The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (19 page)

“Can you believe that gas station sold good coffee? Here, in the boondocks?”

He had to admit Special Agent Cathy Moynihan had managed to break him out of his shell. It was unusual to find a woman who could dish out attitude with her aptitude for precision and wit.

“It’s the strong stuff too. Café Verona. Mmm mmm good,” she said. “Are you sure there’s a coffee grinder there?”

He liked her skeptical nature. “Absolutely. We don’t mess around.”

“If you didn’t mess around, we’d be drinking coffee, not picking it up.”

“Touché!” All he could do was smile. For a second he considered that he may well have met the perfect woman, but then her next question smacked him with reality.

“So what division are you in?”

Sanders spat out the canned response. “We work out of Baltimore. You?” He already knew the answer to the question, but this was about changing the subject to her.

“DC. I’m hoping to make the Hawaii beat one day.” There was an awkward silence, like she knew he didn’t want her to ask any more prying questions. “So…” Her tone was serious. “What are a bunch of guys out of Baltimore doing grabbing teenagers and driving them around in kit like that? I mean, come on. Three decked-out Tahoes? Pretty impressive considering how stingy the bureau has been about every request I’ve ever made.”

He needed to shut this down fast.

“Jealousy will get you nowhere in this business.” He flashed her his shit-eating grin again.

She shook her head as she turned onto the gravel driveway that led to the black site. Sanders knew she wasn’t buying his bullshit, and he respected her for it. This was one of those times where being intelligent wasn’t in one’s best interest. He wasn’t sure how his boss would want him to handle this one.

Over the past decade the scope of his job had increased significantly. He was getting used to working in the gray area after being moved out of TacOps. When he was with the FBI Tactical Operations team, he was responsible for the bureau’s black-bag operations, but when he and his crew of trusted men were promoted to create a new unit, that new assignment had morphed into something well beyond illegal entry-and-search missions and surveillance. They had added terrorist hit squad to their list of duties.

The HVT Squad, short for High-Value Target Squad, was put in place for matters of national security. One-off missions like the one they were currently on muddied the waters between right and wrong, but the squad had become desensitized to the work over the years. Its team filled the gap that the CIA, unable to run black operations on US soil, was legally bound to leave. The squad had lost a few good men in the fight, but it was still five-strong and extremely capable.

Moynihan and Sanders got out of the car. Sanders caught a quick glimpse of her in the moonlight and noticed she was the complete package. He was beginning to imagine the possibilities when she spoke.

“Do you smell that?” she asked.

He snapped out of his daydream and said, “Huh?”

“It smells like someone discharged a weapon.” She tilted her head slightly as if it would catch more air and took a couple more whiffs.

“Don’t be…” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Yeah, I smell it now.”

“It’s probably nothing,” she said. “We’d already be dead if there was a problem.”

He realized she was probably right. The fact that she picked up on both points first annoyed him.

“Tell my ex that,” he said.

She turned to him and squinted. “What?”

He smiled and said, “I’m dead to her.”

They shared a laugh, and it helped to lighten the mood as they approached the house. He slid his thumb across the reader and unlocked the door. The smells released by the open door caused them both to instinctively draw their weapons. Someone had definitely fired a gun.

“Ken? Scott?” Sanders’s voice was a little tentative. “Glen… Guys?” He strained to see inside. “No fucking around. Are you in there?”

He led them through the door. Their training was evident from their cadence and actions. He signaled Moynihan to check the upper floors with a nod of his head.

The smell of violence grew stronger as he silently made his way down the stairs. His weapon was leveled, and his heart pounded as he took in the scene. Both Scott and Glen were dead. They had been shot execution-style, each with a dime-sized bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He continued to clear the basement and checked the outside stairwell. The situation hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Holy shit,” he said under his breath. He backtracked and shouted up the stairs. “Moynihan, you okay?”

“Yeah, nothing up here,” she said.

