The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (38 page)

The Russians looked stunned to see The American standing in front of them. These men were well trained, so Turner’s best option was to introduce more confusion. He flicked his left thumb toward the window behind him and waved his other hand in front of his nose.

“You do not want to go in there,” he said in a deadpan tone. He forced a smile. “It’s absolutely brutal.”

Two of the men looked at each other, and he reached for his pocket. It was too late. The third man had already begun his charge. The operative quickly moved forward and sidestepped, causing the linebacker-sized Bratva man to miss. He threw an elbow into his spine to send him crashing into the brick wall.

Everything turned to slow motion as he addressed the others. They charged him simultaneously with crazed looks in their eyes. He waited until the last moment again and stepped forward. When they reached for his arms, he extended his fists and delivered a leopard punch to their throats. Instead of instinctively reaching toward the pain, both Russians tightened their grips on his arms.

That was exactly what Trent Turner had expected as he quickly stepped out of his tuxedo jacket. In a single motion he turned and channeled all of his energy into his feet with two perfectly timed blows. His initial strike landed on the back of the first man’s neck, and the second connected with the other Bratva soldier’s chin. Both men crumpled to the ground.

By the time his feet had gained solid footing, it was too late. The bull of a man he had dispatched with first was almost on top of him and was carrying incredible momentum. The Russian drove Turner the width of the alley and slammed him mercilessly into the brick wall on the other side. The wind had been knocked out of him, so his next actions were purely defensive.

The attacker delivered two more shots to his midsection as Turner struggled for air. He used his hands and elbows to fend off the blows. Every time the operative connected, it felt like he was assaulting a rock. He felt another angry blow to his midsection before he lost his balance and fell to the ground.

His vision was tunneled as he tried desperately to fill his lungs with air. He felt like a turtle that had been flipped onto its back. The Russian stood above him with steely eyes looking ready to deliver a finishing blow, but he suddenly turned away. Turner focused on breathing and tried desperately to regain his composure. He sat up and watched as the Bratva soldier brutalized the FBI agent who was stuck in the frame of the bathroom window. When the first shot was fired, he saw the big man drop to the ground.

Trent Turner slowly rose to his feet as the violence unfolded in front of him. Survival mode kicked in when the remaining Russians drew their weapons. They were still distracted by the assault from the window, so he sprinted down the alley toward Michigan Avenue. He decided the park would be as good a place as any to disappear. When he reached the street, he saw that the theater had already begun to clear out in a panic. Yellow cabs were already lined up along the curb.

He made a quick right to get out of the line of fire from the alley when someone called out to him.

“Hey, kiddo,” a man shouted.

Turner recognized the voice, and it caught him by surprise. The cab drove alongside him as he ran down the street.

The man stuck his head out the window. “Hop on in,” he said with a big smile.

Turner returned the smile and said, “Uncle Jack?”

The operative slowed to a stop alongside the cab and glanced behind him to make sure the men hadn’t come after him. He looked down and brushed away some of the drywall dust from his black pants and then shook his head at his uncle.

“What the hell happened to you, kid? You look like shit.”

“Long story,” Trent said. “Good thing the tux is a rental.” He smiled and hopped into the back of the cab. “What are you doing here?”

Jack Turner offered him a shit-eating grin. “Bailing your ass out. What else?”

“Shit, no way. What?” He was still a little dazed from the beating he had been given. What should have been obvious was now abundantly clear.

“You’d have had some company in the can if it wasn’t for yours truly,” he added matter-of-factly.

“Heckler?” The fact that his Uncle Jack was his handler threw him off. “I guess I should have known it was you with a call sign like that.” He shook his head and feigned disappointment. “Safe to say you’ve watched
Top Gun
too many times.”

“Cut me some slack. At my age it’s hard to find good work.” He shrugged. “Addy said he needed a babysitter for a problem child. How else am I supposed to afford my Viagra addiction and daily dose of Geritol?”

They shared a quick laugh, and Trent got down to business.

“Is he okay?” he asked, referring to Island Industries’ boss, Addy Simpson. “You know, with what’s happened?”

