The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (41 page)

“So you think he’s working with the Russians then?” Culder asked.

“Sure as shit looked that way to me,” Sanders replied.

“The locals said those men were with the Kozlov Bratva,” Pagano said. “No doubt in their minds.”

Culder palmed both hands on his head. “This is insane. Even for Simpson,” he said. “What could he possibly want with a commie turned mafia boss? It’s just not making any sense.”

“The hacker wasn’t with him in the theater,” Pagano said. “Maybe we stumbled onto some sort of drop.”

“Look, here’s how I see it.” Sanders was getting animated. “One of the local guys went after that Trent character, and the Russian nearly took his head off when he chased him out through the bathroom. That’s hard to explain away.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Not only that, but one of the agents saw Kozlov take off before the shit hit the fan. It’s pretty obvious he knew something was about to go down.”

Culder’s cell phone rang. He looked at the display and recognized the 312 area code.

“Yeah,” he answered. He listened intently for a minute and worked his way over to the desk. “Hold on a sec. Okay, give it to me.” He scribbled an address on a piece of paper and underlined it twice. “No, no. We’ll take care of this.” He listened for another few seconds. “Right, okay.” He disconnected the call and looked at his men. “We’ve got them now,” he said confidently.

Sanders answered the comment with a questioning look.

“We know where their operation is. You boys can go in and take them out.”

Sanders and Pagano glanced at each other and then back to Culder.

“Do you have any intel on the place?” Sanders asked. “I don’t want to go in there blind.”

“I’ll pull something together while you pick up what you need,” Culder said.

His cell phone rang again. He handed a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it to Pagano before starting toward the door.

“I’ll take this one outside. Give them a call and see what they have on the place.” Once he was outside he answered the call. “Chuck?” he answered in a condescending tone.

“It’s done.”

“It is?” He was beginning to enjoy his little conversations with Dr. Charles Reed. The only thing that could make them better would be a video feed so he could watch him squirm.

“Yes,” Reed said, his voice void of emotion.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Culder said.

“Look, I have confirmation that the package was delivered by your guy from the New York office.” Anger and desperation had started to seep into Reed’s voice. “There’s plenty of damning information in there that will connect President Cross to certain Island Industries’ activities.”

“I believe you,” Culder said, knowing it was too late for the man to turn back. “This is something you can be proud of, Dr. Reed. You don’t have the opportunity to bring down the most powerful man in the world every day.”

Satisfied he had what he needed from the man, Culder decided to leave a lasting impression. “What do you think the press will call it? Islandgate? Spygate? This has Hollywood written all over it.” The director got no reaction, so he decided to up the ante. “Maybe you can go tell your story on the talk-show circuit? They can dub it crack-whore-gate.” He paused to let his words fester. “I like that last one. How about you, Chuck?” He heard heavy breathing on the line and smiled. “Your little Shelly will be released once I have my confirmation, don’t worry, Daddy.” He disconnected the call and headed back into the hotel room.

Sanders looked up when Culder opened the door. The director wore a grin that showed his satisfaction.

“What happened to you? Did you get laid or something?” Sanders asked.

Culder laughed and replied, “It was better than sex.”

Sanders looked over at Rudy Pagano, and they both shrugged.

“Are we ready to do this?” Culder asked, his grin replaced with intensity.

Sanders pulled out his cell phone and powered it on. “Not quite. Rudy just had a chat with the locals, and they said these Russians don’t fuck around. Ex-military.”

“He’ll have some serious firepower,” Pagano added.

“I have a local contact who can hook us up with some kit pronto,” Sanders said. “I just need to give him a call.”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Pagano said. “The agent is putting a package together for us to pick up. We’ve been worse off.”

Sanders nodded in agreement. “We should be good to go. On point within the hour.”

His phone chimed after it finished powering up, signaling a new voicemail.

