The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

“Very strange, Agent Kershaw. As you may suspect, we never see cash payments made on this type of product. Or any of our products to be honest.”

  Rand continued delving into the file. In an effort to follow the money trail, he flipped to an accounting document, which revealed that the cash was placed into a secured account and cleared by the bank. The distributor received a seventeen percent commission on the order, which amounted to $918,000 that was taken from the original deposit. Rand also noticed that, when Nyofer Industries deposited the cash, it was quickly transferred overseas into a capital gains account, where it eventually garnered several thousand more dollars in interest before being reshuffled back into Nyofer’s financial matrix. It suddenly dawned on Rand that Battle was nervous about the legalities of the money trail. He thinks I’m here about the handling of funds!

  “Lots of cash flying around on this one, huh, Mr. Battle?” he finally pointed out, playing into the CFO’s fears.

  A fake, tight-lipped smile was all the agent got in return. Battle was well prepared for the conversation and had been advised by his legal department to deflect any questions regarding capital gains or money transfers. Clearly, he didn’t want to go down that road with the FBI.

  “Fine,” Rand finally said, breaking the awkward silence. “I’m not here about any of that, Mr. Battle. I’m here because I have reason to believe that this order is tied to three men who have committed serious crimes. Make no mistake, regardless of our findings your money is secure, and from all indications Nyofer Industries simply and legally fulfilled an order that ultimately helped impoverished children around the world. However, my job is to identify the person or persons responsible for placing this order.”

  A sense of relief filled the large office. Battle’s demeanor seemed to morph into a more relaxed, cooperative state. Exactly where Rand wanted him.

  “That said,” Rand continued, “I’ll need to speak with the distributor.”

  “Absolutely.” Battle was almost too eager to help now. He began typing into his keyboard and seconds later pulled up the profile for Twin Cities Water Solutions. “I can get them on the phone now if you’d like.”

  “Yes, that would be perfect.”

  Within minutes, Battle had the owner of Twin Cities Water Solutions on speaker phone. He introduced Special Agent Kershaw, then relayed the situation and how the distributor could be of help.

  As it turns out, the owner of Twin Cities was a dedicated and helpful professional with a deep passion for distributing water solutions to developing countries across the globe. In fact, he had surrendered a bulk of his near million-dollar commission to a local organization that fought poverty in the Minneapolis area.

  “Thank you for speaking to me, Mr. McCarthy,” Rand began. “I just have a few questions about the order.”

  “Happy to help, agent,” the man replied. “It didn’t seem out of the ordinary at first. We work with a lot of anonymous philanthropists.”

  “I understand, sir. But, did the sheer volume of the order ever raise any red flags?”

  “I guess,” McCarthy confessed. “I mean, I was somewhat hesitant to put in the fulfillment at first. The guy called early on a Tuesday and demanded anonymity at every level. But I eventually just wrote it off as some eccentric billionaire who didn’t want the publicity.”

  “Perfectly fine,” Rand approved. “You did nothing wrong, I’m simply trying to connect some dots. But the deposit was made in cash. Did that not further your suspicions?”

  The man hesitated again with remorse. “Special Agent Kershaw, you have to understand that this order was for millions of water systems going to a charity to support children living in the harshest conditions imaginable.”

  Rand felt like an asshole now. “Again, Mr. McCarthy, I completely understand. You did the right thing. But, do you have any other information regarding the payments?”

  “The second and final payment was made via a bank transfer. I have the account number here in front of me.”

  “Could you read that off to me?” asked the agent.

  Mr. McCarthy gave him the number and Rand jotted it down in a small notepad. Their call ended abruptly with Rand promising to be in touch if he had any more questions.

  He left Burbank with a sense of accomplishment. Since day one, there had never been a solid lead of any kind in the Wynn case, and while it seemed a stretch to think that a donation of water purifiers was the result of a separate crime by the same criminals, it only stressed the importance of small details. He now had a casino robbery, two large donations and a potential connection to the Hamilton hack. Rand Kershaw could smell victory inching closer.

  Chapter Ten

  The timeline seemed painfully impossible.

  The freighter would leave Peru in a week, embarking on an eleven-day voyage up the Pacific coast. The team’s plan was to intercept the ship on the final day of its journey. This timeline, however, left just eighteen days until go-time.

  Cam checked his digital wristwatch and picked up the pace. What started as a relaxing jog through the park turned out to be the exact opposite. His mind raced through the most minute of details. He’d learned early in his career as a soldier that success ultimately depended on preparedness and the ability to adapt. It was natural for him to overanalyze and dissect—to pick apart each piece of an operation beforehand. Every challenge, every solution, every possible outcome. And after an hour of spinning his wheels, the odds of success hadn’t gotten any better.

  As the former SEAL reached the trailhead, a blanket of clouds began to roll in. He walked to his truck and checked his pulse.

  What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?

  Cam sighed with frustration and fired up the engine. He threw it into gear and slowly pulled out of the lot, then drifted up the winding road toward Providence. It had been a long week and all Cam wanted to do was spend time with the girls. He couldn’t get home fast enough.

