The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series)

Copyright © 2014 by S. L. Jones.

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This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and scenes are ideas that have come from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance a part of this book may have to actual events, places, or persons alive or dead is a complete coincidence.

Published by Huston & Sumair Global

PO Box 7626

Silver Spring, MD 20907

ISBN: 978-0-9916662-0-1

He was welcomed to Pointe du Hoc, France by way of a mortar round on June 6, 1944. Although wounded from the blast, he bravely scaled the 100-foot cliffs as a part of those bold first steps to help his country liberate German-occupied Western Europe. Decades later, Ivor traveled to Normandy for the 60th anniversary of D-Day. He suffered a stroke while he was there, and when the French hospital ran into complications when trying to secure the medical payments from Blue Cross, the hospital's Board of Directors informed his son that there would be no bill. They had said it was the least they could do for his service to their country. The board's gesture personified the man, and the contrast in events from his first visit so many years ago underscored the purpose served by those original Rangers. In between that time, Ivor Jones helped to make his nephew George's son the man he is today. He did so by believing in him and instilling words of wisdom that can only come from a man who was fortunate enough to survive the journey to hell and back. Thank you Uncle Ivor, for being the incredible man you were, a true hero among heros, and for leaving an indelible mark on my life. This one’s for you.

 
“We knew about Osama bin Laden in the early ’90s. After 9/11, it was a worldwide name. I believe that type of thing can and will happen in the cyber environment. And I think after it does, people will start to pay attention.”

Friday evening, Maryland
–
Washington, DC border

ETZY MILLAR INSTINCTIVELY ducked down into his seat.

“Max, what the hell’s going on?” he yelled.

More gunshots rang out from behind and left a series of cracks in the windshield above him. He nervously looked over at Max, who appeared to be fading in and out of consciousness at the wheel. The blinding lights from the sedan bearing down on the BMW Roadster helped him slip further into a state of confusion.

“I…I don’t…know,” Max said. Blood flowed down the side of his face and he struggled to speak. “I think I’m…going to…”

The car began to drift toward oncoming traffic on Wisconsin Avenue, just south of Bethesda, Maryland. Millar’s eyes widened when he saw his friend’s were closed. He watched Max’s head bounce like a Bobblehead toy and sensed the car taking the path of least resistance over the uneven pavement.

“What the fuck!” he screamed. “Max, are you okay? Max!”

Millar felt the BMW begin to accelerate and could see that the weight of Max’s leg was bearing down on the pedal. He pushed his blood-soaked companion against the driver’s-side door and peered over the dashboard into the oncoming headlights.

“Shit!” he shouted, and jerked the wheel to the right, narrowly missing a head-on collision.

A cacophony of horns erupted, followed by more gunshots, which peppered the windshield with holes.

The vehicle continued to accelerate. Millar’s floppy brown hair whipped into his eyes, making it all the more difficult to see in the chaos of the night. He tried in vain to release the accelerator, but there wasn’t enough room to maneuver in the confines of the compact two-seater. He was forced to steer through traffic recklessly and cower as low as he could in the speeding death trap.

More gunshots spat out from behind. Millar’s heart pounded in his chest, and his breath quickened. If he slowed the car down, he was a dead man, but if he didn’t, the outcome would be no different.

Why the hell is this happening to me?

He saw a large Neiman Marcus sign come into view on the side of a building above and made a split-second decision. A sharp pull on the stick shift put the car in neutral and sent the engine into a deafening whine. He strained to reach the brake pedal with his left hand and quickly jerked the steering wheel to the right. The Roadster answered back and headed toward a gap in the line of parked cars along the street. Millar sideswiped a station wagon before leveling a patch of bushes and slamming into an entrance of the upscale shopping mall.

What panes of glass hadn’t already been broken by the car’s impact were shattered in a hail of bullets. There were screams. Dazed, Millar looked over at the driver’s seat and saw Maximillian Soller motionless, covered with blood. If he jumped over the door, he could make a quick exit, but he thought better of exposing his tall, lanky body to the gunman. Instead, he fumbled to find the handle to open the car door, pulled it, and kicked the door open with his foot.

Silence.

I’d better go now
.

He darted toward the gap in a shattered glass door, severe pain shooting through his ribs. He steadied himself on the frame and negotiated the shards of broken glass littering the floor. A jagged edge sliced deep into the palm of his hand, but a combination of fear and panic masked the pain. If he wanted to stay alive, Millar needed to find somewhere to hide.

THE BLACK CHRYSLER 300 came to a screeching halt outside the entrance to the shopping mall. Its passenger quickly emptied the remaining rounds in his Sig Sauer P226R from the bouncing car.

“Shit. One of them is still alive,” he said to the driver. The assassin opened his car door and motioned for the driver to leave.

If the target got away, the operation would be at risk, and he would be a dead man. “I’ll get the hacker. Don’t talk to the boss. I’ll tell him how it went down,” he said before he slammed the door shut and headed toward the mangled sports car.