Kozlov Bratva compound, Chicago, Illinois

A MIXTURE OF overgrown shrubs and run-down structures peppered the flat landscape of the former steel mill. It was like an abandoned set from a Western movie had been invaded by rusted post-apocalyptic props from
Mad Max
. The entire property was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, with several locked gates that provided access for vehicles.

Jack and Trent Turner parked their rental car more than a kilometer away and sent the PMD off ahead of them to scan the area while they tabbed their way to the compound. Night was falling on the city of Chicago, and both men welcomed the extra cover the darkness would provide.

By the time they reached the outer perimeter of the fence, the PMD had processed the area and provided its preliminary analysis to the operatives. There were no telltale heat signatures that indicated recent vehicular activity, and its sensors were able to identify three sentries posted outside.

They had very little intel on the compound, so they were going to have to play it by ear. The PMD’s flight time overhead had been limited, and both men understood the details it first supplied to their XHD3s might change. Dennis Zander had confirmed the concrete building that was situated closest to the northern end of the property as their objective.

Trent Turner scanned the area and turned to his Uncle Jack. “Good thing help is on the way,” he whispered. He gestured toward his uncle’s foot and said, “It looks like we’ll need it.”

Jack was obviously annoyed. “I’ll be fine,” he said.

“Didn’t General Custer say that too?” Trent asked sarcastically. “You shouldn’t be out here when you’re gimpy like that.”

Jack glared at his nephew, but the response acknowledged he was right.

“Do you know who they’re bringing in?” Trent asked.

“No idea. Hopefully they’re getting some sleep on the plane. All of our assets were in Europe. Addy said he had something in the works. He wanted to bring someone new on board if he could, but he wasn’t sure whether it was going to work out. He didn’t have time for details. Shit was hitting the fan all around us.”

Trent flashed him a smile. “You do smell a little funny.”

“Leave it to you, kiddo,” Jack said with a laugh. “Busting balls, when here I thought you’d be glad to see me.” He made a production of giving himself a sniff test.

“Ah, you know it’s always great to see you, Unc, but would an occasional shower be asking too much?” He patted him on the shoulder and said, “What comes around goes around.”

His uncle’s verbal chops from his time as a SEAL instructor were legendary. Jack wanted to laugh but instead jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow.

“Let’s save the beauty for last this time,” he said, motioning Trent to head through the slit he’d just cut in the fence.

“Can you read us, Poor Man? Over.” Trent asked. He’d given Millar the handle based on his reaction to what the PMD acronym stood for.

“Loud and clear. I’ll let you know if I see anything, over.”

“We’re going in, over,” Trent confirmed.

He then turned to hand signals as he directed their approach to the building. They leapfrogged positions and used what little cover was available to remain concealed. They quickly arrived at a small shed with a beat-up Ford F-150 parked alongside.

“You need to take a look at the monitor,” Millar cut in nervously. “Lots of movement at the northeast gate, over.”

Trent Turner positioned his head inside the tactical sleeve on his kit. The fabric was designed to stretch so that he could review the latest stream of information sent down from the PMD on the XHD3 mounted to his forearm. The purpose-built shroud concealed the light from the device so it wouldn’t give away his position. His head was still buried in his sleeve when he said, “Not looking good, Unc.”

“I know. It’s getting pretty bad,” he admitted. “I’m having a hard time keeping up.”

Trent turned off the display and pulled his head out of the sleeve. “Not your foot. It looks like we’ve got company, and lots of it.” He nodded down the driveway perpendicular to them as the approaching headlights came into view. Both men quickly improved their cover.

The perimeter security forces had gotten organized quicker than they would have expected, with some of the men hopping out at the gate. The PMD sent in a steady stream of information about their movements, and Millar was doing a good job of keeping them informed as the patrols closed in. The situation was getting progressively worse. Trent knew his uncle’s foot injury was a major handicap to their mobility, and he wasn’t about to let the Russians murder another member of his family.

“Look, Unc,” Trent said, “half of them have swarmed the main compound and the others are working their way in fast from the perimeter.”

