The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (47 page)

Kozlov Bratva compound, Chicago, Illinois

THE FIVE BRATVA men emerged from the small shed and piled into a Ford pickup truck parked outside. The vehicle wasn’t in line with Pavel Kozlov’s usual tastes, but that was the point. A battered old truck wouldn’t draw attention and would be a discreet getaway option if he ever needed one. The truck was kept in good working order, so the engine fired up immediately. He was in excruciating pain but still managed to remain stoic.

“Pavel, we need to blow the server room,” Sokov said nervously in Russian.

Kozlov turned to him and winced with a nod. He pulled his phone out and began to thumb through the display. “You are certain we have everything we need at the other location?” The Russian wanted absolute confirmation before they blew away nearly two years of work.

Sokov’s voice was confident. “Yes, the necessary files have been copied to another location. Everything will be ready, and there will be no time for the Americans to react.”

“You’re sure of this?” Kozlov questioned further. The pain from his wound reflected in his voice. “The hackers that got away, they cannot stop this?”

“No, the hackers do not know enough to stop us. The operation will go as planned. They are collecting the necessary files as we speak.”

Kozlov closed his eyes and exhaled. “As we speak?”

Sokov shrunk in the seat. “Yes, I am awaiting confirmation.”

Kozlov remained silent, with a scornful look on his face. Earlier, Sokov had overstated what had been done, and it was frustrating for the Bratva leader that to him, any work in progress was considered to be as good as done. Minor details were what led to failure.

“But we will wait to hear from Virginia first,” Sokov said, interrupting Kozlov’s thoughts. “Before we blow the place.”

Sokov pulled up the video-camera feed for the server room on his phone. Kozlov felt the hacker prodding his arm with his elbow before turning the display so the Bratva leader could see it.

Kozlov shifted his eyes to the screen, first with lack of interest and annoyance, but it quickly turned to hatred as The American and another operative came into view.

“That’s the server room?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes,” Sokov said. “We can take care of two things at once.” The pickup truck began to ease forward, and he was startled when his phone rang.

Kozlov looked over at Sokov and nodded his approval to answer, hopeful it would be good news.

“’Allo?” Sokov answered. He listened for a moment and flashed Kozlov a smile. “Very good.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Make sure you shred the files on the server,” he insisted.

It wasn’t good enough for the hacker to simply delete the files. They needed to make sure that the sectors on the hard disk wouldn’t have remnants from which a forensic specialist could recreate them. Sokov needed him to be thorough, and execute a hacker’s version of wiping away fingerprints.

Sokov gave Pavel Kozlov an approving nod, and the Bratva leader punched at the display on his phone. Seconds later they saw a flash from the massive explosion just before they heard it.

Kozlov closed his eyes, tilted his head back and took a deep breath. His small victory brought a cautious smile.

Kozlov Bratva compound, Chicago, Illinois

THE RINGING SOUND dominated his ears. Throaty shook his head, trying to wipe the cobwebs from the massive concussion. He pulled his shirt over his nose and buried his eyes into his sleeve trying to blink out the darkness. The ringing eventually gave way to a muted voice in the background.

“What the hell was that, over?” Heckler repeated.

Throaty listened intently, still trying to regain his senses.

“The compound has men charging out of the exits like rats from a sinking ship,” Heckler continued, his concern evident. “Poor Man, do you see anything on the cameras, over?”

“Uh, nothing on the feed here, Heckler, over,” he responded. There was a measure of fear in his voice from seeing that the helmet cams were now ominously blank.

“Throaty, Caretaker, do you read, over?” Jack Turner repeated. “I see a Ford pickup headed for the exit. Throaty, Caretaker, do you read, over?”

Throaty coughed and was slowly starting to come around. He heard the voices but still couldn’t process the words.

There was a long, nervous silence over the radio.

“Heckler, this is Poor Man. We’re still not getting a feed from the helmet cams, over,” Millar chimed in anxiously.

