The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (9 page)

“So how did it go down?”

“He’s scared to death,” Heckler said. “They dug up what they could on him. Apparently he’s from a poor family and earned himself a scholarship to the University of Maryland. He met the Soller kid there. The university’s database has them listed in the same class. He’s like you—a computer freakin’ genius.”

Turner laughed. “So based on what the analysts said, the job was beyond Soller’s capabilities. Are you thinking he brought in Millar to help?”

“Exactly. He wanted to learn,” Heckler reasoned. “The analysts were thinking along those lines. It makes sense to me, but I’m operational. I try to stay out of that technology crap.”

Turner laughed, knowing that would be the case, and asked, “Were the two of them friends before the job?” He wasn’t sure whether to be concerned about the fact that the FBI hadn’t released Francis Millar’s name as someone they were looking to question. The bureau had to know they were friends at this point, so the skeptic in him thought it could mean something significant.

“I don’t know when they became friends. I’ll have them check into that.”

“Okay, great.”

“I’m not sure how valuable this is, but the Millar kid’s hacker name is ‘Slash Etc.,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean. It brought a pretty big reaction from the analysts.”

Turner’s raised his brow. “Heckler, did you say Slash Echo Tango Charlie?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he confirmed.

“You would pronounce it Etzy,” he said. “It’s an inside thing only us computer geeks would understand.” Heckler laughed, and Trent’s tone turned serious. “Wow, this guy is incredibly smart. I know quite a bit about him, at least as far as his online persona goes. I’m not sure if he’s still a part of The Collective after the bullshit operations it’s done as of late.” Turner was referring to several actions that had been carried out in the name of the group where an attack had been leveled on a target based on false information. “He’s been on the scene for five, maybe six years, and he’s always been a white-hat guy. The Collective has stepped into some serious gray areas over the past year, and he wanted no part of that.”

“So he’s one of the good kids then?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Turner said. He was impressed that Heckler knew the difference between white- and black-hat hackers. “He’s done some impressive work on botnets, zero-day vulnerabilities. Shit, he should have a scholarship to MIT,” he said frankly. This was the sort of break they needed. “So when can I pick him up?”

“He hasn’t gotten back to me with any details on an RV yet. I gave him a number where he can reach me. All he said, aside from wanting to come in, was that there is something big going on. He stressed that it was really big, and it was going down soon. He needed help and stated the obvious: people are trying to kill him.”

“Welcome to the club,” Trent joked. “If he’s saying it’s big, you need to have the guys at The Shop work on this around the clock.”

The development was a welcome distraction from his internal chaos, and he knew it was something that would help him get his head on straight.

“They’re already on it,” Heckler said. “Everyone’s been called in, and nobody’s leaving until this is all sorted.”

Something else was bothering Turner, so he decided it was best to just throw it out there. “Has anyone from The Island been poking around asking about me?”

There was a short pause. He could sense Heckler was uncomfortable.

“Simpson sent notice that you went dark,” he admitted. “But he hasn’t been asking around.”

“Shit!” Turner yelled.

“What’s going on?”

Turner shook his head and said, “Some asshole just tagged the side of my car and took off. I’ve got to go. Ping me the minute you hear from Etzy.”

Trent Turner was again ruing his choice in automobiles. He quickly turned the Ford Focus around, but the gray Chrysler 300 had already disappeared from view. This was getting old, but then he realized it would have been stupid to expose himself in a scene like that anyway. He was being way too sloppy. When he turned around and pulled into the Hilton Garden Inn’s parking lot, police cars with sirens wailing had started to funnel in.

The hotel was a swarm of activity, so he carefully eased his way past the panic and found a place to park. The operative was stuck in a holding pattern while he waited for news on Etzy Millar. Turner’s thoughts turned to his family. He did his best to shake them off, knowing his Uncle Jack would keep his family safe. Distractions had almost gotten him killed once, so he needed to concentrate on the job at hand.