They had just moved west from the shed into a small thicket of bushes thirty meters away.

“It’s only a matter of time before they find us.” Trent’s voice was measured. “We’re packing light, since we were just here for a quick recce.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “So, what are you trying to say?”

“I’ll distract them while you make a break for it and bring back the cavalry.” He turned toward a sharp noise off in the distance and back to his uncle. “I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself like this, and if we stay together, neither one of us will make it out. They’re clearing this place too fast.”

Millar’s panicked voice increased the tension. “You guys probably know this already, but they’re closing in fast. Really fast, over.”

Trent quickly slid his head under his tactical sleeve and saw the heat signatures closing in on their position. The limited options for cover made an already bad situation worse.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed, Trent,” Jack said.

“Nah, you know me better than that.” Trent mock punched Jack in the arm like his uncle used to do to him when he was a kid. “Besides, I’ve got a hot date waiting for me inside.” His thoughts hadn’t drifted far from Victoria Eden since the theater, and his concern had deepened by the minute. “I wouldn’t want to miss that.”

Jack shook his head. He wasn’t sure if he was proud of his nephew or annoyed by him. He decided that maybe it was a little of both.

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t sweat it. I’ve got this covered,” he said. “Poor Man, I’m sending Heckler home. Focus on getting him out of here and then come back to me, over.”

“Copy that, Finger, over.”

Trent checked his XHD again for an update and quickly worked through some menus. He pointed west. “Head that way. Keep it straight, and you should be okay.” The two men pounded fists. “Be careful,” Trent said, and then sprinted off to run interference.

“You too, kiddo,” Jack replied under his breath.

Kozlov Bratva compound, Chicago, Illinois

DIMITRI SOKOV HAD spent the last few hours sifting through tremendous amounts of data. He was finally at the point where he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. The Russian knew better than to relax, but everything was coming together, and a sense of pride lifted the spirits of the tired computer genius. He had expected to have everything completed by now, but had been forced to do the work himself. The American who was brought in to complete this part of the operation had betrayed them, and the Russian was thankful he had stayed intimately involved in every aspect of the operation. This was just a bump in the road, not a showstopper.

The hard work was now complete. Everything had been separated and verified. Each of the banks had a file that contained a list of account numbers. They weren’t random account numbers. Most of the accounts that were flagged belonged to individuals who were targeted to get paid tomorrow through the Federal Reserve’s Automated Clearing House (ACH) system. It was the system that nearly all American companies used to distribute their payrolls via Electronic Fund Transfers, more commonly known as EFTs.

There was one more attribute the list of account numbers could have that was equally as important as their payday. It marked the accounts that were active in the banking system but weren’t monitored by their owners very often. The hackers knew this because they knew the DataBank financial software as well, if not better, than the software engineers at Allegiance Financial Systems who created it. The Bratva’s hackers knew the fields in the database that correlated to transactions that weren’t automated, and on what dates they had occurred. Sokov knew most of the top banks in the United States relied on the DataBank program to store and process their customers’ bank accounts, so it was the obvious choice.

He had taken a break to provide an update on his progress. His eyes were weary from staring at a computer monitor for so long.

The Russian looked up from his desk as the hacker entered his office. “Pavel, the work is nearly complete.”

Pavel Kozlov did not look pleased. “You are behind schedule?”

“Yes.” Sokov looked down to the floor and then back to the Bratva leader. “I needed to complete the work that was to be done by Dennis Zander. It took longer than I thought it would, but it is done. The files just need to be encrypted, and they will be ready to be deployed.”

“You said you would be finished.” Kozlov was edgy.

“The difficult part is behind us,” Sokov assured him.

“How will the computers at the banks know what to do without these files?”

The question made Sokov uncomfortable, since Kozlov already knew the answer. “They will not,” he said tentatively, “but you can be—”

“Enough,” Kozlov barked. He took a deep breath in frustration. “Do not tell me you will be finished and then come back to me and say there is still work to be done.”