by S. L. Jones
“That about sums it up,” she said flatly.
“Fuck,” Trent said.
“Fuck is right,” Cyndi Grayson said uncharacteristically.
They all shared a quick laugh. This was the first time she’d ever cursed, and it underscored the dire situation they were in.
“The entire US economy is riding on one of us having a golden horseshoe up our ass,” she added.
“Well it could be our lucky day, because it sure as hell feels like I’ve had something stuffed inside me,” Turner joked as he sat down tenderly in front of one of the laptops.
He could feel himself fading, but thoughts of his brother and Melody Millar kept him motivated. He needed to pull this off for them.
“Jack, I sent you the image,” Grayson said.
Jack Turner pulled out his device and held it so his nephew could see what they hoped was the encryption key.
Trent Turner moved back and forth through several screens trying to find somewhere that would let him send a command to the bots. After a minute he found what he was looking for and said, “Here goes nothing.”
He typed in the encryption key and pressed Enter.
“Damn, I must have typed it in wrong,” he said.
His vision was getting blurry. He deliberately worked the keyboard and punched in the encryption key again.
“Uncle Jack, do they match up?” he asked.
His uncle went back and forth from the image to the screen. “Yeah, it looks good to me.”
Trent hit Enter again, and a message popped up in Russian.
“Shit. It says we have one more chance. If we don’t get it right, the program will kick us out.” He could feel the stress building as he struggled to punch the code into the keyboard one final time. “Unc, make sure that’s right,” he said. His voice was weaker but still managed to convey the importance.
Jack Turner wiped the sweat from his brow and checked it twice. “Brendan, you have a look too, will ya?” he said, concern evident in his voice.
“Sure thing,” Manion said.
He went over each character one by one and said, “Winner winner,” and he and Trent blurted out, “Chicken dinner,” before Trent pressed the Enter key.
“Fuck!” Trent shoved the laptop and closed his eyes as the medics entered the room.
“No luck?” Grayson asked.
“No, Cyn, we’re screwed,” Jack Turner said.
There was a long moment of silence as the medics worked to cut off Trent Turner’s gear.
“Talk to Hector about the operation in Europe,” Trent told his uncle.
That was the call sign for a contact they had made in Switzerland. He handed Jack Turner his XHD3.
“He’s in my contacts. Hopefully he’s had better luck than us.”
“Okay, we’ve got to move you, buddy,” one of the medics said as he motioned to a stretcher by the door.
Trent could feel his body shutting down. The deflation from failure had sucked away all of his adrenaline. He placed his hands on the desk to help the men lift his weight and listened as they counted to three. They heaved him upright, and he felt his head drop forward before he peeled his eyes open one final time.
“Whoa. Hold on,” he snapped.
“Sorry, pal,” the medic said as he helped him toward the stretcher. “This is going to be painful. There’s nothing we can do about that.”
“No, no. Get me back to that other laptop.”
“Can’t do that, buddy. You’ve lost a lot of blood. We need to get you to the hospital.”
“Take me to that fucking laptop!” he yelled and attempted to break free.
Jack Turner could see the intensity on his nephew’s face and said, “Boys, it’s okay. Take him over there.” He knew Trent wouldn’t bet on his life without a good reason.
“But sir, he might—”
“Do it,” Manion demanded as he helped the men turn Trent around.
They nursed Trent back over to the second laptop, and he started laughing.
“Fuck, he’s delusional,” Manion said. “Sorry about that, fellas.”
Trent kept laughing and said, “Hold on a second.”
The text on the screen was in Russian, so nobody else would understand. It said, “Press Enter to distribute the commands to the botnet; press Escape to cancel.” It took just about everything he had left to reach his hand out and press the Escape key. He struggled to stay conscious and looked over to his uncle and said, “Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.”
Jack and Brendan shared a confused look.
Trent struggled to speak again, and instead of using his last moment of consciousness to let them in on what had happened, he said, “Look after Etzy. You’ll need him now that Ryan’s gone.”
His eyes slid shut.
“What the fuck was that about?” Manion asked.
“I have no idea,” Jack said. “No fucking idea.”
“I hope he makes it,” Manion said, shaking his head.
“Me too, Brendan. Me too.”
Chapter 164
White House Situation Room, Washington, DC
THE THREE MEN sat around the long table and listened intently to the anger seething from the voice coming through the phone’s speaker. President Vincent Cross was growing impatient with the caller. It had been a long weekend for everyone involved, and Addy Simpson had filled him in on the details about Trent Turner’s contact, who went by the name Hector.
Federal Reserve Chairman Bart Stapleton barked into the phone again and said, “Are you incapable of understanding the magnitude of what’s happened here? The entire country is at risk. It’s not about saving my ass.”
Cross blinked slowly as he composed his answer. “Let’s run through this again, Mr. Chairman, just to make sure I’m following you correctly. I seem to recall speaking with you on the phone, asking for your help with an investigation into something I referred to as a matter of national security, did I not?”
