The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (31 page)

“I got your message. I see you’re burning the midnight oil these days. Please call me back as soon as you get this. Your message has me concerned.”

Hood looked out the window and thought about what she’d said. It was no secret he and Director Culder didn’t get along, but they managed to get things done. He was certain very few at the FBI knew of his relationship with Moynihan, and Culder wasn’t one of the handful who knew. Although not related by blood, Hood and Moynihan were very much alike. Like her godfather, Moynihan wanted to climb her way through the bureau on her own merits, and he respected her for it and kept his distance.

He decided he would take a quick shower. If he didn’t hear back from her by the time he finished, he’d start to dig.

FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC

THE FBI DIRECTOR couldn’t help but smile when the display of his cell phone lit up. This was the call he had been anxiously awaiting. He saw it as the beginnings of a wave that he could ride all the way to the top of Washington’s elite.

“Chuck, how good of you to call,” Frank Culder said. He imagined the man on the other end of the line shrink in his chair. “Please don’t keep me waiting. I always love it when people come bearing gifts.”

Culder was relishing the fact that the man was about to go against everything he had stood for in his life. He was corrupting the incorruptible. What he was about to make him do wasn’t simply crossing the line; he was erasing it.

Dr. Charles Reed drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “Tell me an email I can send the information to.”

“No delays. I want the information now,” Culder said. “I’m sure your little flower would appreciate that.”

“Then give me a goddamn email address!”

Culder rattled off an email address that was a combination of numbers and letters. He leaned back in his chair with content, still amazed at the lengths a father would go to protect his daughter, and decided it was a good thing he never had children. This man was willing to destroy everything he’d worked for.

“Send it now,” he demanded.

“I’m working on it.”

Culder could hear the caller’s fingers patting on a keyboard through his phone.

“It’s on the way,” Reed said.

Nothing was said as Culder retrieved the message. The only thing it contained was a link to a Facebook page, and it immediately set him off.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He followed the link to the profile of an attractive woman named April Pearson. “What is this bullshit?” Culder barked.

“Scroll down the page.” Reed’s tone was full of anger.

“There’s nothing to scroll, you idiot.”

“Apparently, you haven’t logged in. I didn’t realize you were so socially inept,” Reed said flatly.

He gave Culder a log-in so he could view her profile page on the social-networking website. Culder began to scroll down and saw that the web page was covered with loving condolences and expressions of sorrow from the woman’s Facebook friends. Culder couldn’t be bothered with that, but he made note that all of the images that had been recently posted included a young man. He stopped at one in particular and read the caption.

“The smile that will stay with us for the rest of our lives. I love you both. Ryan, until we see each other again. Thanks for being the best friend I could ever have.”

It wasn’t only the smile that engaged Culder, it was the happiness that was punctuated by his eyes. He felt like a voyeur, secretly viewing something he would never have.

What the FBI director didn’t know was that April Pearson’s husband had always been extremely cautious about the way April used social-networking websites. The need for secrecy was something she never completely understood, but she loved and trusted him, so she didn’t have a problem with his requests.

The first thing he asked was for her to sign up for accounts using her maiden name, April Pearson. He explained that using April Turner wasn’t a good idea, due to the nature of his job. The next detail, and something that he had become increasingly adamant about over the last several years, was keeping his images from being linked to her account. When possible, he wanted her to ask her friends to remove his images from the websites altogether. At the very least, she needed to delete any image tagging that would link the two of them together.

That was then and this was now. It had been therapeutic for the grieving widow to browse through previously unseen images of her husband, Ryan, that her friends had posted. Now that he was gone, she didn’t see any harm in leaving herself tagged. It made it easier for her to browse through them all.

After a long moment of scrolling through images, the director grunted his disapproval. “What is this?”

“It’s your man.”

“This man is dead,” he said. “Listen, Chuck, don’t test my patience.”

“I suppose it’s those masterful skills of deduction that landed you such an important job.”

