“Probably, but it will take some doing.”
“Someone with Dark Web access?”
A chuckle came through the speaker. “Where did you hear about that, Doc?”
“From Tommy Granger, he’s one of our whiz kid grad students.”
Tommy blushed, Mai looked almost proud.
“Granger? The one who hacked the DoD mainframe?”
“Umm, yeah,” mumbled Tommy, now definitely embarrassed.
“You’ve got skills, bro. Let’s just hope you put them to good use from now on.”
Tommy’s chin dropped to his chest. “Yes, sir.”
Mai squeezed his hand.
Tommy brightened.
Wow! There’s definitely something there.
The hand darted away.
“So, Dark Web, huh. Well, it’s possible, and if whoever set this up is using it, then it will be much more difficult to trace, but not impossible. The problem is you might just trace it to a dead end. What they’ll sometimes do is have their data sent to a specific IP address, the customized hardware at that location will then grab that data, reroute it somewhere, perhaps through a hard line not even connected to the Internet, and then at the receiving end someone is notified. Once used, they never use it again, scrapping the hardware or wiping the software. It depends on how covert they want to go.”
“We’re assuming pretty deep. This seems to be a conspiracy going back a century that someone still cares about.”
“Perhaps, but sometimes the simplest explanation is the most obvious. The Navy might have had a legit reason for monitoring for that particular search. Maybe it had nothing to do with Wainwright and was just the word Titanic that made them curious. It could be as simple as the system thinking he was using it for unauthorized purposes, just trolling the records, and clamped down on him.”
Acton’s phone vibrated on the table with a news alert, the notification bar at the top of the screen giving the first few words.
Congressman Mahoney Dies in Car Accident.
“Jesus,” muttered Acton, grabbing the phone.
“What?” asked Kane.
“You remember in the message I told you that Steve Wainwright had met with his Congressman, and it was he who had called the records office?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Congressman Mahoney just died in a car accident. I just got the news flash on my phone.”
“Okay, Doc. That changes everything. Do you have a gun?”
Acton felt his chest tighten, the mood of the entire table immediately changing.
“Yes.”
“Get it. I’m sending help.”
Operations Center Charlie
The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
“Hey BD, I’ve got some intel for you.”
Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme scanned the screen as he fed the executive summary to Dawson. “We ran this Peter Quaid for you on a separate network. Born April 7th, 1962, both parents deceased, only child, inherited his father’s business at age twenty-eight, a microchip design company named Silidev. Looks like they make chips for all the big boys like Boeing, GE, Lockheed, NASA, the big three.”
“Any red flags on the file?”
“Just one that I can see. He apparently has significant investments in Russia.”
“Christ, I knew I should have run him.”
“Hindsight’s always twenty-twenty. He’s their biggest financial backer, how the hell were you supposed to know?”
“If anything happens to Jones, tell that to the inquest.” He could hear Dawson sigh on the other end. “Any unusual banking activity? Anything that might suggest why he might be kidnapped with Jones?”
“I don’t have that data yet. Langley’s coming online now. I’m hoping to have some more intel for you shortly. Anything on your end?”
“Negative. We’ve confirmed that one of the hostiles was shot, but there’s no body so either he walked out or was carried out. Check the local hospitals, but I doubt you’ll find anything.”
“Descriptions?”
“Yeah. All white males, around six feet tall, all athletic builds with short hair, dark suits and sunglasses.”
“So no use.”
“No. The civilians only saw the guns, two agents were down in seconds, the other four down a few seconds later. This op was executed quickly and effectively. These were pros who risked their own lives to not kill their target. They could have come out shooting with SMGs but they didn’t.”
“But wouldn’t they know their target was in his room?”
Dawson grunted. “Only if they have someone on the inside.”
“Do you think they do?”
“There’s huge money and huge stakes here so nothing would surprise me. I’ve confiscated all cellphones just in case.”
The door to the Op Center opened and Colonel Clancy entered, his eyes scanning the screens then coming to rest on Red. “Colonel’s here, I’ll get back to you in fifteen.”
“Roger that.”
Red ended the call, turning to the Colonel. “Sorry to disturb you, Colonel.”
“Sergeant, you just saved me from an evening with my sister-in-law. If it weren’t against protocol, I’d kiss you so hard you’d forget you were married.”
Red grinned. “Thank God for protocols, sir.”
Clancy nodded toward the screens. “Report.”
Red began to bring the Colonel up to date as the screens slowly started to flash over to the Langley feeds.
Let’s hope Leroux can come through for us!
Operations Center Four
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Leroux entered the Operations Center, completely relaxed and free of tension, a smile on his face. It had been the true definition of a quickie, almost reminiscent of his first couple of times with Sherrie. Almost. This time he was pretty sure she had gotten something out of it too other than the realization she was dealing with a rank amateur in the boudoir.
Have fun super stud!
He stifled a grin at her parting words.
“Report.”