  The father of two arrived just in time for lunch with Hannah and the kids. Afterwards, he volunteered to take Abigail to her dance lesson, where he gossiped with other parents while she practiced her twirls. He loved every minute of it, embracing these menial moments that served as an escape from his stressful life. When Abigail was all danced out, he took her for ice cream, then back to the house where the family shared details about their day over pork chops and baked potatoes before retiring to the living room for a movie.

  The last bursts of energy were spent devouring popcorn, and eventually, the girls began to fade. Cam and Hannah sat on the couch, their children entombed in pillows on the floor at their feet.

  As an animated movie stretched into its final scene, Hannah sifted through some discovery documents from her case. She could sense Cam’s meandering stares and silent requests for attention, which she was happy to satisfy.

  “Everything alright?” she finally asked.

  “I love you,” he muttered.

  “Well, I love you too. So, what’s got you? I know that look.”

  “Just trying to work out a few details.”

  “You haven’t told me about your trip yet. I assume you boys had fun.”

  “We always do,” he smirked.

  “Have you told them yet?”

  “Told them what?”

  “Cam, you know what I’m talking about,” she pressed. “That this is your last hunt.”

  He hesitated with guilt. “No, not yet.”

  Hannah pursed her lips in disappointment. Their trust in each other was without measure and it was this unwavering transparency that sealed their relationship. She was aware of the hunts—she knew the when and why, but never the how or what. Staying out of the loop on details such as ta
rgets and tactical plans afforded her plausible deniability. It was a delicate dance between concerned wife and federal prosecutor.

  “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” she challenged.

  “No, honey. Not at all. This is the last one.”

  “I’ve been on board with this because I know what it means to you. I support you, Cam. But three short years has taken its toll. At some point, the statistics will catch up to you guys, you can’t outrun the odds forever. And I need you here, not—” she darted a glance at the girls. “Not, somewhere else.”

  “I know, Hannah,” he stubbornly implored under his breath. “We’ve already talked about this.”

  “But I need you to really hear it. You’ve met your objective, soldier,” she teased. “You’ve given more to this world than the rest of us could ever dream of. But you can’t keep doing it at our expense.”

  He knew she was right. “Last one. Promise.”

  She leaned over her notepad and kissed his cheek. “Good. So, what’s the charity?”

  “I think we’re doing this one a little different,” he replied with a crooked smile. “High risk, high reward.”

  “Cameron!” she scolded.

  “It’s okay, just tricky.” His smile was gone now. “But since it’s our last, we’re just splitting it three ways, each choosing how to give back. No mass team donation this time.”

  The look on her face didn’t seem to agree with the words coming out of his mouth.

  “But my charity of choice,” he continued, “is going to be the one we start for us, for the girls.”

  As her mind quickly pieced together his insinuation, a proud grin sprouted across her face. Her arms found their way around his neck, embracing him with every ounce of her being.

  Cam pulled back and stared deep into her eyes. “I want to build something that will always let us follow that dream. Only this way without all the…you know, stealing.”

  Her smooth giggle returned yet again, this time followed by a long, passionate kiss.

  Moments later, Cam carried the sleeping children to their beds, one by one. He escorted Hannah to the master, where she quickly fell asleep while he was brushing his teeth. He smiled at her and crept beneath the covers.

  Cam stared anxiously at the ceiling, his mind drifting to the mission and the impossible timeline. Eighteen days. He and Michael were handling all tactical and logistical elements such as location targeting and exfiltration plans. The intelligence gathering efforts, however, were being tackled by Trip, a guy whose ability to run rampant and unrestricted through the Internet was again proving to be valuable. And to fill in all the blanks, the Knights of Medina had been astonishingly capable of supplying mission-critical resources, no matter how random or unrealistic the request.

  But there was still one element of the hunt that continued to chew away at Cam—the ossuary. And, unfortunately, this unsettling factor had not changed. He hated the idea of rolling the dice on a target that couldn’t be valued—an artifact that didn’t even exist in the eyes of scholars and historians. An artifact that was officially the property of the CIA.

  For the first time since he could remember, Cam realized that the risk may very well outweigh the reward.

  Chapter Eleven

  The phone rang shortly after two in the morning. Still half-buzzed, Rand had only fallen asleep an hour earlier. He fumbled around before retrieving his cellphone from the nightstand. His eyes struggled to adjust, but finally allowed him to read the screen. It was Steve Brodsky.

  “Steve? What’s up?”

  “Hey Rand, you know that intel APB you put out on three men conducting high-value robberies? We just got a hit.”

  Rand’s eyes widened as the butterflies in his stomach churned uncontrollably.

  “What kind of a hit?” He was sitting up now, his brow furrowed with intrigue.

  “Analysts at Homeland intercepted some chatter from three Americans planning to hijack a freighter in open water. There was a chain of encrypted emails intercepted a week ago. It took the boys in Washington a while to decrypt the contents, but it could be your guys.”

