fucker took out family,” he reminded him. “That’s what matters right now.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. He deserves a little payback, and so do the assholes he works for, that’s for damn sure.”

  They had checked their gear and were headed toward the compound when gunfire erupted.

  Chapter 130

  Kozlov Bratva compound, Chicago, Illinois

  A LOUD GROAN signaled the air leaving his lungs. The blow was as devastating as it was unexpected. Victoria Eden had put Pavel Kozlov in an unfamiliar situation—a situation where he wasn’t in control. She had delivered a direct hit to the Russian’s solar plexus from her seated position and followed it up with an elbow to the temple as he doubled over in pain. Kozlov was unconscious by the time his head smacked the ground. He lay motionless on the concrete floor. The surreal moment of silence and indecision was broken by the cracking sounds of gunfire. It was distant, but the soundtrack heightened her adrenaline rush.

  Eden ran to the door and latched the deadbolt. She stepped to the side, her palms and back to the cold cinder-block wall, and tried to think. The only person who could possibly help her was restrained on the other side of the glass. She took inventory of the room, her eyes darting between the motionless Kozlov, a metal chair, and the one-way mirror. Victoria picked the chair up and threw it against the glass. It bounced back and made a loud clatter as it slid across the concrete floor.

  Frustrated, she picked it up again. When her eye caught the industrial metal table it was positioned in front of, she decided to change her strategy. The table was extremely heavy, but determination gave her the strength to lift it. The clothes slid off its surface to the floor as she backed herself up to the wall, her bare feet unsure under the unevenly distributed weight.

  Using the wall to leverage the weight, she bent her legs so the table could rest on the top of her thighs. She nervously looked down at Kozlov as her limbs began to shake from the strain. She took in a deep breath, focused on the mirror, and ran the table toward the glass like a linebacker with a quarterback in her sights. The glass shattered into a crystalline shower that exploded into the other room.

  Their eyes locked. Trent Turner smiled, obviously impressed with her effort.

  “What the hell ar
e you doing here?” she asked.

  “Getting you out of here,” he said. “Amongst other things.”

  Trent Turner was hopelessly shackled to the wall in his boxers.

  “And how’s that going for you?” she asked, using her sense of humor to cope with the fear.

  The smile still hadn’t left his face. “I’m working on it,” he said. His confidence was off-putting.

  “You’re just too much, Tony, aren’t you?” Eden shook her head. “I guess it’s nice to know chivalry isn’t dead after all.” She gave him an appraising look, and all she could do was laugh. “Not bad,” she said with a playful smile. “This could have been fun if we didn’t have so much company.”

  Turner returned her laugh and said, “A rain check, perhaps?”

  She carefully headed back into the viewing room to check on Kozlov. She had been lucky that they hadn’t selected the glass separating the rooms with security in mind, and that most of the debris had landed in the other room. The Russian was still unconscious, so she began to pull off his shoes.

  Eden was both startled and confused by Turner’s sudden presence.

  “Weren’t you just locked up in there?”

  “Yeah, well, they don’t make restraints like they used to,” Turner joked. “What happened to him?”

  Eden smiled, more with her eyes than lips.

  He picked his clothes up off the floor and began to get dressed. “The name’s Trent, by the way,” he said.

  “Trent?” She pursed her lips. “I liked Tony better.”

  He laughed. “Then call me Tony.” His tone turned serious as the sound of automatic weapons spat out in the background. “Listen, Victoria, I’m sorry to have gotten you involved in this mess. Believe me, that wasn’t my intention. Now I need you to listen to what I say. No questions.”

  The fun-loving banter was over. She was scared, and the situation gave her plenty of reason to listen.

  “I mean it,” Turner said, his eyes willing her to comply. “I’ll get you out of here, but you need to do exactly what I tell you.” He motioned to the unconscious Russian. “These people play for keeps.”

  She gave him a consenting nod as he picked the glass out of his bloody feet and slipped on his boots. She noticed that Turner hadn’t so much as flinched from the pain, which was strangely reassuring. He motioned for her to stand against the concrete wall, and then he dragged Kozlov over to the door.

  A flurry of gunfire erupted out in the hallway as Turner searched the Bratva leader for a weapon. He was unarmed. Turner slowly worked his way to the small window in the door so he could survey the hallway before deciding on their next move. He whisked his head away from the window and appeared completely stunned by what he’d seen. Eden moved carefully, so she could see outside. The penetrating eyes that stared back at her through the window were the eyes of a killer.

  Chapter 131

  THE ENEMY OF your enemy is your friend. It wasn’t the same as having reinforcements, but Jake Sanders and Rudy Pagano were masters of improvisation. They had been working together for so long they knew what the other man was thinking. The operation had evolved into hunting down an operative they knew as Trent, and his hacker accomplice Francis Millar, who was directly involved in the death of Senator Soller’s son. The senator was a man their boss wanted to keep happy. The FBI director had specified that the hacker should be taken alive, and that was the extent of the detail they had. On a personal level, they both wanted to exact revenge for the deaths of their HVT squad members. Revenge was the single motivation for staying the course considering the circumstances.

