The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (8 page)

Simpson laughed. “It’s a scary thing when someone can see right through you.”

Reed looked at him nervously. He was trying to judge whether or not he’d been exposed. If Simpson knew the real reason for his retirement, it would be a serious problem. The doctor shook his head in an effort to wipe away his guilty look.

“Not me, Trent,” Simpson added.

He sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the large maple desk and leaned back. His eyes drifted ponderously around the office and settled on the room’s only window. He watched a raindrop connect the dots down the window’s surface, then let out a sigh.

“It’s unnerving, Addy,” he said flatly.

Reed had worked with Trent Turner extensively and knew what made him tick better than most. He never felt like the sessions he had with their top operative were under his control. Instead, it felt like a jousting tournament, and he was left with the short stick. He might have been the one calling for the session, but it was as if Trent Turner only showed up for his personal amusement.

“I’ll bet,” Simpson said. “I’m sure most doctors would prefer not to be psychoanalyzed by their patients.”

The doctor couldn’t hide the annoyed look on his face, even though he knew Simpson’s comment wasn’t meant to criticize. “He figures out the layers I’m trying to peel back and then…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Trying to get in his head is like cutting into a goddamn onion. The first cut is easy enough, but if you want to slice it wide open, where you have a chance for some real insight, the stinging worsens with each cut. It makes you question the effort in the first place.”

“At least he doesn’t make you cry, does he?” Simpson laughed, and was met with an angry glare.

“Funny. Look, Trent is unique. The killing, it’s something he takes in stride. It doesn’t faze him, even when it’s up close and personal.”

Simpson nodded.

Both men had seen their share of soldiers come unraveled by the brutal reality of violence. If you dwell on what you’ve done or see too much death, the long-term effects can prove fatal. Reed’s work had taught him that people die hard, and it became increasingly personal and gruesome as the distance from which the deed was done decreased.

“Look, Charles, it’s not an easy job. Everyone has their own way of switching off, detaching the emotion from what needs to be done. If an operative can’t do that, they don’t stand a chance in this business. That’s not news to you.”

“I can understand that in the field, but—”

“He’s the best I’ve ever seen. Maybe that’s what makes the difference for him. Being able to shut it out completely.”

“Sure, and a mechanism for doing so includes getting a rise out of his shrink? The guy who’s trying to help him? Smart move,” Reed said sarcastically.

Turner’s rivalry with the doctor had been obvious from the start, but it wasn’t personal for Trent, and both men knew that.

“Maybe he doesn’t need any help,” Simpson suggested, as if Reed was past the point of being able to be objective when it came to Turner. “It’s not like he has a tough time sleeping or he’s having flashbacks.”

“Perhaps,” Reed said. His failure to make any significant progress in getting through Trent’s mental barriers after all of these years had become a bit of an obsession for the doctor. The circumstances behind the death of his twin brother had the potential to change all of that. Leaving at a time when there could be a breakthrough would be difficult, but he didn’t have a choice. “That could change after what’s happened. How are you going to get this under control? If he hasn’t already started hunting down his brother’s killer, he will soon.”

Simpson started to say something and stopped himself before saying, “I’m heading to Virginia to meet with Jack.”

Reed was taken aback. “Really?” He knew Jack Turner was head and shoulders above any operative Simpson had ever worked with during his time as a SEAL, and he was also Trent’s uncle.

“He’s the best chance we have to turn this around.”

Reed squinted in disbelief and said, “So you’re expecting a happy ending?”

“Are you having doubts about your assessment?”

“No,” Reed said. “He won’t fly off the handle, but he’s not someone you, his uncle, or anyone else for that matter can control.”

Trent Turner’s move to Island Industries sealed the deal that finally brought his old friend and former commanding officer of the Navy’s Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) training program over to his new team. The job and the California lifestyle had suited Jack Turner well, but family was family.

“It’s never about control,” Simpson said evenly. “It’s about respect.”

“Jack…” Reed shook his head and considered the number of times the man had refused to come to work for The Island.

