The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series)

by S. L. Jones

  The admiral walked briskly to his truck.

  “Good to see you, Jack,” Simpson said with his hand extended.

  “Likewise, Addy. It’s been a rough week all around, that’s for sure,” he admitted as they shook hands.

  Both men were over six feet tall and atypically fit for their age. They stood eye to eye, two old friends not concerned with softening the edges on what needed to be said.

  “I’m really sorry about your nephew,” Simpson said. “How are your brother and his wife holding up?”

  “Cathy’s a complete mess.” Turner’s face hardened. “Trent stopped by to see Ryan, and they had a conversation that wasn’t what she expected.”

  Simpson nodded.

  “He told her Ryan’s death was his fault.” Turner shrugged his shoulders.

  “How much did he clue her in on?”

  “Not much. He was vague, as you would expect. He’s a loyal kid, though, and I think he felt obligated to open up to her. You know, try to come clean the best he could under the circumstances.”

  “Understood.” Simpson drew in a deep breath. “That’s a lot of weight to carry on your shoulders,” he said, referring to Ryan’s death. “Keeping your head clear is your biggest asset. It’s impossible to stay alive in this business if you don’t. Hopefully this won’t throw him off.”

  Simpson knew Jack would be loyal to him. The concept of family was something that their world completely redefined. Absolute trust was implicit.

  “She said he was having a hard time with Ryan’s death,” Turner said. “He got there as they were rolling him out of the room.” Jack Turner massaged his temples with his forefinger and thumb before elaborating. “Trent just missed his chance to say good-bye.” He shook his head, his face reflecting raw emotion. “That had to hurt.”

  Simpson closed his eyes and rubbed them before looking back to his friend.

  “The short of it,” Turner continued, “is that there was someone in the room who finished him off a couple minutes before he got there. Trent pulled any details his mother could give him out of her and took off to hunt the guy down. She hasn’t heard from him since.”

  Simpson contemplated the situation. He owed a lot to Trent Turner, so there was no way he was going to jump to conclusions about him going off the deep end. He needed to find out everything he could. His thoughts were muddied with concerns about whether the situation would escalate to the point of no return. If Trent had lost control, it would be a complete disaster. Not only for him personally but the company as well. He needed to be direct. Jack understood what was at stake, and if Trent Turner had gone rogue he’d have to be eliminated.

  Simpson’s eyes narrowed. “So has Trent had anything to do with the killings going on in the area? He went dark. I need your help, or this could get really ugly.”

  Jack Turner let out a long exhale. “Hop in. I’ll fill you in on the way to the office. You’re not going to like it.”

  The two men got in his truck, and Jack turned to his friend and said, “This is going to be a tough one for me.”

  Chapter 26

  Hilton Hotel, Tysons Corner, Virginia

  TRENT TURNER CONTEMPLATED whether he might have some sort of death wish. He let the thought hang in the air as he avoided contact with the emergency personnel congregating at the hotel. His brother’s murder had hit him hard. The incredible guilt had played its part and managed to overwhelm him with emotion. He found it lucky that he hadn’t already gotten himself killed. There were some things in life where no amount of training could help to soften the blow.

  He headed down the long first-floor hallway toward the room Cannibal had indicated was the most likely to belong to the assassin. The police were getting organized. His XHD3 knew his physical location, and it had automatically sent the information that had been provided to the police about the incident. They would soon start their room-to-room searches for a possible gunman, so there wasn’t much time for him to make his move.

  As he approached the hotel room, he noticed the door was cracked open. The telltale smell from a discharged firearm grew stronger with each step. He could see the casing from a 9 mm round had prevented the door from closing. He noted the positions of the doors for the neighboring suites and tried to predict the layout of the room. He checked the hallway as he drew his HK45CT and married it to its suppressor. He reached for the doorknob and prepared for an aggressive entry.

  The door opened silently, and he swung his eyes and weapon from left to right. There was no sign of Aliaksandr Petrov in the main room. The streaks of blood that ran down the wall and dark stains on the floor told part of the story, but the sound of running water coming from the bathroom was about to tell the rest.

  “We’ve got some unfinished business,” Turner said.

  The Russian moved the towel from his bloodshot eyes and looked at the operative through the haze of fog that had begun to work its way up the mirror. His expression suddenly turned to one of disbelief. Before he could speak, Turner delivered a heavy blow to the back of his head, knocking him unconscious.

  Turner put his weapon away, heaved the large frame of Petrov over his right shoulder, bounced his limp body into a stable position, and grabbed the assassin’s laptop from the dresser before leaving the room. The trip out the door and up the stairwell to his third-floor suite was as short as it was strenuous. He used plastic flex-cuffs to secure the massive Russian to the desk chair and sent his handler a message.

  Smelling salts snapped Petrov back to consciousness. His eyes were still blood red, and he was confused. He was in bad shape physically. He had been shot a couple of times but was lucky that no vital organs had been hit. The assassin was still bleeding but had done a good job of staunching the blood flow before Turner had arrived. He would need medical treatment soon to stay alive.

  “We both know there isn’t much time for a chat,” Turner said curtly. His eyes were full of anger.