He heard her staccato footsteps navigate down the stairs to the basement. He hadn’t had a chance to warn her. When he turned in her direction, she was frozen, with her hand held to her mouth.

“Oh my God…” she said, followed by an audible swallow.

Sanders had already gone into the control room to check the surveillance equipment. The system still showed that an alarm had been triggered and the time that had lapsed. He pushed the button to reset the sensors and checked the monitor bank to verify they were alone. He fumbled with the controls in an attempt to pull up the recording of his men being taken down.

Working the surveillance gear had always been Scott Richardson’s job, and he was lying in a pool of his own blood just outside the door. Sanders had only managed to make the computer screen a jumble of windows. He shook his head in frustration.

“We’ll have to get someone out here to examine the video feed. These systems are cut off from the rest of the world.”

Sanders noticed she had taken the shock well and was impressed that she hadn’t tossed her cookies.

“Whoever did this already took off,” he said.

Moynihan pointed out the bright side. “I guess that’s not such a bad thing.”

They shared a look, knowing the carnage could have just as easily included them.

His eyes narrowed. “Yeah,” he said, “it sure could have.”

He walked into the room with his dead men, and now that he had calmed down, the overpowering metallic smell of blood overpowered his senses.

Moynihan motioned toward the basement door and dashed up the stairs. Her footsteps gave way to muted heaving sounds.

“Take your time,” Sanders yelled out the doorway. “I need to make a call.”

Her puking would have been funny for him if the situation wasn’t so fucked up.

Sanders took out his phone and called Director Culder.

“What do you have for me?” he answered.

Sanders closed his eyes and said, “I’ve got two men dead, one missing.”

“It had to be Simpson.”

Jake Sanders knew they had worked together long enough for Culder to trust him.

“I’ll deal with it. I’ll figure out what’s going on.”

He turned toward the door when he heard Moynihan coming down the stairs and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece.

“Your other agent is in the yard. Single bullet to the head like the others. I’ll call this in,” she said.

“No,” Sanders blurted out a little louder than he would have liked. He covered the receiver with his hand more tightly before continuing. “No,” he told her, this time more composed. “I’ve got the director on the line now. I’ll take care of this. Turn off your cell phone as a precaution. I’ve got a spare in the truck we can use. Mine’s off after this call.”

Sanders could tell she wasn’t crazy about the order but knew she would also be concerned about whom they might be dealing with. He whisked her back up the stairs with his hand.

“She’s there then?” Culder said.

“Yeah, and make it three dead.” He looked down at his men. The team was now down to two.

“This is not good. She knows too much,” the director said. “Are we going to have a problem?”

“No. No problem with her.” Sanders knew he wouldn’t like the director’s plan for resolution. “Our problem is with the team. It’s just me and Pagano, so we’ll be extremely limited until we do some recruiting.”

“That’s something we can figure out later. We can’t have any loose ends, not with what’s going on.”

Sanders took a deep breath, annoyed at the lack of immediate commitment with bringing the team back up to full strength. He was already used to the absence of condolences.

“We can still use her. No loose ends. If I sense there’s a problem, I’ll deal with it.”

“Good. Keep me informed,” Culder said.

Lucky Stone Quarry, Ashburn, VA

IMAGES OF THE dead men were still ruling her thoughts when she felt the car come to a stop. This time the driver turned the engine off. Maria Soller estimated they had been driving for forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. She had no idea where they had been taken, but she was thankful they were both still alive. Every time she felt panic beginning to set in, she’d will herself to stay strong, like her mother would. She hung on to the hope that it would only be a matter of time before her mother’s friend swooped in and rescued them from this mess. She didn’t even know who the man was, but he was the glue that was keeping her together. His invisible presence helped her focus on doing her part and staying alive.

The nervous moment of silence was broken by the sound of the door opening, immediately followed by a harsh voice.

“Get out,” it said.

Both of the girls rose from a fetal position in the backseat and eased their way out of the car. They had rank-smelling hoods over their heads, and their hands had been zip-tied behind their backs.