Therrien stepped forward, remote control in hand as he flashed through the briefing describing the non-lethal attack in New Orleans and the kidnapping of the current front-runner for the Presidency, Christopher Jones. “Any leaks?”
“None yet. Press and local LEOs seem quiet. Secret Service had the floor sealed off anyway so hotel staff aren’t allowed on without permission. Mr. Jones had no more appointments for the day so until tomorrow morning, no one will be missing him.”
“Family?”
“Wife was with him and safe. He has three kids, one grandchild. Secret Service is moving to secure them as we speak.”
Leroux nodded toward the screen. “What have you got so far?”
“We’ve just tapped into the hotel security cameras. Watch this.”
The door opened and they all turned as their boss, Leif Morrison, the National Clandestine Service Chief, entered the room.
“What’s this I hear? Christopher Jones has been kidnapped?”
Leroux’s eyes popped. “How did you find out?” Morrison gave him a look, sending Leroux’s proud nads into hiding. “Sorry, sir, I mean, how, umm, did you find out? I was just told we had no leaks.”
“It’s my job to know,” replied Morrison who then gave Leroux a wink. “I’m notified when emergency requests for Op Centers are made.”
Therrien cleared his throat. “Sorry, boss, I, um, forgot to mention that I briefed the Director after I called you.”
Leroux waved his hand. “That’s fine, I was just worried there was a breach we didn’t know about.” He pointed at the screen. “What are we looking at?”
“Hotel footage that we’ve pieced together. Here you can see two black SUVs—we’re running the plates now—entering the underground parking garage. Six men exit, go up the elevator, exit on the tenth floor, quickly dispatch the security detail and civilians in the hall.” He paused the video. “You can see here
one of them is wounded in the shoulder. The unconscious bodies are dragged into the room, but watch this.” The video zoomed in as best it could on one of the doors, the angle sharp. It opened without anyone knocking or using a pass. “See that? It was opened from the inside.” They all watched as the bodies were dragged inside, then moments later the door opened again and Jones along with another man were led out and to the elevators, where they rode in silence, a gun clearly in Jones’ back, but not the other man’s. “You can see it looks like the other man we’ve identified as Peter Quaid, a major contributor to Mr. Jones’ campaign, seems to be going with them voluntarily.” The two SUVs were loaded, the last footage of them clearing the parking garage and disappearing into the city streets.
“Any traffic camera footage yet?”
“We’ve just tapped the local feeds. We’re running through it now.”
“Satellite?” asked Morrison.
“There was a bird over the area during the event, we’re pulling the footage now.”
“When did this all go down?” asked Leroux.
Therrien looked at the clock on the wall. “The kidnapping took place exactly sixty-two minutes ago.”
“I’ve got something,” said Sonya Tong, waving her hand then pointing at one of the screens. It flipped over to a satellite feed. “I’ve got the two SUVs going under the overpass, but neither coming out.”
Leroux and Morrison stepped closer to the screen. “Run it again, from about thirty seconds before they enter until about a minute after.” The two SUVs disappeared under the highway, along with two other vehicles right behind them. Leroux mentally counted, the other two vehicles reappearing as expected, the SUVs nowhere to be seen. Another vehicle disappeared then moments later reappeared, followed by two large sedans. He snapped his fingers at the screen. “That’s them. Grab their plates and run them. See if you can follow them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And notify the team in New Orleans. They’ll want to check out that underpass.”
Wainwright Residence, Collette Court, Odenton, Maryland
Nadja Katz opened the rear door of the house, a standard upper middle-income home in a newer, upscale neighborhood, her intel suggesting the home was worth nearly a million dollars, the Wainwrights obviously doing well in retirement. Her file said he had bought the first local McDonalds franchise decades ago and parlayed it into a decent sized restaurant empire, owning several dozen by the time he sold off a bunch of them for his retirement, divvying the rest up for his children.
They had money.
And a piss poor security system.
It had been easily bypassed after she had confirmed the house was empty, the Wainwrights at his sister’s place for dinner, no doubt eagerly discussing the painting they had found. After Congressman Mahoney had peed his pants, he had spilled everything he had known.
Coward.
The beating was enough to break most men, though she had encountered a few in her career that hadn’t. That was when the families were brought into play. And for those few who still held out, she felt nothing when the bullet tore open the target, the called bluff never a bluff.
Not with her.
She was good at her job because she was ruthless when necessary, and in her line of work, too often that was necessary. She had stopped counting how many people she had killed, certainly many dozens, if not over a hundred. It didn’t matter, they of no consequence to her. She found the emotions portrayed by her targets curious at times, especially when a loved one was killed in front of them due to their lack of cooperation.
She felt nothing.
For anything.
Life was a job. You did it until you could do it no more. Why cloud things with emotions, relationships, family? Her parents had been killed by a drunk driver when she was five, she herself suffering head trauma that the doctors later told her had damaged her prefrontal cortex from which she might never recover.