The gunman peered inside the vehicle and saw a man crumpled against the door. He seated a fresh magazine into his pistol and squeezed the trigger. Two rounds hammered into the driver’s head. He noticed the devices on the floorboard of the car, but there was no time to take them with him. The target was in motion, and he needed to close the gap.

He moved quickly through the remnants of the mall entrance and stopped to survey the area for a sign of his next victim. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered, noting the Muzak playing in the background. The shoppers had already scrambled into the stores to take cover, and there were so many places where the skinny bastard could hide. He checked behind him and knew it wouldn’t be long before the police would be on the scene.

The glass on the floor crackled as he stepped, drawing his attention downward. He peered over his shoulder and noted blood dripping down the doorframe. He looked back down to the marble floor.

Perfect
.

Blood had dribbled from the target’s wounded hand. It left the assassin with the biological equivalent of breadcrumbs. He quickly followed the trail of blood.

ETZY MILLAR’S HEART raced, his breathing painful from the damage to his ribs. The shot of adrenaline that had gotten him this far had worn off enough for him to notice the injury to his hand. He was crouched behind a clothing display when his eyes turned to the drops of blood he had left behind. A feeling of helplessness started to overcome him as he weighed his options.

He was still in shock from seeing his friend murdered and suddenly realized he was being hunted because of the job they’d taken. Millar’s survival instincts kicked in and helped to clear his mind. He grabbed a red shirt off a shelf and wrapped it around the seeping wound on his hand. He looked up and saw his attacker approach, and immediately dropped down, unsure if he had been seen. The crazed look in the killer’s eyes told him the chase would be relentless. He stayed down as low as he could and scurried through the narrow aisles to put some distance between him and his trail of blood. A wall stopped his progress.

He listened intently and recognized the chorus of squeaking clothes hangers. The sound grew louder. The assassin was navigating his way through rows of clothing toward him. Millar looked up at his only option.

If I can’t hear him, he can’t hear me
.

The shrieking sound of the fire alarm was much louder than he had expected. Etzy Millar spied a look through the displays and saw the gunman surveying the whole of the store. Millar took his chance and sprinted through an army of mannequins and out the door. He ran across the street pushing his way through the pedestrians in the crosswalk.

He quickly glanced over his shoulder and saw the assassin closing in. The heavy breathing caused his broken ribs to scream out in pain, but there was no stopping if he wanted to live. Another shot of adrenaline kicked in when he saw a tall, brown column with a capital
M
emblazoned on the top. He knew the killer wouldn’t have a SmarTrip card, and the fact that he didn’t shoot at him in public gave him a little confidence.

He sprinted toward the Friendship Heights Metro station, putting every ounce of energy into the effort. There was no time to check for oncoming traffic, but luck proved to be on his side as he narrowly skirted in front of an oncoming SUV.

Millar fumbled his way down the escalator and into the depths of the underground world. The Metrorail system meant familiar stomping grounds for the carless college student. As he reached the bottom of the escalator, he slowed to a brisk walk and quickly pulled out his wallet. He slid it over the turnstile machine’s sensor. The second the plastic flaps took to open seemed like an eternity. He looked back and didn’t see any sign of the killer yet.

His relief from gaining entry was quickly wiped away by the 1980s-style digital readout hanging above the entrance to the platforms. The next train was forty-five seconds away—a Red Line train toward Shady Grove. Factoring in the time it would take for the doors to open and close, it would be more than a minute before the train left.

Etzy Millar pressed on. He found himself in a new kind of war, one that took place covertly, and that he had only heard whispers about. He and his friend were involved in a computer hacker group called The Collective, and it was clear to him now that they had been used.

Interstate 95 south

THE DRIVE DOWN the New Jersey Turnpike seemed like an eternity. Trent Turner wore a pained expression on his face, oblivious to the incessant squeaking of the windshield wipers as they cleared away the last hints of rain. Today his eyes held a threatening gaze that mirrored the storm clouds he was leaving behind. Normally that meant something completely different. Today, he was the one in pain.

It had been nearly seven years since he had made his decision. He chose a self-imposed exile from the ones he loved. The remnants of his previous life consisted of calling his mother on her birthday and late in the evening on Christmas, and even that was frowned upon by his employer.

His father had been insufferably stubborn in previous conversations, and learned not to pick up the phone when Trent was expected to call. He understood any attempt to talk his son into coming home would only result in the droning sound of a dial tone. At least when Trent spoke to his mother, Cathy, his father would gain some comfort in knowing he was doing all right.

This afternoon was the first time his mother had used the emergency contact number he had given her. As he drove south, he knew when she saw him in person she would try once again to bring him back into their lives, but it was too late for him. That sort of change wasn’t possible.

Turner viewed his line of work as a necessary evil. It was complicated at best. His activities were scarcely known to the world but delivered high impact. Anyone who knew about his work either employed him, or could expect to have a short lifespan. What he did wasn’t about thank you cards or recognition. Trent Turner was the kind of man who was content working in the shadows. He had his own motivations.