“Copy that, Poor Man. I just sent two rounds into the vehicle, but it managed to crash out through the gate, over,” Heckler said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“Heckler,” Throaty finally coughed, his voice even harsher than normal. “I can’t see a damn thing down here.” He continued to cough violently as he brought his sleeve up to filter the dust and smoke from his nose. The ringing in his ears had just started to settle down. He had cranked up the volume on his radio but was still having difficulty understanding what was being said. “It’s tough to breathe. I’m trying to make my way to the blast so I can check on the others, over.” The dust had settled enough for him to see the outline of Victoria Eden sitting on the floor. “Stay here,” he said.

“Okay,” she responded before launching into an uncontrollable cough.

The violinist had already pulled her shirt up over her nose, but now she closed her eyes and wrapped her arms tightly around her knees.

“Do you know how to use this?” Throaty asked as he held out his pistol, inching closer to see her face more clearly. When she opened her eyes and nodded, he handed it to her and said, “The safety is off. All you need to do is squeeze the trigger.” He looked to Jake Sanders and Rudy Pagano. “Can you keep an eye on her?”

“Rudy can stay with her,” Sanders said. “I’ll give you a hand. There’s two of them.”

Throaty’s mind digested Sanders’s comment, and it conveyed a sobering fact. He would indeed need help with carrying the bodies. His hearing was still unreliable with the ringing, so his head was on a swivel as he and Sanders crept forward, their weapons ready to fire.

“What’s going on down there, over?” Heckler asked impatiently.

“Something big blew. I think it was the server room,” Throaty said. His tone turned grim. “Finger and Caretaker were in there. I don’t think they could have made it out.”

“Don’t use the front door,” he said, the gravity of the loss weighing on his words. “The Tangos have RVed there, over.”

“Roger that,” Throaty replied. “I’ll check with you on an exit and head straight to the ERV once we’re sorted.” His sight was improving as more dust settled. The operative stumbled over a body and quickly caught his balance on the wall. “It’s not looking good down here, over.”

Hart Senate Office Building, Washington, DC

SENATOR MAXIMILLIAN SOLLER’S mood continued to swing between foul, angry, and grim as he relived recent events. He had continued to drink, which was having an effect on his concentration and ability to reason. The lights in his office were now turned on as he watched nothing in particular on the flat-screen television bolted to the wall. He had closed his eyes to take another swig of scotch when the sudden ring of his cell phone unsteadied his hand.

The senator grumbled incoherently as he reached for the device. “What?” he snarled.

“We’ve got a problem,” FBI Director Culder said.

Soller shook his head; in his state unable to comprehend how things could get any worse. “And what might that be?” he said, his tone bordering sarcasm.

“I sent our guys to meet with your friend,” Culder said, referring to Jake Sanders and Rudy Pagano.

Soller didn’t have the mental capacity to put clues together; there was too much alcohol swirling around in his blood. Culder’s reference to their two operatives going after the man from Island Industries had been completely lost on him.

“My friend?” he said, his slurred words punctuating his confusion.

Culder allowed himself a pause in frustration. “Yes.” His voice conveyed his annoyance. “Your friend. The one you want to question about your son.”

Soller’s eyes snapped open, the mention of his son having a sobering effect. “I see, and how is that going?”

“It doesn’t seem to be going very well at the moment. I haven’t heard from them since they left for the meeting. Apparently somebody crashed the party, literally.”

Soller’s mind struggled to understand the somewhat cryptic message.

“From what I can see on the local news footage,” Culder explained, referring to the massive explosion at the Bratva compound, “it’s possible that we’re looking at a forced early retirement.”

Soller’s face turned to a nasty frown. “You mean like our friends at the house last night?”

“That’s right,” Culder said.

The senator had mixed feelings about the news. Now his illicit gang of operatives no longer carried the threat of exposure. Dead men couldn’t be dragged in front of a hearing to testify against him. He decided the loss might not be such a bad thing, and before he could consider whom he might contact to finish the job, his thoughts were interrupted.

“I also got a call from your old friend,” Culder said. The senator didn’t respond, so he added, “John Simpson.”

