by S. L. Jones
Turner turned to his friend and said, “Keep them pinned down. I’m going to get her out of here. I’ll be back before you can say blueberry pie.”
Manion couldn’t help but laugh at the Pulp Fiction reference. “Don’t wake the gimp up,” he replied with a sideways glance.
Turner ushered Soller up the stairs and met Throaty and Cathy Moynihan at the top. He motioned for them to follow him to the exit. He planted his palms firmly on her shoulders and gave her a reassuring look.
“Maria, I need your help. Can I ask you a few questions?”
She nodded and began to cry. “They’ve got Melody,” she said. “You have to get her out of there.”
“That’s the plan, but I need you to think—I mean really think hard about what I’m about to ask you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“How many of them are down there?” He met her eyes as she tried to remember.
“The guy that was holding me, is he…?”
“Don’t count him,” Turner said.
“The older man killed two of them. I think there are four of them down there now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Okay, good. What can you tell me about them? Let’s start with the older man.”
“His leg is hurt. He wasn’t looking very good. He’s got an accent. I’m not sure, but I think he might be Russian.”
Turner nodded in confirmation. “And the others? Anything in particular about them?”
“They’re all pretty big and mean looking. One of them is an American, and the other two have an accent.”
“The same kind of accent that the old man has?”
She nodded.
“Okay, you’ve done really well. Really well considering everything you’ve been through. Thank you.” Turner looked to Throaty and said, “Keep her, Etzy, and Victoria safe. Brendan and I can handle the rest of them. Make sure they don’t surprise us like they did in Chicago.”
Turner noticed Etzy Millar running toward them, and motioned for Maria to turn around.
Millar put his arms around her, and she hugged him tight. “I’m so sorry, Maria,” he said.
“Melody is down there,” she said, her voice shaking from fear. She turned to Turner. “Oh my God, please get her out of there.”
Turner looked to Millar and said, “I’m going in for her now. See you soon.”
“I’m coming,” Moynihan said. “I know the inside better than any of you guys. I might be able to help.”
Turner nodded, and they headed back down the stairs.
Chapter 160
HIS EARS WERE ringing like mad, but he and the two Russians had managed to avoid being blinded by the flashbang that had just been tossed into the hallway.
Bruce Campbell quickly snuck a look at the hallway around the recessed doorway again. This time he wasn’t forced back by an onslaught of automatic weapons fire. He saw his driver’s lifeless body sprawled out on the floor in a growing pool of blood, but no sign of the prisoner. His face soured with the thought that they had lost her.
He made eye contact with the closer of the two Russians and signaled that he was going to retreat and look after Pavel Kozlov. The soldier acknowledged and counted down from three, before whipping his weapon around the recess and opening fire toward the stairwell. Campbell quickly sprinted down the hall and turned the corner just as the magazine had emptied its final round.
Kozlov was leaning against one of the small tables with the barrel of his Makarov pistol pressed firmly into Melody Millar’s skin. The teenager had a distant look in her eyes, and Campbell shook off the inclination to feel sorry for her. “We just have her now,” he said.
More shots rang out from the hallway. The bursts were controlled, and the lack of return fire was alarming.
“You’d better head out now. I’ll hold them off with the girl,” Campbell said.
“I don’t know that I can make it out this time. They’ve surely learned from Chicago.”
Kozlov took his tablet from the desk and reviewed the camera that displayed the hallway leading to their location. “It’s not looking good, my friend. I can die proud knowing we’ve accomplished what we’ve set out to do.”
Campbell was beside himself. He’d never seen the bastard give up on anything, and now when things had gone belly-up he was ready to throw in the towel? He was seething with anger until he realized the problem. The man in front of him was fading. The gunshot wound had been sucking the life out of him and bled his resolve.
“Go. I’ve got this,” Campbell said. “You can make it out of here, and I’ll be right behind you, if I can help it.”
Kozlov smiled. “Okay. I will go. Take her and make sure you make it out behind me. Driving with my leg like this will be a bitch.”
Campbell nodded and grabbed Melody Millar. They both watched the Russian limp away and Campbell grabbed his Sig Sauer P226R from its holster and assumed the position Kozlov had left. He looked to the hallway, and did a double take when his gaze was met by The American. His heart pounded as he stared down the silencer fitted to the man’s MP7A1 and wondered whether this would be how it all ended.
“What’s the cliché? So we meet again… Is that how it goes?” Campbell said.
The American didn’t answer, and his silence brought with it the realization that Campbell had been transformed from the hunter into the hunted. He felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead which were in direct contrast to the coldness of the man’s eyes. He considered his options, subconsciously pushing his gun deeper into the flesh of the frightened teenager.
“What now?” Campbell asked as his thoughts spiraled out of control. He firmed his finger’s grip on the trigger, desperately grasping for a position of strength.
Chapter 161
TRENT TURNER REALIZED that he had just cornered a wild animal. Experience told him that the man in front of him holding the gun to Melody Millar’s head was smart enough to know he was out of options. He could see the man’s confidence drip away with the sweat down his forehead. His voice had lacked confidence, but more than anything else, it was the desperation in his eyes.