“Faster,” he barked.

Her legs were unsteady from being cramped up in the car for so long. He prodded her along every nervous step as the smell of rotting trash joined the assault the filthy hood had already launched against her senses. She could hear Melody Millar starting to sob again, and she feared for both of them. When Melody had cried loudly in the car, they had been relentless. The men spoke freely in Russian amongst themselves, and not knowing what they were saying caused a panicked feeling to surface. Her foot kicked into something solid, and it made a metallic sound.

He stopped her progress and said, “Step up.”

She brought her foot up and he barked, “Two more.”

She heard a door open and sensed she was entering some kind of building. Her mind had transformed the cover over her head into a hiding place, so she hoped they wouldn’t take it off. His powerful hand pressed down on her shoulder.

“Sit!” he said.

The chair was cold and ripped her mind from its hiding place. She could hear Melody starting to cry again and realized the sudden chill from the chair had frightened her too. She needed to calm her down.

“It’s okay, Melody,” she said. “We’re going to be okay.”

“Silence,” he yelled.

His voice made her jump and managed to set the teenager off. This time her crying was much worse. She knew trying to help her would end badly, so she silently prayed that she would be okay. Melody’s sobs became muffled, and Soller heard ruffling sounds from her direction. She shut her eyes tight and tried to block out the sounds. The rustling stopped, and she clenched her fists, gripped by fear.

“I said silence,” he demanded, this time in a more sinister tone.

The room was now quiet, and Soller’s hands began to shake. There was a massive heave as Melody gasped for air. Soller was relieved to hear her breathing but was afraid she would go into hysterics. She listened as Melody started to catch her breath. There was only one convulsive sob before she quieted down.

She could hear traffic in the distance, and she wished it were closer—close enough for someone to hear her scream. Maria Soller was too scared to speak. She didn’t know if they were alone, and all she wanted to do was help the poor girl.

She concentrated on the sound from the cars. Every time a vehicle passed, she imagined its make and model as a way to occupy her mind and cope with the fear. She listened intently and tried to discover anything new that might help take her away from this hell.

Soller noticed her iPhone was pressing hard against her body, and fear crept into her mind as she worried that its outline could be seen through her pocket.

Island Industries satellite office, Reston, VA

ADDY SIMPSON LOOKED up from his desk and said, “Thanks for getting here so fast, Jack.”

“No problem. What’s up?” Jack Turner asked.

Simpson’s office was one of three in the single-floor building, and was furnished with the bare minimum. It had plain white walls with gray thin-pile carpet covering the floor, and a desk with two chairs opposite to where he was seated. There was a dark brown leather couch along one of the walls, and one in the reception area, that would accommodate the occasional all-nighter. The two men had always been straight with one another, and the admiral understood the difficult position his friend was in.

“Do you have any news you can share about Trent?” Simpson asked, phrasing the question in a way that left Jack Turner with a little wiggle room. He wouldn’t necessarily have to lie if he had spoken to Trent and wasn’t ready to pass it along.

“No, nothing for you yet,” Turner said, easing himself into one of the chairs.

Simpson acknowledged. “Have you heard about what’s going on at The Shop?”

“Sure, I figured that’s what this was about.”

“The latest news has everyone taking this threat very seriously. I’m going to have to let POTUS know what they’ve found. We’re getting some solid help from the hacker who was targeted along with Soller’s son.”

“All the way to the top sounds about right.” Turner’s eyes narrowed. “Look, Addy, what’s going on?”

Simpson’s eyes reflected his inner turmoil, and Turner had picked up on it, likely concerned that it was bad news about his nephew.

“Matilde called,” Simpson said.

“Jesus. About her son?”

“No.” His eyes now burned with a familiar intensity and he said, “Someone’s taken her daughter.”

Turner’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

Simpson shook his head. “Afraid not.”

“What does she want you to do about it?”

“Find her.”