by S. L. Jones
“Were you able to pull the call?” Simpson asked.
“Yes,” Grayson confirmed. “His voice was slurred, and as he apologized to his wife, his tone seemed to turn increasingly dark. The analyst identified the sound of an engine accelerating in the background before he ended the call. We’re trying to confirm whether it was from his vehicle, but at this point we believe that to be the case.” She knew what they were thinking, and she had come to the same conclusion. “The call disconnected at almost the same time the phone’s signal disappeared. The police found the device smashed inside the car. It was ugly. All indications point to the senator taking his own life by driving off the bridge on MacArthur Drive. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been driving that fast. It’s a fair plunge all the way down to Cabin John Parkway, so that would be a good place to make sure you did the job. The police are going to speculate that it was an animal on the road.”
“And the Federal Reserve?” the president asked.
Grayson had been unnerved by what she’d found, knowing the impact this single attack would have on the United States.
“They’re in a complete panic. Bart Stapleton tried to call Soller several times this morning. He’ll quickly find out about his death. It sounds like they’ve lost nearly two trillion dollars from their foreign accounts so far.”
“Jesus,” Simpson said.
The president remained silent.
Grayson could sense the tension and added, “Chairman Stapleton has mentioned a call with you, Mr. President, in some of the communications we’ve intercepted. He stopped short of saying you were involved, but the death of the senator has him paranoid.”
“Mr. President,” Ivor Hood chimed in, “I’m not sure if this would help, but we did finally find Stapleton. He came in late last night from Portugal.”
“We’ll check with our sources over there,” President Cross said. “Let’s see if our friendly neighborhood cabal had a meeting. If they did, maybe that will help us figure out what’s happened to the money. It looks like our long forgotten communist pals have figured out how to hit us where it hurts. Shit, if they pull this off…”
“Mr. President,” Grayson said, “we’ve been monitoring the Fed very closely, considering the circumstances, and we do have some limited information.”
“Go ahead.”
“Someone from the Fed did initiate a transfer of sixty-seven billion dollars from Banque Suisse to Iraq’s central bank. It happened at six fourteen this morning, and almost immediately after that transaction every substantial bank account of theirs we know of also made a transfer of the same amount. A couple of them fired it off twice.” She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. “We’ve just seen that one of the banks with a duplicate transfer tried to call for verification of the wire, and it was redirected to a number in Europe. We hope to have the conversation pulled from Red Hook to see what was said. We suspect they’ve hacked the phone system to pull this off and we’ll come to find the same situation with the other transfers.”
“How do you know the first transfer was legit?” When she didn’t immediately respond, Cross said, “Never mind, Cyndi, I don’t need to know. I’m sure you have your ways. Can we get the money back somehow?”
“I highly doubt it. I suspect they’ve moved the money several times by now, but the team is looking into it as we speak,” she said, and then her voice saddened. “Unfortunately, the one man who might have been able to help was killed recently.”
“Talk about timing,” the president lamented. “You’re probably right, they would have moved it too quickly. If this second attack goes through”—he paused and then blew out a deep breath—“I’m afraid it will make the Great Depression look like a night at the Four Seasons in Paris. Let’s hope Karl Marx wasn’t right about history repeating itself, and we don’t have the reincarnation of the Bolsheviks.”
Chapter 153
Kozlov Bratva hideout, Leesburg, VA
TRENT TURNER’S HEAD swung back toward the sound of the gunshot. He was thankful not to hear the familiar sound of a bullet cutting through the air.
“Shit, who are they shooting at?” he asked.
They had just come to within earshot of the others when Manion said, “I don’t know, but that was a large-caliber rifle for sure. Lucky we didn’t run into him when we were down there.” He turned to Throaty, Jake Sanders, and Rudy Pagano. “We need to be more careful. Those Spetsnaz boys are deadly accurate behind the scope.”
“Does that increase the pucker factor?” Turner joked.
Rudy Pagano shook his head and laughed. “The only pucker I’ve seen in this crew was from that little beauty queen who had eyes for you.” His accent was Bronx to the core. “I’ll tell ya, Trent, I thought she was gonna cry when you didn’t return that little peck on the cheek.”
Turner shook his head in embarrassment. He hoped nobody had noticed, but all of these men had been trained to pick up the kind of details an average person would miss.
“Tough crowd here,” he said, amused with the banter. “You don’t waste any time busting balls, do you?”
Pagano smiled. He headed toward Jack Turner’s pickup truck and said, “Hey, you’re a friend of a friend of a friend. It’s like I’ve known you for years. We’re practically family.” He wore an infectious grin. “It only gets worse.”
Everyone burst out in hushed laughter.
Turner was beginning to enjoy having Pagano and Sanders around. A sense of humor was good for the tense moments before going into battle.
“I’m sure it does. I’ll be looking forward to that,” Turner said with a laugh.
Pagano gave him a sideways glance.
Turner smiled. “Seriously, I mean it. As far as the other subject goes”—he circled his index finger in the air to indicate the motley group of operatives—“the last thing she needs is to get mixed up in all of this.”