The doctor had always thought the fact that Simpson was the one who recommended taking him out of the field had something to do with his previous refusals. It was never easy for an operator of his caliber to accept defeat at the hands of injury. The tough old cuss would have rather been shot and killed on an operation than sent out to pasture.

“He’ll do whatever he can to salvage this,” Reed agreed. “He feels obligated to look after his nephew for his younger brother.”

Working with Trent was something Jack had been doing under the radar. No one in the family knew of their new relationship. Mentor and prodigy.

Simpson rubbed his chin and said, “That’s the reason we were finally able to bring him on board, sure, but he believes in what we’re doing. He understands the big picture.”

“That’s not the problem, Addy. The problem is how you’ll go about finding a person who had a major hand in developing the very systems we use to track people down.”

Simpson hated it when people pointed out the obvious. “That’s not something you’ll have to worry about,” he said, alluding to his resignation.

Hilton Hotel, Tysons Corner, Virginia

BRUCE CAMPBELL ENTERED the Hilton Garden Inn on edge. He looked at the small child throwing a temper tantrum at the front desk and was happy for the distraction. His target, Aliaksandr Petrov, had been reported as being on the first floor. The first floor wouldn’t have been Campbell’s preference, so he began to wonder whether the assassin was expecting an uninvited guest. Perhaps the room was just a decoy. He knew his employer had incredible resources and would have provided the information if there were any indication of a trap, but his target was a top-notch professional, so he couldn’t discount the idea.

Doubts began to creep into his mind as he casually surveyed the hotel. An inflated ego made coming to the hotel alone an easy choice. He reasoned that he could catch the Russian off guard and score the kill, so bringing his driver along for an extra set of eyes wasn’t necessary. He hoped taking care of Petrov would get him back on good terms with his employer. Pressure from Pavel Kozlov about the previous fuckup had unsettled his nerves and chipped away at his confidence. Kozlov wasn’t a man who tolerated failure.

After exploring the layout of the building, Campbell decided to make a casual pass by the target’s room. Lobby signs directed him down a hallway to the left of the reception desk. The long corridor had a bend, presumably to help keep the noise down for the hotel’s first-floor guests. His level of anticipation remained high. Petrov’s room was still out of view because of the curvature.

He carefully rounded the bend and was presented with the cleaning crew’s rolling station. The cart was situated in the middle of the hallway, with a guest room door propped open on either side for quick access to the cleaning supplies. Campbell counted the rooms and knew the open door on the right led to the Russian’s. He readied his weapon as he crept to within earshot and steadied his breathing.

A quick check behind confirmed nobody else was in the hallway, but a flash of movement as he turned back to the room was enough for him to brandish his Sig Sauer P226R. The adrenaline shot spiked his heart rate as his laser-like focus switched to the object in motion. He took a deep breath as a white towel lazily slinked its way down the side of the cleaning cart and fell to the floor. Campbell quickly stuffed the weapon back into his sport coat and checked his six, annoyed with his edginess, knowing the assassin wouldn’t be expecting him. He approached the door slowly and peered around its frame.

The maid gasped in surprise when he appeared, and raised her hand to her heart. She quickly resumed smoothing out the sheets.

He took quick stock of the room and asked, “Will you be much longer?”

“Yes, sir…I mean, no, sir. I’m just about finished.”

He entered the room as she rushed nervously to complete the job. Campbell was an imposing figure, and the sport jacket didn’t do much to soften his look. After making the bed, she walked to the window and began to open the shades.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said firmly.

She took the hint and scurried out of the room with her head bowed.

Once she closed the door, Campbell began his search. First he checked the night tables, and then he moved to the dresser under the window. He heard the telltale beep and click from the lock on the door and, without turning to expose his face, waited for the maid to address him. He stood there and looked down at the laptop that sat on the dresser. Once she left the room again, he decided the laptop would be his next move.

Cold steel pressed against his right temple and startled him. His heart rate doubled when he considered the fact that the hotel staff would have knocked first.

