The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series)

by S. L. Jones

  He continued to gain on the agent still in front of him. The man was in good shape but still no match for the HVT Squad leader. Both men reached the top of the stairs at the same time. The stairway spilled out into the front row of the third floor’s amphitheater-styled seating. Each had an injection device loaded with M99 in his hand with enough of the substance to knock out Mike Tyson.

  “I’ll go after him alone,” Sanders said as he tried to catch his breath. He didn’t want the opportunity blown because a novice got in the way. “Stay here. Be ready for anything.” He lifted his sleeve to his mouth and said, “Rudy, get to the lobby and keep your eyes peeled. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  “Roger that,” Pagano confirmed.

  He went over the layout of the third floor in his head. He reasoned that the target was crouched behind the chest-high divider situated behind the final row of seats. He pushed the FBI agent back a couple of steps. Sanders wanted to keep him out of the line of fire in case things turned hot. He wished he had a way to deliver his payload without having to get up close and personal, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that now.

  “Ready when you are,” Pagano said.

  Sanders removed the plastic cap from his syringe and pushed the plunger just enough for a few drops of the liquid to drip out onto the floor. He had already recovered from the dash up the stairs and was mentally preparing himself for what needed to be done.

  He lifted his sleeve to his mouth and said, “Preparing to engage.”

  He pulled his sidearm out of his shoulder holster and took a deep breath.

  Chapter 108

  TRENT TURNER HAD made it to the top floor first. He knew there were at least four men after him, but he also spotted three unknowns who fired him an unsettling glare as he headed toward the stairs.

  “The top looks good from the plans,” Millar confirmed. “You’re right. The air return will take you out to the third-floor common area next to the theater. From there you can head down the fire escape on the south side of the building.” There was a momentary pause before Millar continued. This time his excitement had turned to nervousness. “It looks like two of them are at the top of the stairs. One stayed behind on the second-floor landing. The PMD hasn’t been able to mark number four yet.”

  Turner remained crouched in the back corner of the third-floor viewing area. He was low enough that nobody could see him. There was only one set of stairs that could bring them up.

  “One of them is starting to close in,” Millar said.

  The operative pulled a tool out of his pocket and snapped off the screw heads securing the cover for the ventilation system’s return duct. The theater had just been renovated, so he hoped the floor plans he had studied weren’t out of date.

  “He’s really close,” Millar said frantically.

  Turner quickly ripped the cover off the wall and slid inside the dark tunnel. The aluminum popped and twisted as he snaked his way through the confined space and around a corner. It wasn’t long before he recognized the same sound off in the distance. He knew someone else had made their way into the metal maze. He didn’t have his light on, so when he bumped his head into what seemed to be the end of the ventilation system he was surprised.

  “Etzy, it looks like I’ve reached a dead end. Can you confirm?”

  “It shouldn’t be,” Millar said. Panic had crept into his voice. “The blueprints say it goes out to the third floor…a big common area.”

  The sound was getting closer. Turner didn’t want a confrontation with an FBI agent, so he needed to get creative.

  “What’s below me?” he asked.

  “Nothing that I can see. You’re pretty much next to the stairwell.”

  The sound from his pursuer had stopped. Turner braced his hands on the sides of the metal ventilation shaft and began to rock it violently from side to side. At first there wasn’t much noise or movement, but after a couple of hard shoves the sound increased until there was a massive thud.

  Trent Turner shook his head and tried to get his bearings. It was still pitch black, and it felt like he had fallen quite a long way. He pulled out his XHD3 and shined its small LED light toward the immediate threat from above. He saw that he had snapped the vent shaft supports for the section he was in. He had fallen around fifteen feet, but his descent had been slowed initially when the metal had bent down toward the ground. The shaft had folded onto itself and now managed to obscure the view into the unclaimed space he currently occupied.

  There were no doors leading out of the small room. It appeared to have been closed in for decades. He could see by the angle of the ceiling that one side faced the stairwell and the other the theater. Most of the wall was plastered, but he saw one section that had been repaired with drywall.

  He knocked on the wall a couple of times to confirm and asked, “Etzy, what’s in front of me?”

  “It looks like the stairwell, but I’m not sure I trust these blueprints.”

  He laughed to himself. “I hear you.”

  The aluminum above him started to flex and rumble. It sounded like the man was testing the supports. Turner couldn’t help but smile when he considered the advantage of being chased. You didn’t have time to think about shit like that.

  “Okay, I’ve got an update,” Millar said. “There’s one guy practically on top of you, one right next to you, one standing at the top of the stairs on the third floor, and I’ve picked up the other guy. He’s down in the lobby, waiting.”

  Turner pulled a tool out of his pocket and used a knife-edge to slice into the drywall lengthwise along the vertical two-by-fours that held it in place. He then punched a small hole into the drywall at eye level with a stabbing motion. He cleared away the debris with the tool and peeked through. It took him a second to realize he was staring at an eyeball on the other side of the hole. He heard pounding above as Millar chimed in once again.