Turner was certain they had chewed through their fair share of relationships and had all come to the conclusion the job wasn’t conducive to romance.
“A little help?” Pagano said as he reached into the back of the pickup for the PMD II. “We need to get this thing up in the air so we can figure out if there are any other surprises waiting for us.”
The overhanging trees made it impossible to launch this larger version of the flying machine from the back of the vehicle.
Jack Turner was closest, so he went over to help.
“There’s a clearing we can launch it from over there,” he said as they pulled the portable drone out of the truck.
“I’ve got it now, Jack,” Pagano said with a wink after it had cleared the bed. The gesture obviously referred to his foot injury. “We wouldn’t want you to throw out your back too.”
Jack Turner shook his head with a smile and looked over to Sanders. “Is he always like this? We should charge admission.”
“Afraid so,” Sanders said. “Pretty soon you’ll want to pay him to shut the fuck up.”
The sudden rev of an engine commanded their attention. It was coming from the direction of the compound. The operatives quickly took cover and drew their weapons as the sound approached.
Trent Turner was closest to the vehicle when it careened around a curve in the fire road practically out of control. The driver’s head was ducked down so far, he could only make out the whirling jet-black ponytail and see a woman’s head from the eyes up. The Audi whisked by his location, and the driver slammed on its brakes just after it passed his uncle’s pickup truck.
They heard a female’s voice and then three pairs of hands slowly raised up from inside the convertible. Sanders and Pagano approached cautiously with their suppressed Heckler & Koch MP7A1s trained on the vehicle. As Sanders crept toward the car, his eyes filled with surprise, and he lowered his weapon.
“Holy shit. Cathy?” he said, recognizing the FBI agent.
“Don’t forget to mention Etzy and Victoria, lover boy,” Pagano joked.
“Hey guys,” Victoria Eden said. “I sa
w that beast of a truck”—she motioned to Jack Turner’s Hemi—“and I figured it might be a good idea to stop in case those assholes came after us. They’ve still got Melody and Maria in there.” Her voice conveyed fear and desperation. “Those poor girls need your help.”
She scanned around the area expectantly with a look of disappointment on her face, until Trent Turner emerged from a thicket of bushes. She cocked her head to the side and produced a smile that could thaw a glacier. After what she’d seen last night, she knew the girls would need him for the best chance to survive.
Trent looked to the sky with a shake of his head and said, “I’ll give it to you, you sure know how to make a guy feel stalked.” He couldn’t help but laugh at the improbability of seeing her again. “How in the hell did you end up here?”
“My phone,” she said. “It must have fallen out in your uncle’s truck when he gave us a ride to catch a cab. I looked it up online, and it led me to that building back there.” She motioned toward the compound. “I guess that’s the closest house to this yellow beast,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders.
The operatives listened to see if they could hear anything coming, when the silence was broken by the ring of a cell phone.
Chapter 154
PAVEL KOZLOV GRABBED the iPad that displayed the video streams throughout the compound and quickly limped to the basement room where they held the prisoners. Inside, Dimitri Sokov sat at a metal desk, and two laptops were plugged into a switch connecting them to the Ethernet jack on the wall. The Russian’s fingers pecked away at the keyboard in a constant rhythm. He was a picture of focus as he prepared the backup command-and-control server to send out its final instruction to the botnet. He had only been able to get the commands out for a handful of banks thus far. This time, with a single keystroke, the Russian would set a chain of events in motion that would turn the United States of America into a third-world country.
“Dimitri, how much longer until you’re finished?” Kozlov asked in Russian.
“Very soon, very soon,” he responded, completely engrossed in what he was doing.
Kozlov’s brow creased. This time his voice carried a hint of anger. “How long, Dimitri? I need to know how long.”
The hacker snapped out of his rhythm and turned to his boss. His eyes expressed shock, and Kozlov understood it was due to his pale, sweaty appearance. The effects of his wound had been worsening.
“It will be just a couple of minutes,” he said. “I’m almost finished. Then there will be no way to stop the attack from happening.”
“Good. Hurry,” Kozlov said. “We don’t have much time.”
Bruce Campbell entered the room with the remaining two prisoners who were flanked by the two Russians.
Kozlov’s expression turned angry. The American looked too content for his liking.
“Why have you not gone after them?” he spat, his eyes seething with rage.
Campbell reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Why waste the energy when we can get him to come back voluntarily?” He motioned to the hacker’s sister and girlfriend. “We’re only a phone call away. Shall we?”
Kozlov almost smiled. Sometimes the solution to a problem was so obvious, you failed to see it. He observed Campbell curiously as he worked the phone’s display.
“No signal,” Campbell said. “Looks like we’ll have to go upstairs.”
Kozlov followed him out of the room, up the stairs and to the control room on the first floor.
“We’ve got a signal here,” Campbell confirmed. He worked the touch screen to return Etzy Millar’s call and put the phone on speaker. “You can do the honors, boss.”
The phone rang five times before Etzy Millar answered.
“Hello,” he said.
“It would be a shame if something unspeakable happened to these two young ladies with me here, now wouldn’t it?” Kozlov said.
His plan was to put the hacker off-balance.