They could hear Stapleton take a deep breath before he spoke. “Listen—”
“No, you listen!” the president demanded. “You had your chance to do something about this, and you let politics, personality, ego—whatever the hell it was—burn the olive branch I extended to you. Then for good measure you returned my goodwill with a pointed threat.” He pounded his fist on the table. “Now you’re telling me you want my help? No, wait. You demand my help, and you shouldn’t be held accountable for what’s happened?” He laughed, but it was crystal clear that he wasn’t the least bit amused. “You’re too much,” he said dismissively.
“I’m not resigning my post,” Stapleton spat defiantly.
The president knew more than Stapleton would have liked. The Shop had been listening to the chairman’s conversations all day. The team of analysts had been able to determine that the Russians had hacked into the Federal Reserve’s phone system and redirected calls intended for the individuals who were responsible for approving a series of large wire transfers. From what they could tell, over a period of several months the communists had figured out the central bank’s approval processes. The Russian’s had been able to stand in for Federal Reserve employees with advanced voice-emulation software that leveraged voice samples from previously recorded conversations.
The cherry on top was having a legitimate transfer in the amount of more than seventy billion dollars to Iraq to piggyback the fraudulent transfers onto. It was a failsafe in case a call was made outside their phone system hack. Using the amount of a legitimate transfer for the fraudulent ones was a ruse they hoped would buy them at least a day before the transactions were noticed.
Cross had Bart Stapleton right where he wanted him.
“You actually think you have a choice in the matter? You don’t have a leg to stand on after the colossal fuckup you have just presided over. Even if we can recover some of the money, you’ve put your personal ambitions ahead of your responsibilities as the chairman of the Federal Reserve, and the economy of the United Stat
es of America is now at grave risk.”
“I won’t do it,” Stapleton said, his tone lacking confidence. “And a recovery fee? In the billions of dollars?”
The president glanced up at the two men sitting at the table with him and smiled. They were all having a hard time keeping a straight face.
“There is one other option, Mr. Chairman,” he said, baiting him.
Stapleton didn’t respond for a moment, and finally asked, “And what’s that?”
“You can stay in the Fed with my full support, but I’ll want you to work very closely with me.” He paused for effect. “Especially when it comes to those meetings that we’re not supposed to know about.”
With Senator Soller dead, the only person with enough power to help him navigate his way through this was gone and the president knew that. After an uncomfortable pause, Stapleton cleared his throat.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said unconvincingly.
“Well, when you finally figure it out, why don’t you give me a call and see about possibly keeping your job? I’ve heard Lisbon is a great place to visit this time of year, so maybe having some free time wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” Cross said before abruptly ending the call.
“Nice closer,” Simpson said.
The president smiled. “You’re sure your man in Europe was able to put out the safety net for the accounts?”
Simpson nodded. “Both Ryan and Trent Turner had helped to put a new system together to flag at-risk accounts and defined a protocol to follow when a restricted account was accessed. Trent passed along the accounts first thing in the morning GMT, before they left Chicago, and they were able to redirect everything leaving Federal Reserve accounts to the predetermined holding account. We were lucky that all of the banks they held money in had already implemented the new initiative.”
Cross shook his head. “This was too close for comfort. They almost pulled it off.” His eyes met each of them. “We take a lot for granted.” He exhaled. “We can’t afford any more close calls like this. How many US consumer accounts slipped through?”
“We lost around thirty million, but the good news is that we know which accounts were affected, and they were used sparingly, so we can put Humpty Dumpty back together again by midweek and nobody will be the wiser.”
The president leaned back in his chair, not wanting to think about the consequences if the hack into the banks had gone public, or even worse, been fully carried out.
“And your operative? Will he be okay?” Cross asked.
Simpson knocked a knuckle on the wooden table. “He’s already had a couple of operations,” he said solemnly. “It’s been touch and go. I hope so…I really hope so.” He managed a laugh and said, “Before he went under, he told Jack they never pressed Enter to send the final command to the bots for the remaining banks.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Unreal.”
The president nodded. “Dumb luck, but I’ll take it.” He looked at the other man who was sitting at the table and asked, “What about our other problem?”
Ivor Hood twisted his wrist, looked down at his watch and then back to the president. “We should know something any time now.”
Chapter 165
Alexandria, Virginia
JAKE SANDERS REMINDED himself that he needed to keep cool. He had to check his emotions at the door so he wouldn’t make a mistake. There was no margin for error. This represented a new beginning for him, a way to wipe the slate clean and try to move on from the past—a past that he had once been proud of.
The drive to Pennsylvania and back had been therapeutic. He ran through all the operations HVT squad had done over the years, and it was the events of this past Saturday that grated on him the most. A thirty-second exchange with a mysterious contact in a parking lot interrupted his thoughts, and then he turned the car around and headed back to Virginia. He’d picked up a box and a black bag. Their contents held the key to his future, and he knew better than to break the seal. There would be no remorse for what he was about to do. None whatsoever. In fact, he knew this was the only way to set things straight.