  “Man, you are standing right next to the guy in the stairwell,” he said.

  Turner was out of time. He brought his elbow back and delivered a devastating blow to the bridge of the man’s nose through the drywall. The operative quickly kicked the rest of his way through producing a haze of white dust. He barely registered the people screaming as his now ghostly form popped through the wall. The FBI agent’s face was bloody, and he had balled himself up on the floor as he groaned in pain.

  “I need a little help,” Turner said.

  He knew Millar had been desperately searching for a way out.

  “It’s hard to see if the south side is clear,” the hacker said, “and the PMD can’t get a view into the covered alley between the theater’s bathrooms and the school. The other options don’t look good, if that’s any help.”

  Turner heard a loud thump through the hole he had just emerged from, signaling the man had made it through. He quickly bolted down the stairs, and when he reached the bottom he could see the fourth agent charging toward him from across the lobby. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a sudden movement as he bolted to the bathroom. He hoped the window would be more cooperative this time around.

  The operative shoved the bathroom door open and went straight to the window above the heat register. He had tried to pry it open in the morning when he had scoped the place out, but could only manage to crack it open part of the way. This time around he wasn’t concerned about doing any damage. He needed to get outside—and fast.

  Chapter 109

  THE RUSSIANS HAD been waiting out back and were growing impatient. The FBI agents should have burst through the back door minutes ago, but they had yet to make their way outside. The three men had The American in their sights but had been caught off guard when he charged at them with the Feds they had recognized in tow. The leader of the Bratva soldiers lit his unfiltered cigarette in disgust, his other hand perched on his weapon of choice.

  The directive from Pavel Kozlov had been no bloodshed inside the theater. He had been adamant about it. Their attempt to lure the agents out the back do
or and out of the public’s view had failed. There were no more doubts; their plan didn’t work. They had been eyeing the man in the car twenty meters away and had grown wary of his presence. They planned to pay him a visit after they finished with the FBI to make sure there were no witnesses.

  “We need to check inside,” the leader said to his squat comrade with the pockmarked face.

  “Da. Let’s make it quick in case they’ve called for more men.”

  The Russian followed his direction and tried to turn the knob on the door, but it was locked. He grabbed hold the doorknob again, this time with both hands, but it still wouldn’t turn.

  The leader took another drag off his smoke, and looked toward the car. His face wore a scowl. “Help me,” he told the others.

  The three men gathered around the door. The largest of the three grabbed a long piece of steel that was leaning against the wall and tried to pry the door open, while the other two men pulled on the handle. The door wouldn’t budge.

  “It’s no use. Let’s go around to the front,” the Russian with the steel bar said.

  The others nodded in agreement.

  The Russian in charge flashed another look at the car and exhaled a stream of smoke from his nose before leading the men south to circle around the building. Chicago’s Fine Arts Building was connected to Roosevelt University, so when they rounded the corner to head east toward Michigan Avenue, they faced a tunnel that ran beneath the second floor of the adjoining buildings.

  “Pavel will be pissed if The American gets away again,” he said before taking another pull on his cigarette.

  “Da, da. we will be flipping hamburgers if he doesn’t shoot us first,” the pockmarked Russian agreed.

  The leader shook his head. “I don’t know what he was thinking when he asked us to take care of a man such as him with conditions.”

  “What do you think we should do about it?” the squat Russian asked.

  “Fuck the conditions,” he said in a dark tone. “If you see him, kill him. He should already be dead. It will be in our best interest to beg for forgiveness rather than to ask for permission.”

  The men nodded in agreement and increased their pace. They had made it halfway through the tunnel when a loud creaking sound caused them to freeze and take stock.

  “What the hell is that?” the Russian said, flicking his cigarette to the ground.

  The one with the pockmarked face pointed to a first-floor window. “There.”

  They watched curiously as the window rocked back and forth, its rusty metal hinges screaming out in protest.

  Chapter 110

  HE PUMPED THE window back and forth vigorously on its hinges. Trent Turner heard a series of noises in the theater outside the bathroom as he worked to force an opening large enough to fit through. First there was a sliding sound, and then the sound of metal crashing, followed by gasps from the crowd. Whatever it was that made the noise, he was thankful knowing the FBI agents should have made it into the bathroom by now. That was a confrontation he wanted to avoid if at all possible. He gave the window one last heave, and it belted out its final wail in surrender.

  He had made just enough room to squeeze through. He pushed himself into a handstand from the top of the bathroom’s heat register and thrust himself legs first out the window. He slowed his fall using his elbows and hands and landed softly on the concrete. The operative stood and spun 180 degrees from his crouched position. The three men standing in front of him looked confused. He recognized one of them. He was part of Pavel Kozlov’s security detail.

  The Russians looked stunned to see The American standing in front of them. These men were well trained, so Turner’s best option was to introduce more confusion. He flicked his left thumb toward the window behind him and waved his other hand in front of his nose.

  “You do not want to go in there,” he said in a deadpan tone. He forced a smile. “It’s absolutely brutal.”