Soller remained silent.

“He said to pull back. He told me that we’re ‘in over our heads’ with this one,” Culder added.

The senator was fuming. Telling him what he could or couldn’t do was a surefire way to meet resistance. “It sounds like he’s taken care of our pulling back, wouldn’t you say?” Soller quipped. He raised his glass and took another swig as he contemplated the news. “How the hell did he find out about what we were up to?”

“I have no idea,” Culder said.

Soller’s thoughts turned to the FBI director. Before long, it would be time for him to find a new job. He had managed to get his ten-year tenure extended by another two, but not without cashing in some favors. He drained his glass and decided that since the HVT squad was now out of commission, it was time to cut Culder loose.

“It’s not as bad as it could be,” the director said flatly.

“Oh?” the senator slurred, curious of the man who had seemingly read his mind. He reached for the bottle, bemused, and refilled his glass.

“I have what we need to crucify your friend.”

Soller smiled—truly smiled—for the first time since his son had been killed. Even in his state, he understood the allusion to President Cross.

“Brilliant,” he said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

He abruptly ended the call and began to raise his glass.

A ring interrupted the motion again. “Goddamn it,” he growled as he snatched the phone off his desk.

He looked at the display and savored a taste of his scotch before answering. “I hope you have good news for me,” he said.

“That I do,” Federal Reserve Chairman Bart Stapleton said. “The meeting was a success. Everything is set for the morning. All of the transfers will be made. I have a good feeling about this. We’re in the oil business again.”

Soller took a deep breath in content. It was getting late, and he needed some sleep.

“Excellent news,” he said. “Excellent.”

Route 66 near Arlington, VA

THE SOUND OF an incoming text message interrupted his train of thought. Etzy Millar was still out of sorts from the message he had received from his girlfriend, Maria Soller, last night. The Shop was able to trace the signal to a location in Virginia, and his only option was to trust the operatives there could pull off a miracle and save the two women he loved. Part of him didn’t want to know what this new message said. He feared for his sister and girlfriend after all the senseless killing of the past two days. He knew the message was something he couldn’t ignore, so he slid his finger across the screen and began to read.

Call this number now or we will kill them both.

His heart skipped a beat before it pounded like a sledgehammer trying to break through his chest. His breath had become short, and he started to feel ill. He took a couple of deep breaths before he was able to speak.

“Take this exit please,” Millar told the cabbie, his voice sickly.

Dennis Zander looked over at his new friend.

“What’s wrong, Etzy?” he asked quietly.

Millar glanced at Zander. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he closed his eyes and tried to stop his hands from shaking. His breathing was concentrated while he tried to regain control. The cabdriver had reached the end of the exit ramp by the time he opened his eyes.

“Here. Pull over here,” he said urgently, pointing at a hotel.

The cabdriver quickly turned into the driveway, and Millar opened the door. He looked to Zander and said, “Look, you need to take care of things with The Shop. Something’s come up, and I can’t help you guys out right now.”

He slammed the door shut before Zander could speak.

Millar’s mind raced. He would be damned if he was going to let someone else die. He’d figure something out on his own. By now whoever had his sister and girlfriend realized they couldn’t trace the number he was using to send the text messages. Once he placed the call, things would be different. They would be able to find him, but he didn’t care. He planned on taking that option away.

He dialed Maria Soller’s cell phone number and took in another deep breath.

“Today is your lucky day,” the man answered.

Millar was confused. He stuttered and finally asked, “Who is this?”

“This is the person who will kill your sister and your girlfriend if you don’t do what you’re told. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, sure,” Millar said nervously. The man didn’t have a Russian accent, and his voice sounded vaguely familiar.

“Please don’t hurt them. We can make a trade.”

“A trade?”

“Me for them. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like you’re on the right track,” he said, sounding amused, almost baiting. “How do you suggest we handle this?”

“I’ll come to you.”

“You will?”

Millar sensed angst in the man’s voice and decided it had something to do with him figuring out where they were.