  “When’s it going down, do we know?” Rand excitedly asked.

  “Now, actually. You need to pack for shitty weather. I want you there when the takedown happens. You’ll have maybe a couple hours of interrogation before DHS totes these assholes back to American waters and their legal rights kick in.”

  “What do you mean American waters, shitty weather? Where am I going?” Rand asked, already pulling his pants on and using his toes to search for a pair of shoes on the messy closet floor.

  “North Pacific. You’re gonna catch a heli-ride with the Coast Guard from an air station in Los Angeles to the USS Princeton, a hundred miles out.”

  Rand peered down at his slacks and dress shoes—these weren’t going to work.

  “What’s the shipment, Steve?”

  “Call me on route and I’ll brief you. But you’re on a tight schedule so get the hell outta bed and get your ass to LA. I called in a favor to get you out there. Coast Guard is waiting. Don’t fuck this up.”

  “Walking out the door now.”

  . . .

  North Pacific Ocean, 89 nautical miles from the California coast

  The sun crested above the horizon behind the MH-60 Jayhawk roaring through the air over the Pacific. Rand gazed out the side window of the Coast Guard helicopter at the passing ocean eighty feet below. He hoped the peaceful waters surrounding him were a sign of things to come. Perhaps this was the moment he’d remember when telling the story of how he’d captured his ghosts.

  Minutes later, they were hovering above the USS Princeton, a guided missile cruiser with the Navy’s Abraham Lincoln Battle Group, which had been patrolling nearby waters when Homeland Security put in a call for assistance.

  Rand was ordered out of the bay door by a faceless officer as the co-pilot tossed a thick, black cord out of the helicopter. The agent hadn’t fast-roped since the academy, something he’d been stressing over for most of the ride. Rand tightened his gloves, zipped up his breaker then grabbed the line and plummeted to the deck with a thud. He unclipped himself and shielded his face from the water tearing through the air from every direction as the helicopter lifted its thrust and sped away. He’d forgotten how calculated every action of the military was. They never wasted time, he recalled.

  Meanwhile, nearly fifteen nautical miles from their starboard side, Homeland Security had already planted three operatives aboard the Titan Missouri, a US-flagged cargo ship steaming toward American waters. The previously intercepted emails had indicated she was the target of a small group of men intent on hijacking the ship, presumably to sell off the sensitive cargo to the highest bidder.

  The DHS plan was to await word from their operatives aboard the Titan Missouri that the ship had been taken. From there, the missile cruiser would move in.

  Rand struggled to maintain his footing as the waters became increasingly aggravated. A sailor quickly ushered him through a passage from the main deck and out of the cold, violent winds of the Pacific. He was led through a steel hallway and up a narrow staircase to another passage, then guided past the sonar room and into a makeshift command center buzzing with DHS analysts and Navy sailors. Rand removed his windbreaker and folded it in his hands.

  “Special Agent Kershaw, my name’s John Milliner with DHS, I’m in command of this operation.” Milliner was a six-foot-three grinder with all the charisma of a high school football coach.

  “Thanks for the invite,” replied Rand, extending his arm for a handshake that was quickly returned.

  “Your boys at the Bureau tell me these guys fit you
r profile. Kind of a big leap from casinos to cargo ships, don’t ya think?”

  “Sure.” Rand didn’t appreciate the subtle jab.

  “Have a seat there,” barked Milliner, pointing to a metal fold-down chair in the back of the room. “Our Hawkeye just spotted the pirates approaching in a fast-boat a mile out. I’ll bring you with us when it’s time to board the Titan Missouri. You get an hour, maybe two with ’em. That’s it. Off the record.”

  Rand nodded and made his way to a tiny corner of the room. Several analysts were monitoring their laptop screens, which appeared to show body-camera footage of the DHS agents planted on the Titan Missouri.

  Moments later, the clamoring voices and background chatter collectively stopped—a sure indication that things were about to get under way.

  “Fast boat inbound.” The word crackled over the radio from one of the undercovers on the nearby freighter. The fast boat was now closing in—right on schedule.

  The next few seconds felt like minutes. Finally, another transmission. “We have contact. Three tangos now boarding.”

  Prior to the operation, the DHS operatives had prepared for a potential hostage situation by securing the real crew of the Titan Missouri in a cabin below deck. With two Navy SEAL snipers in position aboard the USS Princeton, any hostage situation would be quickly resolved. In the event that the captain of the Missouri or any of the undercover agents were put in danger, the SEALs had shoot-to-kill orders.

  For the next three minutes, the only communication from the cargo ship was random, distant yelling and shaky footage from the operatives’ body cams. The anticipation was eating Rand alive. What the hell is going on?

  Finally, from the bridge above, the captain of the USS Princeton came over a closed radio frequency. “Python closing in, over.”

  Milliner took a few steps toward Rand, sensing the agent’s anxiety. “We’re about to take ’em down. Won’t be long now,” he yelled over the background noise.