  “You are a hard man to kill. Mr. Turner, is it?” Petrov responded.

  “Who sent you?”

  “Now that is a difficult question indeed.” His tone was mocking, and it only served to piss Turner off. “What if I told you I don’t know?”

  “I’ll kill you,” he said.

  “Ahhh.” He paused for a moment to consider the operative’s answer. “And if I tell you who it was, then what?”

  Turner’s eyes were hard, but there was no emotion in his voice. “I’ll kill you quickly.”

  “You know, Mr. Turner, it is nothing personal.” He spit some blood onto the floor and looked back up at him. “Like you, I am just doing my job.” The assassin was in pain, but the words were said with a clinical detachment.

  “Who sent you?”

  “I cannot tell you that. I would if I could, but I cannot.”

  Trent looked toward the laptop sitting on the bed and then back to the Russian. He had already assumed he wouldn’t know who his employer was, but he needed to be sure.

  “So, all the information you have is on that computer?” he asked.

  The operative didn’t expect an answer without applying some pressure, but it never hurt to ask. He stood up and walked into the bathroom to turn on the shower. He grabbed a hand towel and came back out, before turning on the clock’s radio. The DJ had just cackled his familiar laugh. Turner remembered Elliot Segal from when he was much younger, and the talk show DJ put on a song that made him crack half a smile. It was a remake of “Man of Constant Sorrow” recorded by the Charm City Devils. He turned up the volume and thought about how apropos the soundtrack was.

  Petrov watched him appraisingly as he approached. “Are you feeling a little dirty, Mr. Turner?” he asked, now eyeing the towel. His tone was mocking.

  Turner glowered at him and picked up a pen that was on the desk. A smug look replaced the pained expression on Petrov’s face. Turner shoved the pen into the wound above his collarbone, ready to mask his screams of pain with the towel. The assassin only let out an angry grunt.
r />   “Who hired you?” Turner asked calmly as he slowly withdrew the pen.

  Petrov would know this wasn’t the first interrogation this man had conducted. He braced himself for the pain. The Russian had been in this type of situation before.

  Turner tilted his head sideways and studied the Russian. Petrov smiled. His bloodshot eyes reflected the look of a madman, and he let out a maniacal laugh.

  “I told you. I cannot give you the answer.”

  The operative jammed the pen back into the wound and twisted it around. The Russian grunted again and looked down at the object that was digging into his skin. Turner had to admit he was impressed with the man’s tolerance for pain.

  “I’ve been a big fan of your work,” Petrov said. He was now sweating profusely, and his breathing seemed more pained. “Until now, of course,” he added. He squinted his eyes like he had something to say that would be of interest.

  “Spit it out,” Turner said.

  “You should be more careful. That man I killed—Ryan—he didn’t know what you had gotten him into, did he?”

  Turner twisted the pen around a few more times in anger, but this time the Russian didn’t make a sound.

  “Aren’t you concerned someone might hear me scream?”

  Turner walked behind the Russian and said, “Dead people don’t make noise.”

  He put his hands under the assassin’s chin and snapped his neck with a swift counterclockwise motion. He looked down at the man who had killed his brother and took a deep breath to regain control. He searched Petrov and emptied his pocket litter onto the desk.

  The vibration from his XHD3 drew his attention. He pulled the device out of his pocket and read the response from Heckler.

  Finger,

  I’ll have a cleaner take care of the room within the hour.

  Etzy wants you to pick him up tonight. I’m trying to secure some assets to cover your back. You need to stand down and wait for help. We can’t afford to lose this kid. Wait to hear back from me before moving in. I’ll send you the details in another message with some photos we downloaded from the FBI’s servers.

  Heckler

  The operative’s eyes were drawn to a folded-up piece of paper he had pulled out of Petrov’s pocket. He unfolded it carefully and read the two words the Russian had scribbled in pencil. “Soller.” “Potomac.” His heart raced as he looked to the dead man. This man was somehow connected to the senator’s son and Etzy Millar. He hoped the assassin’s laptop would yield some answers.

  Turner decided he would get some dinner while he considered his next move. By the time he finished eating, it would be dusk. Losing Millar wasn’t an option, and regardless of what Heckler had said, he knew he didn’t have the luxury of waiting around for help. The hacker was their only chance of figuring out what was going on, and they weren’t the only ones looking for him. His motivation grew as he contemplated finding the Russian’s employer and finishing the job.

  Chapter 27

  Kozlov Bratva compound, Chicago, Illinois

  THE DRONING SOUND of computer fans filled the subterranean den the men referred to as The Dungeon. The area was bathed in a surreal, high-tech glow from the dual-monitor computer workstations strewn about the long, rectangular room. Columns of smoke rose from several ashtrays, sucked away by vents at regular intervals. The room had a door at each of its short walls, and its main entrance was guarded by attentive Russian ex-military, each armed with an AK-74 assault rifle and a sidearm.

  The inhabitants of the work space had formed cliques. Several Russians faced across from one another on the right as you first entered the room from the hallway, with three other distinct groupings staggered to either side as you approached the door at the other end. These individuals represented the Kozlov Bratva’s hacker brain trust in the United States, the technology arm of the Russian mafia’s largest faction. They were all seasoned computer hackers. Some were brought over from the motherland and Eastern Bloc countries, while others had been recruited in America.