“Please—”
Kozlov’s tone turned sadistic. “Did you know there are several men here with me, very large and strong men, who haven’t had the pleasure of a woman in months? I suspect they would appreciate some fresh meat to entertain themselves with.”
There was a short pause before the hacker spoke, his voice shaky. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt them.”
A smile formed a slash across the Russian’s pale face. “Come back here now, and bring the two women with you, or the next time you see your sister and girlfriend will be on the Internet. I doubt either one of them has made a sex video. Maybe they’re exhibitionists at heart—what do you think? It could be an enjoyable final salvo, something dramatic and titillating for the world to remember them by.” He waited to see if the hacker would respond, but he didn’t. “If that’s not how you want them to live out their last few moments, I suggest you turn the car around. You have five minutes. We start with your girlfriend. She could use a couple of men to warm her up before the finale.”
He didn’t wait for an answer before he ended the call.
“Do you think the police are on their way?” Campbell asked.
“I have no idea, but we should proceed as if they are,” Kozlov said. “Make sure the men are ready for anything.”
Campbell nodded to Kozlov. They heard a single shot come from outside.
“Do you think the cops could be here already?” Campbell asked.
The Russian looked down at the display on his iPad and flipped through the screen. He didn’t see anyone on the cameras trained outside.
“Nothing here. Come, let’s check on Dimitri’s progress. You can take a couple of men and find out what he was shooting at.”
The two men headed back downstairs, Kozlov enduring the excruciating pain from his leg. Once they made it to the room with the laptops, Dimitri Sokov turned around with a smile.
“Dimitri, have you done it?” Kozlov asked with an air of satisfaction in his voice.
“Yes, Pavel. It’s done.”
“Is there anyone who can stop this now?”
“No. We are in the clear. Nobody can stop us.”
Kozlov stared at his comrade in deep thought and said, “Can you stop this from happening?”
Sokov looked at him with a nervous smile that faded quickly. His mouth transformed into a thin slit of tension, and sweat formed on his brow.
“Thank you for your service to Mother Russia,” Kozlov said.
Sokov exhaled in relief and began to breathe again. Just as he turned back to his laptop, the Bratva boss leveled a Makarov pistol at his head and squeezed the trigger. He immediately turned the weapon on the remaining hacker and hammered a round into his head. He shot a quick glance toward the corner of the room and saw Millar and Soller huddled together. Scared—just how he wanted them.
“Get outside and bring some men,” he told Campbell. “I’ll keep the prisoners here with me.”
Chapter 155
NO ONE COULD have predicted this. Just seconds after they had hung up the phone with Pavel Kozlov, they heard the whizzing sound of a bullet, followed by the report of a rifle. They all turned to the groan in the clearing and were horrified by the sight. Trent Turner and Brendan Manion instinctively clasped onto the shoulders of Jake Sanders and Cathy Moynihan as they tried to surge forward toward the blood-soaked mass of Rudy Pagano. It was the sniper again. The operatives realized he must have nestled himself in a tree stand high enough to have a vantage point to the small clearing.
The sniper had been trained well. Pagano had been shot in the stomach, sentenced to an agonizing death that would last several minutes. The gunman now sat in waiting, hoping the injured man would draw someone out, someone only concerned with helping him. Someone who would make an easy next victim.
Jack Turner quickly launched the PMD on its predetermined path to scout out the Russian’s compound. At least the New Yorker’s effort wouldn’t have been in vain.
“He needs help,” Moynihan demanded. “Let me g
o!”
Sanders shook his head with a grave finality. “Cathy, he’s a dead man now, and thanks to them we haven’t joined him,” he said.
She didn’t understand why that would be the case but realized he was serious. The FBI agent had already gone over what she knew about the Russian’s compound and manpower, so she and Sanders headed quickly to the edge of the trees. He had to put out his arm to stop her from going too far.
“Rudy, buddy,” Sanders said, “come this way. You can make it. Come on, man.”
Pagano looked to his friend, his eyes already resigned to his fate. “Sorry, Jake.”
“Come on, you can do it,” Sanders insisted. “Just get close enough for me to grab your hand, and we’ll get you help. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” He forced a smile. “Assholes don’t die young.”
Rudy took his hand off his shredded gut and tried to drag himself across the ground. With each passing second, his groans of pain grew weaker.
“Hold on there, buddy,” Sanders said. “I’ll be right back. Just hold on. I’ll grab some rope.” He turned to her and put up his palms. “That sniper left him alive to lure us out there. Trust me. He’s bait in a cruel reality.”
Moynihan watched Sanders run back toward the others. She was horrified by the tactic. The call they had just received had been a telling prelude of what might come, and she knew she’d need to get back to the car soon. She looked to her side and saw a long branch on the ground. She picked it up and offered it to Pagano, stretching as far as she could.
“Here. Grab hold of this, and I’ll pull you to me,” she said.
Pagano’s eyes were desperate. He reached out and clamped his hands onto his only hope. Adrenaline fueled Moynihan as she reeled in the wounded man. With each heave he came inches closer, until he was close enough that she could grab his hands to pull him in.