  Following the incident at the theater, they knew the Russian crime family was involved. There were a lot of loose ends, and some things didn’t add up, and while that had been commonplace for the men of the HVT squad over the past decade, the message from FBI Assistant Director Ivor Hood had brought with it questions and given them cause for concern.

  “What do you think?” Pagano asked Sanders as the two huddled behind overgrown bushes.

  “Looks like the action’s moved inside. Let’s find a way in and check it out.”

  Pagano nodded, and they carefully worked their way toward the building. The New Yorker examined the first door they came to and decided it was safe to open. He signaled to Sanders as he counted down to action. He threw open the door, and his heart rate spiked when he saw the armed soldier standing guard inside.

  The sentry’s back was turned to them, so Sanders quickly moved in to snap his neck before helping him fall quietly to the ground. This clearly wasn’t his first time around the block.

  “One down,” he whispered to Pagano.

  The pair headed inside and quietly descended a flight of stairs that led toward the commotion. The stairwell spilled out into the middle of a long, dimly lit hallway. More shots rang out as they continued moving toward the chaos, with Sanders in the lead.

  Pagano had only taken a few steps when a familiar rat-tat-tat erupted from behind. The weapon carved out a swath of chips in the cement floor and cinder blocks around them. The burst appeared to have been squeezed off as a reaction rather than a concerted action. Pagano slid into the recess of a doorway, and Sanders turned to loose off some defensive rounds as he dove behind a cement column.

  The New Yorker was pinned down, and things weren’t looking good, his only consolation being the fact that they should already be dead. He had an angle to see Sanders’s position. They shared a look that acknowledged their dire straits. He watched as Sanders crouched down to sneak a quick look at the gunmen. His glance was immediately returned with a burst of automatic gunfire.

  Pagano motioned for him to keep going, but the stubborn ex-soldier fired a fuck-you glance as he wiped the sweat and debris from his eyes. Then Sanders’s eyes told him something different, something much more sobering. Nothing short of divine intervention could get him out of his current situation alive.

  Chapter 132

  HE WAS LOOKING at a dead man. He had to check himself to make sure he was awake, to make sure this wasn’t some crazy dream. America had been duly informed that Lieutenant Brendan Manion, US Navy SEAL, had been killed in action in Afghanistan. The fact that he was on the other side of the window was impossible, but Turner couldn’t be happier knowing that they had all been wrong. He unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door.

  “Holy shit,” Turner said. The two men clasped hands and exchanged a shoulder-check hug.

  He stepped aside as Manion passed him a pack loaded with gear.

  “Tell me about it,” Manion replied. He motioned toward the hallway with his thumb. “Twenty-five, maybe thirty Tangos. I just took a couple out down the other hallway, so let’s move fast before they get bold and come for us. They’re slinging lead like they’re taking a Scantron test.”

  There was a groan as the Russian began to regain consciousness. Turner ejected the magazine from the Sig Sauer pistol Manion had handed him, racked the slide and familiarized himself with the weapon.

  He then motioned to the groaning Kozlov and said, “I think he can help us with our exit strategy.”

  Manion nodded his recognition of the Bratva leader. “Nice catch,” he said, and he noticed Turner’s smile spread to his eyes.

  “No doubt.” He pointed out Victoria Eden, who had hidden off to the side behind the door and said, “She took care of him for us. Victoria meet Brendan.”

  “Impressive,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  The stunning beauty forced a nervous smile and shook his hand stiffly.

  Turner addressed Manion. “Apparently you’re a tough man to kill,” he said, still shocked. “Good thing. It’s hard to find good help these days.”

  Turner was still smiling. “Who did you bring with you?” he asked.

  “It’s me, Heckler, and Throaty,” Manion confirmed.

  Throaty’s real name was Chris Livingstone, a former British soldier in the Special Air Service, better known as the SAS. His mother had been a diplomat who worke
d at the United States embassy in London when she met his father. The highly decorated soldier had been brought into Island Industries by Addy Simpson after he retired from the service.

  The SAS sergeant had worked closely with the American military on sensitive joint operations in the Middle East. His gruff voice lent itself to his nickname, Throaty, and Turner knew from experience that he was the kind of man you wanted on your team.

  “There are three of you?” Eden said nervously. “That’s it?”

  Turner gave her a sideways glance with his piercing blue eyes and then moved his thumb and pinky back and forth between the two of them. “Five,” he said confidently. “And we’ve also got a Poor Man watching over us.”

  She returned a quizzical look mixed with annoyance.

  Turner smiled. “Let’s roll.”

  Chapter 133

  NERVOUS EYES DARTED around the dimly lit room as the sound of gunfire erupted outside. The captive team of Bratva hackers flinched with the deadly chorus as it grew louder.

  Dimitri Sokov had locked himself in the server room. For the past several minutes, he had been working frantically to encrypt the remaining files for transit to Northern Virginia. He encountered a program error each time he had tried to run the process to secure the files, and had been unable to figure out and correct the problem.

  He was used to working under pressure, but not this sort of pressure. The muted staccato of violence rose over the sound of computer fans and air-conditioning units. Something had gone horribly wrong. From the soundtrack outside, he knew he’d be lucky if he made it out of the server room, so he no longer considered giving the files to the courier for transport. He decided to change his tactic to the option of last resort when the sound of pressurized air interrupted his thoughts.