“It’s over. Put the gun down and let the girl go,” Turner said, emotionless.
The words only further agitated the man.
“What, so you can kill me?” he said sarcastically. “Sure. I’ll just hand over my gun, maybe bend over and grab my ankles, if that suits you. How does that sound?” He shook his head in disgust. “How about this…?” he said, stabbing the barrel of his gun into Millar’s skin with each syllable. “You can keep your gun. Just turn the fuck around and leave. Then this will be over.”
Turner remained silent. He recognized him as the man from the park in DC and knew the gunman’s ego would also be in play.
He tightened his grip on the girl. “No?” he spat. He motioned his head in the direction his gun was pointing. “Then how about we make that wall our canvas and try a little Jackson Pollock experiment?”
Turner’s eyes narrowed.
“Blood and brain matter make a unique medium for a work of art,” the gunman said. “We can take art to the next level.” He smiled with a crazed expression on his face. “You only have one chance to get it right. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and some clumps of hair will make it to the wall too. I’ve always been a fan of modern art. How about you?”
It was painful for Turner to see the teenager having to deal with this stress. The operative knew his limits. His expertise was in killing people and vanishing. They were things for which he had an incredible talent. Trying to negotiate a hostage situation wasn’t part of his playbook, and the man in front of him was coming unraveled.
“You know it’s too late, don’t you?” the Bratva soldier said in desperation. “One of the dead guys in the other room,” he continued, “he’s the only one who could’ve stopped whatever shit they’re up to from happening.”
Those were words Turner didn’t want to hear. Unless The Shop could wor
k some kind of miracle, he’d failed. The only upside was that he was now left with only one concern: saving the young woman in front of him.
The lack of response continued to unnerve the gunman. “So if I were to let her go, where would that leave me?” he asked.
The stone-cold face of The American gave nothing away.
“You’ll make it out of here alive,” Trent Turner finally said.
He could tell his answer didn’t sit well. This was a man who would do anything to avoid prison, and with every passing second he could see the man’s eyes processing the fact that life as he knew it was over.
At fifteen feet, Turner had no doubt that he could quickly sink several of the DM11 Penetrator rounds into the man’s head without harming the girl. He just needed an opportunity to do it before the bastard could squeeze the trigger. It was clear that his target had a short fuse—and it was burning fast. Turner remained a picture of focus, detached from any emotion Melody Millar’s despondent eyes might bring to the surface.
He first sensed it, and then he saw someone in his peripheral vision approaching from the left. He took a step back so he could have a clearer view without taking his eye off the Bratva soldier. The person’s frame was much smaller than Manion’s or Throaty’s, so he knew it had to be FBI agent Cathy Moynihan. He began to breathe slowly to reduce his heart rate, knowing there was no margin for error with Melody Millar’s life in the balance.
Turner was confident Moynihan would walk into the target’s view, based on the aggressive position he’d taken with his weapon and stance. He just needed a little luck for her to provide the distraction he needed before it was too late. He waited patiently for a flicker of movement in the killer’s crazed eyes, the momentary blip that represented the infinitesimal window of opportunity.
In a flash it was over. Turner squeezed the trigger and hammered a burst of rounds into the Bratva man. He collapsed to the ground like a stretched-out accordion that had played its final tune. Melody Millar’s face went from horror to relief as Turner took a deep breath and exhaled his stress away. The teenager locked eyes with him, and just as they had begun to soften, three sudden shots were fired.
Millar’s expression turned to shock as blood pumped from the side of her neck. Her legs started to give as Trent Turner sprinted forward to break her fall. He swung his gun in the direction the gunshots had come from when the long passageway came into view. He recognized the form of Pavel Kozlov and he squeezed the trigger, but he didn’t break stride. His focus was on Etzy Millar’s sister. Trent made a final lunge to catch her before she hit the ground.
He wasn’t sure if he’d hit Kozlov at first, but that wasn’t his main concern. He trusted the FBI agent could handle the Russian. Turner looked down at the young girl in his arms and knew her wounds would be fatal. She didn’t deserve any of this. He knew he couldn’t live with himself if he let her die scared and alone. The fear was something he couldn’t do much about, but at least he could be there for her.
He looked into her eyes and said, “Stay with me, Melody. Your brother is on his way. Hang on. You’re going to be okay.”
She coughed up blood when she tried to speak, tears welling up in her eyes. Turner looked down and realized she had also been shot in the chest, and her lung had probably been damaged. He felt fucking useless and full of rage. As he looked back into her eyes, he heard the expected report of several gunshots. They came from two guns. He looked into the fading eyes of Melody Millar, willing away the pain from the lead that had just ripped through his chest. He needed to stay with her. Until the end.
“Just hang in there, Melody. Etzy loves you. He’ll be here soon,” he said. His voice wasn’t as steady this time; bitter sadness was now mixed with pain.
He knew all too well what it was like to look into the eyes of someone who was dying, but this time it was different. She didn’t sign up for a life of violence—she was an innocent. He watched helplessly as the person behind the frightened eyes faded away to nothing. She didn’t die alone, but that didn’t change the fact that she was dead. He had failed to save her.