He had never before dared visit his residence. It was located in a quiet upper-middle-class neighborhood with more luxury cars than minivans and SUVs. He parked the rental car at a shopping center less than a mile away from the house and nonchalantly made his way there and to the sliding glass door off the backyard deck. This needed to be done with the utmost care and discretion. He could see the alarm panel through the glass and confirmed that it wasn’t armed. Gaining entry would be a piece of cake, but that didn’t stop his heart from pounding rapidly inside his chest.
This was new territory for the operative, so he tried to convince himself that the nerves were normal. He made easy work of unlocking the door and began to slowly slide it open. He froze when it began to protest with a loud screech. He held his breath and tried to listen, but the heartbeat throbbing in his ears made it impossible to trust what he heard. Instead, he looked for shadows, any sign of movement in the home. He saw nothing.
He began to slide the door open again, this time pushing inward and upward to take the weight off of the rail. The door was silent. He stopped when the opening was large enough for him to squeeze through and slid inside the home.
Within a minute he found himself at the top of the stairs. He had memorized the layout of the house, and he knew the upstairs room where the light was on was his study. After taking a few deep breaths to control his breathing, he was ready. His heart rate was still high, but his face was a picture of control. He was like a duck—calm on the surface, with the manic kicking below, hidden from view. He took one more deep breath and strode silently into the room.
The man looked up from his desk in surprise. “Oh my God, I thought you were dead.”
“Nice to see you too,” Jake Sanders said.
FBI Director Frank Culder was visibly uncomfortable.
“What’s wrong, boss?”
“Nothing, nothing.” He wasn’t particularly convincing. “It’s just good to see you,” Culder lied.
“So, it’s just you and me now.” He jutted his chin out. “With BlackRock, that is. Rudy’s dead. We lost a lot of guys over the weekend.”
Culder had started to sweat. “I know.”
“It’s funny,” Sanders said, “but if I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you weren’t happy to see me.”
The director remained silent but shifted his weight ever so slightly in his chair.
Sanders tossed a package onto his desk and said, “Here.” He knew the director would have a gun hidden somewhere, so he needed to get to the point fast. He doubted Culder had ever shot anyone, but he had no intention of becoming victim number one. Their business together was unfinished; he would soon figure that out.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Culder grabbed a letter opener and began to slice open the manila envelope. He pulled out the documents inside and started to read. His eyes lit up, and his lips formed a smile.
“Where did you get this?”
They were the documents sent from Dr. Charles Reed to implicate the president in dealings with Island Industries.
Sanders laughed. “Come on now. It’s poor form to reveal your sources. It should come in handy while we’re putting the team back together,” he said flatly. “Do you think that will be enough dirt on Cross, or should I try to find another pile?”
Sanders could tell the gears were turning in Culder’s head. His demeanor had changed significantly. He was looking more like his bastard self by the second.
“I’ll have to go over this to be sure,” Culder said, and gave Sanders a proud look. “Do you think you can get more information?” he asked enthusiastically.
Sanders nodded. Now he knew the director didn’t have anything on the president.
“I think so,” he said. “I’ll need some cash. There is something else.”
“There is?” Culder asked expectantly.
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Sanders showed him the black bag he was holding. He tossed it up in the air a couple of times before throwing it onto the director’s desk.
“What is this?”
Sanders plastered a smile on his face. His heart rate spiked as he watched the FBI director break the seal and dig his hand into the bag.
The elastic material closed around his wrist as he reached inside.
“Shit!” he yelled. “What the fuck is in here?”
He quickly pulled his hand out of the bag and shot an angry look at Sanders.
“What do you mean?” Sanders asked with contemptuous look.
Culder began to look ill. “What have you done?”
“How could you be so stupid?” Sanders spat. “Did you think we’d never find out what was going on?”
The director fumbled around his desk, his condition was getting worse by the second. He reached desperately for a desk drawer, but Sanders stepped forward and held it closed with his knee.
“Were you hoping we would all get killed eventually so you could just move on, all the fun and games over?” Sanders asked.
He could see the Culder’s eyes begin to glaze over as his skin turned flush. “Shake it to piss them off.” That was the only thing the man had said when he handed him the bag. Apparently it worked.
“At least one of those stupid childhood stories you told me wasn’t useless,” he said, referring to Culder’s tale about a near-fatal bee sting.
It had been less than a minute, but Culder’s breathing was already labored.
“What the hell have you done?” he spat in anger.
“I’m no doctor, but the technical term is ‘anaphylactic shock,’” Sanders said. “Those wasps aren’t half as pissed as I am.”
He collected the incriminating information on President Cross and stared at the man’s pitiful form. “You won’t be needing these anymore. I’ll tell Agent Moynihan you said hello, you useless prick.”
Epilogue
SHE STOOD JUST outside the room and listened. Her mother-in-law’s back was turned to her, and the three occupants were too engrossed in their conversation to notice her. She didn’t know who the younger woman with the jet-black hair was, but she guessed she might be his girlfriend. Her clothes were expensive and refined, and she was incredibly beautiful.