He opened the car door, got out and winced at the freshly minted gray streak across the driver’s-side quarter panel. It was much worse than the gash in the roof the assassin’s bullet had left at the gas station. Something didn’t feel right. The commotion near the hotel’s lobby held his attention, so it took him a moment to process the blue Impala parked in the spot catty-corner to him. His eyes intensified as he dropped down to a crouch.

Turner worked his way toward the back of the Chevy and scanned the parking lot for threats. The bullet hole in the driver’s side of the rear window confirmed what his instincts had already told him. He pulled out his XHD3 and quickly headed toward the building’s side entrance. He took in a deep breath as he considered another lapse in focus that could have gotten him killed.

FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC

“WHAT DO YOU mean you lost it?” FBI Director Frank Culder said. “We’re not talking about a set of fucking car keys!”

There was a long pause. His twisted expression showed his disgust with the person squirming on the other end of the line.

“Erased? Erased! By whom?”

There was an awkward pause, and his responses went up in volume and ferocity with each word.

“It’s complicated?” he yelled. “Complicated! Try me. I’m a smart guy.”

He listened intently for a minute and ran his hand through the Brillo Pad of gray on his head before speaking again. “Why the hell not? Christ, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Culder’s cell phone rang and drew his attention. He read the display and immediately slammed the receiver he was holding down into its cradle on his desk. His face reddened with anger. The director exhaled as he tried to compose himself. He closed his eyes and touched the display to answer the call. He didn’t have a chance to speak before the caller started.

“What do you have for me?” Senator Maximillian Soller asked.

“We haven’t been able to find him,” Culder said. “Nobody’s seen Francis Millar since Friday afternoon. We’ve kept his name out of the news for now.” He knew the politician wouldn’t be happy with the progress, so he searched for something positive to say. “Everyone we have is on this, Senator. We recovered a laptop and some sort of electronic device from the car.”

He began to sweat as soon as he blurted the words out. He knew the senator’s next question wouldn’t have a satisfactory answer. There was no reasonable explanation for the colossal screw up his team had made. The technology lab had just informed him that when they powered on Millar’s laptop, the hard drive had wiped itself clean. It was some sort of booby trap that was set to protect the data. The technician who had been tasked with the job was fairly new and hadn’t taken the extra precaution to make a copy of the data on the hard disk before turning the device on. Someone’s head was about to roll.

“So what have they found out?” the senator asked.

“My technology lab expects to have some information this evening,” Culder lied.

“You don’t sound too sure about that, Frank,” he said, picking up on the FBI man’s lack of confidence. “Don’t bullshit me. If you screw this up, don’t expect to survive in this town. I think you know how the story will end. Do I make myself clear, Director?”

“Crystal,” Culder replied. It was Soller’s influence that brought him from his position as the US attorney for the Southern District of New York to the top spot at the FBI. Throwing the head of the CIA under the bus was the director’s stepping stone to the bureau and cemented his role as a full-fledged political puppet.

“If I had known the MPD could do a better job, I wouldn’t have bothered to bring you into this, Culder,” the senator quipped, referring to DC’s Metropolitan Police Department.

Culder knew he could always expect to be treated like a dog by Soller, and it had gotten old over the years.

“Are you finished?” Culder said curtly. The veins protruded from his temple as he struggled to stay calm.

“It’s not your place to question when I’m finished, Culder, and don’t you forget it. It’s time to make use of our special arrangement,” he barked and then the line went dead.

Culder knew the senator was right, and he had already set that ball into motion. Francis Millar was the key to breaking this investigation wide open, and he needed his best people on the case. The “special arrangement” he had set up with the senator was perfect for such an occasion, and they would do whatever was necessary to get the job done.

An agent had already paid a visit to Millar’s father, but the man wasn’t sober enough to answer her questions coherently. From the visit, two things had become immediately clear: Millar and his father didn’t see eye to eye on much of anything, and they had very little contact.