  The door at the far end of the room served as the gateway to the operation’s primary Command-and-Control servers, or C&C servers as they were known in tech circles. They were the computers that commanded the Bratva’s various botnets, providing instructions to the compromised machines. C&C servers were the Internet’s version of a mafia boss: they directed their cyber assets with absolute authority.

  There had been some complications in Switzerland six weeks ago, but Pavel Kozlov felt everything was back on track. He was now confident that the primary objective of their operation hadn’t been compromised. Some assets were lost, but the man responsible, an operative known as The American, had paid the ultimate price for his interference. There had been a new development, however, and the Bratva leader was under pressure as they readied for the final stage of execution.

  Dimitri Sokov, who reigned supreme over the hacking division, was in the server room when the Bratva leader called.

  “I want the hacker dead,” Kozlov barked in Russian.

  Sokov winced. “It will take time before I can find the one who did this.”

  “Make an example of him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” He bit his lip and looked over at the man standing next to him. “I will have the guards take care of the matter here, in The Dungeon, in front of the others. Mikhail is in the server room with me. I will inform him of the problem.”

  “Good,” Kozlov said, before he ended the call.

  Sokov knew the old-timer hated computers and thought little of what he referred to as his “socially inept degenerates” that he kept in The Dungeon. The one thing the Bratva leader couldn’t ignore about his new recruits was the bottom line. The Russian was amazed at just how lucrative his army of hackers had become in just a few short years.

  Operation Berlin had been in process for the past eighteen months. It was the most sophisticated and audacious operation the Bratva leader and his siloviki backers had ever attempted, and the powerful group of Russians expected it to yield the biggest payday in history.

  The name of the operation was symbolic. The hatred and anger that burned deep inside him and his comrades was no less than the day the Wall came down. If he were asked, he would probably say their hatred of the United States of America was even stronger.

  In their enemies’ eyes, the collapse of the Berlin Wall was the beginning of the end for the Soviet Union, and the event had served as bitter motivation over the years that had passed. There had been some close calls along the way, but this was the operation that would put balance back into the world and finally swing the pendulum in their favor.

  These men loathed the United States and had sworn to transform their motherland into what it once was: powerful, feared, and communist. They had planned the modern-day version of a coup d’état, one where they would use technology to cause enough chaos for the American people to revolt.

  Chapter 28

  DENNIS ZANDER LOOKED over at the door to the server room when it opened. A wiry man whom he knew as Mikhail appeared, his frame backlit by the bright lights from inside. A loud voice could be heard barking out in Russian, before the door sealed shut behind him. The tone of the voice was angry. The hacker had been working hard to learn the language, and his work had finally paid off. He knew they were talking about the death of a US senator’s son.

  Zander shrunk nervously in his chair as Mikhail approached the group he was sitting with.

  “Some shit is going down,” Mikhail said with a thick Russian accent. His voice was deeper than it should have been.

  “Good thing I won’t be here to catch any grief,” Zander said nervously. “I need to head out for my dentist appointment.” He shrugged his shoulders and forced a smile. He always talked too much when he got nervous, and this time was no different. “Now that I think about it, I’m not sure which would be worse. Maybe I should just stay here.” He laughed, and it sounded more contrived than he would have liked.

  Mikhail wasn’t amused. �
��Very funny,” he said. “I suggest you not act like such a fool.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Zander asked, unable to shut himself up.

  The Russian shook his head and changed the subject. His tone was gravely serious. “When will your work be completed?”

  “I’ve got data for the past three months from the locations you requested. It’s already loaded on the servers. The script is inserting the records into the database as we speak. It should be finished in a couple of hours. The script will fire off the rest of the jobs once that’s done.” He was uncomfortable but tried to act normal. “I’d say it’ll be done by the time I get back from my appointment.”

  From the conversation he had just overheard, Zander knew coming back wouldn’t be an option if he wanted to stay alive. He hoped his bullshit sounded convincing.

  “Good,” Mikhail said with a raised eyebrow, and walked away.

  Since the unexpected death of his mother a month ago, Zander had been hell-bent on figuring out a way to get back at the Bratva. The bastards had threatened to kill her if he didn’t come to work for them, and the fact that the mafia had robbed him of being there to support her during the final days of her life was something he wouldn’t let go.

  He imagined her fear and sense of loneliness and would never forgive himself, even though it wasn’t his fault. Now he had nothing to lose. In his mind, he represented the only chance for his fellow hackers to make it out of this miserable situation. The trick was finding a way to get back at them without getting his head blown off. He needed to make sure there was no way they could figure out what he’d done.

  Running into Maximillian Soller in the hacker forums was serendipitous. His username, mi11Ion2, made it a fairly simple task for someone with Zander’s unique skill set to confirm his identity after tracing the communications back to his college dorm. It was the break he’d been waiting for. He knew it was a long shot. It would take some serious luck for his selection of the senator’s son to materialize into a problem for the mafia, but it was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.