He surrendered to the pain.
“I got him,” he heard Moynihan say as the world swam around him and slowly faded to black.
Chapter 162
THE RATCHETING SOUND of a roller coaster being towed uphill was overpowering, and then he had the sensation that he was falling. Suddenly the brakes came on, and Trent Turner’s eyes abruptly opened as he gasped for air.
“Goddamn it, wake up. Wake up, kiddo,” he heard echoing over and over. He could see the blurry outline of Jack Turner kneeling over him, but his voice was still muffled and distant, like a radio station that he couldn’t quite tune in. Trent closed his eyes again, and his thoughts turned to Melody Millar, and he felt an overwhelming sense of regret.
“Open your fuckin’ eyes, Trent.” His voice boomed like a drill sergeant’s. “We fuckin’ need you, so don’t go dying on me, you little shit!”
Jack Turner’s words worked like a primal call to wake a beast from hibernation. Trent’s survival instincts overrode his pain, and he tried to sit up. He opened his eyes. Maria Soller and Etzy Millar were in tears, looking down on him. The last few minutes played back in his head all at once. His eyes fell to the floor next to him. Someone had covered Melody Millar up the best they could, but he felt his spirits deflate the moment he saw the pool of blood surrounding her body.
“That’s what I’m talking about, kiddo,” Jack said. “We need you, buddy. There might be a chance to stop this thing from going down after all.”
“What?” Trent said, still confused. “It’s too late, Uncle Jack. They’ve already sent the commands.”
“I know, buddy, but we’ve gotta try. Etzy’s a mess. We’ve gotta get you to the laptop in the other room. The shit on the screen’s some kinda Russian-commie-Chinese or some shit, and nobody can read what the fuck it says but you.”
Russian was one of the languages the operative was fluent in. He tried to stand, but he immediately dropped back down to the ground. He felt weak, like he was going to lose consciousness again.
“Easy, kiddo, easy. You’re a tough bastard, but you’re not Superman. Etzy did good. He remembered something about the piece of paper the Russian handed Brendan that saved your lives. It told you a bomb was about to go off.”
Trent remained silent and still didn’t understand why that mattered.
“Etzy remembered that there was something else written on the paper. The Shop pulled the video feed from Brendan’s helmet cam, and he was right. There was a sixteen-digit code they think might be the missing encryption key. They want to see if there’s some way to send a command that will stop this, but nobody can read the screen on the computers.”
He felt himself fading again, and then he saw Victoria Eden. Their eyes met for a brief moment. The concern in her eyes helped to melt away some of his pain. She was what his mom would call a keeper. He thought about the impossibility of a relationship, and with that thought he closed his eyes and sunk back to the ground.
“Your brother would be proud of you, Trent,” Jack said. His eyes opened, and his uncle’s tone had changed. There was a combination of tenderness and regret. “He wanted to let you know that he’d figured out who you were. That you were Finger.”
Trent perked up, not quite comprehending what his uncle was saying. “What?” he said.
“You two had become best friends again and didn’t even know it.” Jack Turner smiled warmly. “Ryan was Tak, your handler.”
The words swirled around in his head like a merry-go-round. It was like the animals had come to life and were sprinting around the platform.
“Tak?” he said, still trying to process what was said.
“Yeah, Tak,” Jack said, his eyes now betraying his smile.
Trent sat up on his own at the revelation. Conversations the two had had over the years started to flash through his mind. He connected the dots, and now it was all painfully obvious. He smiled at th
e thought of his brother as Tak and the times they had shared.
“When did he find out?”
“Recently. Addy didn’t even know yet. Only me.”
Chapter 163
THE WORLD WAS still spinning around him. Trent Turner looked up at Etzy Millar and shared a silent moment of sadness.
“I’m sorry, Etzy,” he said.
The hacker gave him a solemn nod.
Trent looked to his uncle. “Help me up,” he said. “Let’s get this shit done quick. I need a fucking doctor.”
“The ambulance is on its way,” Jack said as he and Brendan picked Trent up. “Cyn, are you online?”
They had been working to patch her through their comms.
“Yes, Jack, I’m here. Can you hear me?”
“Roger that,” he confirmed. “Finger won’t say much, but he’s listening.”
“Okay,” she said. “Finger, we think we have the encryption code. There were some files sent earlier, we know that, but we don’t think we can monitor the entire botnet yet, so we’re not in a position to know whether they’re sending the attack in waves or not. It could be that they haven’t sent files and commands to all of the banks.”
Trent could hear the hopeful desperation in her voice.
“We need to see if there’s any way to send a command to abort the process,” she continued. “They have a C&C server there, and we think they’ve dug out a small bunker near the property line by the highway and somehow tapped into one of the fiber lines leading to the area data centers. Jack said it’s too risky to try to get in there. It might be rigged to blow like the other place.”
“So that’s it?” Trent asked in disbelief. “We’re just going in there on blind luck, hoping you actually have the encryption key and there’s a way to stop this from the console?”
The two men had carefully guided him to the room with the laptops.