“Chuck, Chuck, Chuck.” Culder cackled. “I thought you were smart enough to understand the position you’re in, your daughter is in.” His words turned scathing. “It would be wise to spare me the insults and get down to business.”

“The man you are looking at on your screen is Ryan Turner,” Reed said, his voice simmering with anger. “He’s the identical twin brother of Trent Turner, the operative you’re searching for.” He hesitated for a moment and then said, “You’ll find him at a performance at the Studebaker Theater in Chicago tonight at six.”

A sinister smile crept its way onto Culder’s face, and he began to laugh. “Reed, you’ve outdone yourself!” he said. “In fact,” he continued with an air of humor in his voice, “I’m so impressed, I have another little job for you.”

Reed remained silent for a moment as the tension increased. “Look, Culder, I’ve lived up to my side of the deal. You can’t—”

“I can’t what?” Culder barked.

Reed didn’t speak.

“The last time I checked, your little girl was out blowing Chicago’s lowlifes and trading crack for crack.” Culder paused so the sickening image would burn into Reed’s mind. “For now, anyway. Things can change rather quickly with one phone call.”

“No more after this. No more!” Reed yelled. “My debt is paid.”

Culder knew once he had the information he wanted he wouldn’t need anything else.

“You’ve got a deal.” The smile still hadn’t left his face. “I want some dirt on Cross. I want you to connect the president to your little operation. I want details that will expose what really goes on at Addy Simpson’s Island Industries. A monsoon of damning evidence, if you will. Then I’ll be finished with you.”

Downtown hotel, Chicago, IL

SLEEP WAS A rare commodity for Trent Turner. He knew his effectiveness would be diminished if he didn’t take the time to rest, so it was second nature to put his head down whenever the opportunity presented itself. Etzy Millar had continued working with The Shop while the operative went on his sortie to the Fine Arts Building. When Turner returned, he opted for a quick nap to help sharpen the edges of his mind. His body twitched every few seconds as he faded away into dream.

He relived walking up the ramp of the waiting Chinook helicopter, his mind and gear ready for the first training exercise with the big dogs. Simpson had pulled a last minute change on him to see how he would adapt.

“Welcome to DEVGRU, operative,” the commander yelled over the noise. He patted Turner on his back and it calmed his nerves. “I guess this makes you PS 4.”

The operative had already participated in progressively more difficult missions with Navy SEAL teams, and it was always assumed that he had been CIA. Before The Island would assign their operatives to work with DEVGRU, legendary SEAL Jack Turner would subject them to a gauntlet of training of his own that he’d dubbed Camp Looney.

The noise from the rotors was loud, and Turner was in his element. He looked at the commander inquisitively and spoke loud enough to be heard over the noise. “PS 4?”

The man answered with a slanted smile and a raised chin. “You know, we used to resent you crabs jumping into our business outside the selection process,” he said. “Hell, some of the paramilitary boys the CIA sends over are downright unpredictable. Damn good but fuckin’ crazy.” The commander looked at Trent Turner appraisingly for a moment, and then said, “But you’re in luck.”

Turner furrowed his brow. “How so?”

“PS 1, 2, and 3 were so goddamn good we no longer doubt Addy and Jack’s boys.” He nodded toward a soldier seated on the canvas bench inside the aircraft. “And our other last-minute addition here vouched for you.”

Turner lowered himself onto the bench opposite the soldier in question as the man raised his head. He looked past the layer of face paint and smiled with a nod. The soldier returned the gesture. The two men had become close during Hell Week, the most brutal segment of the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, or BUD/S for short. It was the point where a man’s physical endurance and mental tenacity were pushed beyond the limits of what was thought humanly possible.

For the past several months, Trent Turner had experienced a recurring dream about the moment he had entered the helicopter. It was when he made the transition from Private Sector Number 4 to a hardened operative who would be unleashed into the world. Island Industries’ boss and former admiral, John “Addy” Simpson, pulled the sacred strings that allowed his candidates to take part in the Navy SEAL selection process. If they made it through, they would then work alongside the various SEAL teams until they were deemed ready to take on Camp Looney.