“What are you doing here?” a voice barked in a harsh accent.

Campbell knew the man connected to the barrel nestled into his skin played for keeps. His encounter with the cleaning staff had made him careless. It wasn’t until now that he truly appreciated his decision to rush the housekeeper out of the room. He slowly reached for the bottle of Windex the woman had left on the dresser, and knew he needed to make this count. Otherwise, it would end up being his farewell performance.

“I…I…I’m the manager for hotel housekeeping,” Campbell said, doing his best to sound nervous. “She did a good job in the bathroom…and…and with making up the bed. Five points on both.”

He was impressed with himself. He’d never made his voice crack like that before, and he thought the bullshit he’d come up with was pretty convincing. He paused for effect before adding some icing to the cake.

“It’s our top score,” he added. “I…I just needed to check that the windows were cleaned. We only do that once a week. On Saturdays.”

The Russian stopped applying pressure with his gun, but Campbell could tell he was still being sized up. He knew his physical presence would be tough for the assassin to write off. He could sense the doubt, so he needed to add credibility to his story.

He made his hand shake just enough to disrupt the blue liquid in the bottle he was holding and said, “M-my staff should still be just outside. In the hallway. With their cart.”

“Turn around very slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them,” Petrov said.

He followed the Russian’s direction and slowly turned counterclockwise toward the assassin. Campbell wore a twisted facial expression, like he’d just bitten into a sour grape. His awkward appearance served its purpose. He noticed a change in the Russian’s eyes. Some of the intensity had faded, and he looked somewhat amused. He knew this would be his only chance.

He timed squirting a stream of Windex into the assassin’s face perfectly. As the liquid made contact with Petrov’s eyes, he landed a well-placed blow to dislodge his weapon. Campbell immediately followed it up with a leg sweep and strike to the head that sent the assassin face first to the ground. He looked down at the Russian, who was sprawled out on the ground. He had landed next to his MP-443 Grach pistol. Campbell quickly delivered a brutal stomp to the back of Petrov’s neck that stopped his motion toward the gun.

Campbell looked down with satisfaction as blood began to stain the carpet below the Russian’s face. He drew his weapon from its holster and surveyed the room. It was protocol to deliver an insurance bullet to the back of the head, but before he could squeeze off a round, his attention was drawn to the pair of bloodshot eyes staring back at him from the base of the room’s full-length mirror.

Petrov flipped over like a displaced fish and sprung to life, wildly pumping rounds in the direction of his attacker. The Russian struggled to get to his feet and jumped backwards as Campbell unloaded several rounds into his chest. The assassin slammed violently into the wall behind him, and blood from the back of his head painted a trail as he slid against it clumsily to the floor.

Campbell’s chest was pounding, his ears ringing, when he registered the vacant look in the Russian’s eyes. He stashed his weapon and bolted out of the room. He quickly made his way through the chaos that had ensued in the lobby from the gunfight. The concierge tried to stop him to see if he was okay, and he answered with a sharp elbow, the man unconscious before he hit the tiled floor. He headed to his car and sped out of the parking lot to the rising sound of sirens.

Somewhere near Tysons Corner, Virginia

HE WAS HEADING back to his hotel when his handler dropped the bomb.

“Okay, Heckler, let’s hear the good news,” Trent Turner said.

“Sure. The kid who was with Soller when he was killed, Francis Millar, he reached out to our s4feT account in one of the hacker forums online.”

Turner’s brow creased. Once The Shop realized organized crime had begun using strong-arm recruiting practices on hackers, it had created the account so they would have a way to contact them for help. Technology had become a lucrative business, and the safety account represented a lifeline for those who found themselves in over their heads. The Shop offered them protection, a way out, and the hackers provided them with a treasure trove of information in return.

“Really? Has the FBI released his name yet?” Turner asked. “Or is he still labeled as the unidentified passenger?”

“No, they haven’t put it out there. As far as I can tell, besides the bureau, we’re the only ones who know his identity at this point.”