The house Millar’s father lived in had been described as run-down and littered with trash in the report he had displayed on his computer. There were two small bedrooms and a single bathroom. Remnants of cartoon stickers on the walls and furniture in the smaller of the two rooms displayed evidence that the home had once been occupied by Millar and his younger sister. Both children had apparently left for what were obvious reasons to the agent—to get away from an alcoholic father.

Culder was still steaming from his conversation with the senator. He managed to clear his mind and called a number from his cell phone’s recent call list. He needed some more details before he could bring his special arrangement with the senator into full gear.

“Special Agent Moynihan,” she answered after the first ring.

“It’s Culder. What do you have for me?”

“Well, sir, his father is a drunk, and he hasn’t seen his son or daughter since Millar went off to college.”

“I can read,” Culder said impatiently, referring to the report she’d filed. “Have you found his sister?”

“No, sir. Not yet. He thinks she’s living with a friend somewhere near Gaithersburg. She’s…Melody is only seventeen years old, and by the looks of it, both of them have had a tough life.”

“It’s not your job to throw a pity party for them, Agent Moynihan,” Culder said in a condescending tone. “I’ve read the report. Your job is to find Francis Millar at any cost, and his sister is our best bet right now. Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Were you able to dig up any recent photos?”

“Yes, he had one of the girl. I made a copy, and we found a recent shot of Millar on Soller’s mobile phone. Both were added to our facial-recognition systems about an hour ago.”

“Good, Agent Moynihan, good. It sounds like you’re moving in the right direction. If you manage to find him first, it would be in your career’s best interest,” he lied in an attempt to increase her motivation.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do everything within my power to make that happen.”

Her voice sounded skeptical, and Culder decided being called in by the FBI director might have been unsettling. Then he thought better of his initial assessment. There was something more he sensed in her voice, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“This is very important to me personally, Agent Moynihan,” he said, trying to smooth out her nerves. “If you need something beyond your power to make it happen, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

“Will do, but there’s something else…” she said, before she realized Culder had already ended the call.

Dulles Airport, Virginia

THE FLIGHT FROM New York to Dulles International Airport took the Island Industries’ Gulfstream G650 just over thirty minutes. It gave Jack Turner enough time to make it to the company’s private hangar. He pulled up in his bright yellow RAM 1500 extended-cab pickup truck. Hemis and Harleys represented his hard-ass nature and material pleasures in life simultaneously. His toys were always impeccably clean and kept in perfect running order. The hangar was large enough for Jack to drive his truck inside.

The admiral walked briskly to his truck.

“Good to see you, Jack,” Simpson said with his hand extended.

“Likewise, Addy. It’s been a rough week all around, that’s for sure,” he admitted as they shook hands.

Both men were over six feet tall and atypically fit for their age. They stood eye to eye, two old friends not concerned with softening the edges on what needed to be said.

“I’m really sorry about your nephew,” Simpson said. “How are your brother and his wife holding up?”

“Cathy’s a complete mess.” Turner’s face hardened. “Trent stopped by to see Ryan, and they had a conversation that wasn’t what she expected.”

Simpson nodded.

“He told her Ryan’s death was his fault.” Turner shrugged his shoulders.

“How much did he clue her in on?”

“Not much. He was vague, as you would expect. He’s a loyal kid, though, and I think he felt obligated to open up to her. You know, try to come clean the best he could under the circumstances.”

“Understood.” Simpson drew in a deep breath. “That’s a lot of weight to carry on your shoulders,” he said, referring to Ryan’s death. “Keeping your head clear is your biggest asset. It’s impossible to stay alive in this business if you don’t. Hopefully this won’t throw him off.”

Simpson knew Jack would be loyal to him. The concept of family was something that their world completely redefined. Absolute trust was implicit.

“She said he was having a hard time with Ryan’s death,” Turner said. “He got there as they were rolling him out of the room.” Jack Turner massaged his temples with his forefinger and thumb before elaborating. “Trent just missed his chance to say good-bye.” He shook his head, his face reflecting raw emotion. “That had to hurt.”