While in the BUD/S program, prospective Islanders were advised to keep to themselves, but sometimes connections were a product of fate. Turner and Brendan Manion struck up what should have been a lifelong friendship during the grueling week-long ordeal known as Hell Week. The men were put in situations where life was stripped down to the basic primal need to survive, fostering an environment in which men forged strong connections. The extreme fight to stay alive as a viable candidate required the absolute trust of your fellow soldiers, and sometimes the will to help carry them along. Trent realized the effects of the BUD/S program in a way that most could not. It facilitated the same sort of bond he had had with his twin brother, Ryan.

It had been clear to everyone in their class that Manion and Turner were wired differently than the others. The suffering during BUD/S served as fuel for their motivation, and together they were able to share their advantage with the others to help pull them through. Brendan Manion was voted Honor Man of his class, the soldier the other candidates had looked up to the most. He had selflessly given then for his fellow candidates and continued to do so until making the ultimate sacrifice for his country.

The recurring dream of Turner’s friend Brendan had been triggered by news that he had been killed in a Black Hawk helicopter crash in the southern-Afghanistan province of Zabul. He would dream about his final operation with the SEALs as a part of DEVGRU, also known as the famed SEAL Team 6, specifically the moment he reunited with Brendan. His friend had made it all the way to the top, as Turner suspected he would, and it made him proud. That was where the dream turned to a nightmare.

He would climb out of his sleep with thoughts of the first time Brendan had made the headlines. An investigative reporter had exposed Manion’s identity when details were leaked about a mission he had taken part in where a top Al-Qaeda commander had been eliminated. It was an election year, and the White House had purposely leaked the details—a few too many—to gain reelection momentum needed to defeat Vincent Cross. The sensational exposé of an active covert operative proved to be a major ratings grabber and had thrown the top brass at the Pentagon into an uproar.

The reporter had been reckless and set off a chain of events that included death threats to the soldier’s family, which culminated with the tragic and brutal murder of Manion’s wife and unborn child by an Al-Qaeda cell based in the United States. A few months later, when the news broke that Manion had been killed in action, it set off a media frenzy that dwarfed the previous circus and ripped the scab off Trent Turner’s wound. He and his friend had been fighting the same fight. He’d only wished they could have done it together, that he could have been alongside him and had a chance to change the outcome.

“Trent!” Millar’s voice was desperate as he shook Turner back and forth.

The operative opened his eyes abruptly. “What’s up?” he asked. He was alert, as if he’d never been asleep.

“That’s freaky,” Millar said with a disbelieving look.

“What?”

“That.” He nodded to him. “One second you’re sleeping like a baby, and the next you’re wide awake. It’s like you were faking it.”

Turner laughed, but the concern in Millar’s eyes stopped him short. “What’s wrong?”

“Those fuckers grabbed Maria.”

“Maria? Your girlfriend?”

Millar exhaled. “Well, she used to be my girlfriend. Kind of really doubtful now.”

“Shit. How do you know?”

“I just found a message from the Russians on the boards. I’ve been monitoring for activity since all of this started. I just confirmed it with The Shop. They found out about it a little while ago from some guy named Addy. They didn’t realize we knew each other.”

Turner took a moment to consider the news. “Do you think they’ve made a connection and know who you are?”

“I don’t know. They addressed the message to Max, which means they probably don’t know my handle online, or they would have just sent something to me. They know I’m a hacker, sure, but deploying the bots didn’t take a genius. I doubt they suspect I’m Slash ETC.” He forced a smile. “We still have one over them, especially considering The Shop is on this too,” he said confidently. His face turned grim again when he thought about Maria. “This is fucked.”

Turner put his hands on Millar’s shoulders. “I owe her one, remember? We’ll stop this, and part of that will be getting her out.” He locked eyes with Millar. “Okay?”

The hacker appeared unsure of what to say. Finally he said, “Yeah, sure.”