  Two of the men looked at each other, and he reached for his pocket. It was too late. The third man had already begun his charge. The operative quickly moved forward and sidestepped, causing the linebacker-sized Bratva man to miss. He threw an elbow into his spine to send him crashing into the brick wall.

  Everything turned to slow motion as he addressed the others. They charged him simultaneously with crazed looks in their eyes. He waited until the last moment again and stepped forward. When they reached for his arms, he extended his fists and delivered a leopard punch to their throats. Instead of instinctively reaching toward the pain, both Russians tightened their grips on his arms.

  That was exactly what Trent Turner had expected as he quickly stepped out of his tuxedo jacket. In a single motion he turned and channeled all of his energy into his feet with two perfectly timed blows. His initial strike landed on the back of the first man’s neck, and the second connected with the other Bratva soldier’s chin. Both men crumpled to the ground.

  By the time his feet had gained solid footing, it was too late. The bull of a man he had dispatched with first was almost on top of him and was carrying incredible momentum. The Russian drove Turner the width of the alley and slammed him mercilessly into the brick wall on the other side. The wind had been knocked out of him, so his next actions were purely defensive.

  The attacker delivered two more shots to his midsection as Turner struggled for air. He used his hands and elbows to fend off the blows. Every time the operative connected, it felt like he was assaulting a rock. He felt another angry blow to his midsection before he lost his balance and fell to the ground.

  His vision was tunneled as he tried desperately to fill his lungs with air. He felt like a turtle that had been flipped onto its back. The Russian stood above him with steely eyes looking ready to deliver a finishing blow, but he suddenly turned away. Turner focused on breathing and tried desperately to regain his composure. He sat up and watched as the Bratva soldier brutalized the FBI agent who was stuck in the frame of the bathroom window. When the first shot was fired, he saw the big man drop to the ground.

  Trent Turner slowly rose to his feet as the violence unfolded in front of him. Survival mode kicked in when the remaining Russians drew their weapons. They were still distracted by the assault from the window, so he sprinted down the alley toward Michigan Avenue. He decided the park would be as good a place as any to disappear. When he reached the street, he saw that the theater had already begun to clear out in a panic. Yellow cabs were already lined up along the curb.

  He made a quick right to get out of the line of fire from the alley when someone called out to him.

  “Hey, kiddo,” a man shouted.

  Turner recognized the voice, and it caught him by surprise. The cab drove alongside him as he ran down the street.

  The man stuck his head out the window. “Hop on in,” he said with a big smile.

  Turner returned the smile and said, “Uncle Jack?”

  The operative slowed to a stop alongside the cab and glanced behind him to make sure the men hadn’t come after him. He looked down and brushed away some of the drywall dust from his black pants and then shook his head at his uncle.

  “What the hell happened to you, kid? You look like shit.”

  “Long story,” Trent said. “Good thing the tux is a rental.” He smiled and hopped into the back of the cab. “What are you doing here?”

  Jack Turner offered him a shit-eating grin. “Bailing your ass out. What else?”

  “Shit, no way. What?” He was still a little dazed from the beating he had been given. What should have been obvious was now abundantly clear.

  “You’d have had some company in the can if it wasn’t for yours truly,” he added matter-of-factly.

  “Heckler?” The fact that his Uncle Jack was his handler threw him off. “I guess I should have known it was you with a call sign like that.” He shook his head and feigned disappointment. “Safe to say you’ve watched Top Gun too many times.”

  “Cut me some slack. At my age it’s hard to find good
work.” He shrugged. “Addy said he needed a babysitter for a problem child. How else am I supposed to afford my Viagra addiction and daily dose of Geritol?”

  They shared a quick laugh, and Trent got down to business.

  “Is he okay?” he asked, referring to Island Industries’ boss, Addy Simpson. “You know, with what’s happened?”

  “I’m sorry about Ryan, Trent,” Jack said in a solemn voice. “Addy understands. Let’s just leave it at that.” He looked out the window and then back to Trent. “He knows it was something you had to do, but don’t pull that shit again.” He shook his head. “It won’t fly.”

  Trent nodded. “I know.”

  “Good.”

  “We need to get back to my hotel,” Trent said. He tapped on the Plexiglas that separated them from the driver. “Please drop us off at the next block.” He looked to his uncle. “I just ran into three of Kozlov’s men in the alley. I planted a tracking device on one of them. Hopefully, the guy didn’t get shot up too bad, and they’ll head home soon.”

  Chapter 111

  Kozlov Bratva hideout, Leesburg, VA

  THE DOOR SWUNG open quickly and banged against the wall. The three women wore masks of fear as the former Spetsnaz soldiers stomped into the room. Maria Soller had barely managed to stash her iPhone away in time, but FBI agent Cathy Moynihan was still worried about the plug for the charger that was dangling precariously from the wall.

  “What’s going on in here?” the man with the utility jacket yelled.

  No one answered. He looked to each of the prisoners deliberately, his gaze ending on Soller. Her eyes were still moist with tears, so she quickly wiped them away with her sleeve. His glare intensified.