She felt fine, though at times, including her parent’s funeral, she had to fake her emotions, the tears for the delayed service forced for the benefit of those in attendance.
None of whom had taken her in. Ten years in a foster care system that had her ferried between alcoholics and pedophiles were probably easier on her than the others, her emotions dulled to the point nothing bothered her, even a fat old bastard sodomizing her three times a week.
Yet he had been the last. Something inside had snapped one night when she lay face down on the bed, her foster “father” preparing for his latest “lesson”. Something inside had finally said no, said enough is enough. She had reached over, grabbed a pencil from her nightstand and spun around backhanded, plunging it deep into his ribcage, just missing his heart, though puncturing a lung.
It had been a lucky shot, the assault over.
She had dressed and walked out as he gasped for breath on the bed, his naked, hairy girth jiggling from the effort.
She had never bothered checking to see if he had died that day.
Several years on the street had toughened her up even further, then she had fallen in with Dietrich, a man thirty years her senior, who taught her the trade. A former Stasi spy, he took her in off the street when he caught her stealing from his store, a small repair shop in a back alley of a dingy street in what was once East Berlin.
He had caught her and taught her, giving her a purpose. And for the first time in her life she found she was actually interested in something. She found it somehow fulfilling, learning how to repair things like watches and electronics, while also learning how to put those skills to work picking locks, cracking safes, and defeating alarm systems.
And when she had become adept, he had put her to work.
And she had excelled, the old man apparently never having really left the spy business, his skillset for hire to anyone who could pay his fees, fees that he happily gave her a cut of, he treating her like a daughter, he the closest thing to a father that she could remember.
When he died she had felt little, his still body lying in bed, he having died peacefully in his sleep of what she assumed were natural causes, though in his business one could never be certain. She had called it in anonymously, taking anything of value that she could carry.
Including his cellphone.
A cellphone that kept ringing with jobs.
Which she began to fulfill, working her way up in the business until one day she received a call that changed everything. Within weeks of that first, strange meeting, she was working exclusively for an organization she knew nothing about, except that they were extremely well-funded and the jobs were challenging, global and quite often violent.
Something she had no problem with.
At all.
She casually searched the house, not bothering with most of the drawers, what she was looking for specific. The computer had been hacked earlier in the day, all data already pulled, somebody reviewing it for anything of value. From what she could tell Steve Wainwright had stumbled upon a family secret a century old, and unfortunately for him it meant the end of a successful life.
But not yet.
Not tonight.
Everything had to be done in its proper order otherwise the infection could risk spreading. Already there was another problem in New Orleans that might require her involvement, though for now this was her primary task. Stop the infection in Maryland from spreading any further. In order to do that, she needed to know everyone he had told.
And in order to make a man like that talk, she needed leverage.
She opened a kitchen drawer near an old style rotary phone and felt the corners of her lips turn up slightly.
An address book.
You gotta love senior citizens.
She flipped through it, jammed with handwritten names and addresses including a hefty listing of Wainwrights across the nation.
She had her leverage.
Now it was time to find out how much farther the infection had spread.
Gentilly Boulevard, New Orleans, Lou
isiana
Niner brought the SUV to a halt, blocking the lane, the emergency vehicle lights integrated into their government issue vehicle flickering off the walls of the underpass, the dim lighting, coated in road grime and exhaust pipe soot casting a dull glow over the area. Dawson exited the vehicle with the others, approaching it cautiously, weapon raised. He fully expected both to be abandoned, yet they couldn’t take any chances.
“Federal authorities! Come out with your hands up, now!”
Niner and Spock swung to the front of the two vehicles, Niner shaking his head when he had a view through the windshield. Atlas took the passenger side of the rear vehicle, Dawson the driver side, confirming it clear as well.
“Check for booby traps.”
Dawson wasn’t expecting any lethal surprises, the method in which the security detail had been taken out earlier suggesting killing law enforcement officers wasn’t their intention. The team, experts at this, quickly cleared the exterior of the vehicles and did a visual inspection through the windows.
Dawson ordered the others back then tried the unlocked door of the rear SUV, deciding against getting out the rip kit as time was their enemy. He winced slightly as he opened it.
No explosions.
Niner did the same on the lead vehicle and soon all four were searching. Dawson went through the usual haunts up front, as Atlas took the rear. There was nothing in the glove compartment beyond registration papers that matched what they already knew.
Avis rentals, Red already running down who had ponied up for the vehicles.
“I’ve got blood!”
Dawson stepped out of the vehicle, looking to where Spock was searching. Spock pointed at the back seat. “Blood on the back of the rear seat. Not much so I’m guessing they got the bleeding stopped.”
“Okay, take samples for DNA. The keys are in this one—”
“Same here!” called Niner.
“Let’s lock them up and save it for the Local LEOs when we invite them in.” He pointed to Niner. “And put a couple of tracking devices on these, just in case someone decides to move them.”
Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) Page 15