“I’m sorry about Ryan, Trent,” Jack said in a solemn voice. “Addy understands. Let’s just leave it at that.” He looked out the window and then back to Trent. “He knows it was something you had to do, but don’t pull that shit again.” He shook his head. “It won’t fly.”

Trent nodded. “I know.”

“Good.”

“We need to get back to my hotel,” Trent said. He tapped on the Plexiglas that separated them from the driver. “Please drop us off at the next block.” He looked to his uncle. “I just ran into three of Kozlov’s men in the alley. I planted a tracking device on one of them. Hopefully, the guy didn’t get shot up too bad, and they’ll head home soon.”

Kozlov Bratva hideout, Leesburg, VA

THE DOOR SWUNG open quickly and banged against the wall. The three women wore masks of fear as the former Spetsnaz soldiers stomped into the room. Maria Soller had barely managed to stash her iPhone away in time, but FBI agent Cathy Moynihan was still worried about the plug for the charger that was dangling precariously from the wall.

“What’s going on in here?” the man with the utility jacket yelled.

No one answered. He looked to each of the prisoners deliberately, his gaze ending on Soller. Her eyes were still moist with tears, so she quickly wiped them away with her sleeve. His glare intensified.

“What’s going on?” he growled.

She didn’t respond. He was visibly angry at her refusal to speak. Moynihan tensed up as she watched him consider his next move.

Then one of the other men spoke. He motioned to Melody Millar. “She was together with this one,” he barked in Russian. “We could teach her a lesson.” He smiled in a way that suggested he was undressing her in his mind, which bared his crooked yellow teeth. “She is cute and young.”

The FBI woman could see the lust in the man’s eyes and decided he was bored and restless, having been stuck in this dump in the middle of nowhere. He walked over to Millar and flashed a repulsive wink before he reached out and touched her hair. She recoiled in disgust.

Moynihan’s icy fear turned to a boiling anger, her forward lunge stopped by the restraint. Her anger mixed with horror as the soldier reached for the young girl again.

“Stop it!” Soller screamed at the top of her lungs. Her voice was shrill and had startled everyone in the room.

The Russian laughed and started to paw viciously at Millar’s shirt. Cathy Moynihan stood in anger as the teenager strained to fend off her aggressor. She looked down at her chair, picked it up with her free hand and hurled it toward the Russian with every ounce of her being. One of its metal legs connected with the base of the soldier’s skull, and he dropped to one knee.

He shook his head and raised his hand to the point of the impact. He turned and gave the FBI agent a deadly glare. She had been wearing a hood the last time she had tried to lash out at him, and now she’d evened up the score.

“You fucking bitch,” he yelled in Russian, his teeth clenched. He picked up the chair and shook it. “I’m going to fuck you with this chair!”

Moynihan couldn’t understand a word he said, but his intention for violence was clear.

The soldier wearing the utility jacket approached him and grabbed hold of the chair. “What the hell are you doing?” he barked.

The soldier had a crazed look in his eyes and said, “You want them to talk? I know how to get them to talk.”

The man with the utility jacket yanked the chair from his grip and said, “We need them alive, Vladimir, you idiot.”

The interruption had only managed to increase his anger. He nodded toward Moynihan. “I will only kill that bitch.” His stained teeth were framed by a sickening smile. “Let the others watch, and once I’m finished with her they won’t give us any more problems.”

“She’s FBI,” he fired back. “What happens if they come for us and she’s dead? Then what will we have to negotiate with?”

The Russian made a hissing sound, his face pulsed with anger. “Fine. I won’t kill her. I’ll just introduce her to the Pride of Mother Russia.” He followed his comment with a laugh as he grabbed his crotch.

When his comrade nodded in agreement, he turned to the FBI woman with a lustful grin.

Moynihan couldn’t understand what was said, but she stood there ready for a fight. She had noticed his uncomfortable attention since she had been forced to strip down to her underwear in front of him, and decided he was the type of man who would take great pleasure in torture.

Jack’s Boathouse, Washington, DC

DUSK HAD BEGUN to settle along the Potomac River. Even with the Key Bridge looming above, the wooded areas surrounding the Capital Crescent Trail had an air of tranquility.

Ivor Hood looked curiously at the package sitting on his driver’s seat and decided it would be best to lock it away in his briefcase. He had been flagged down as he left the Hoover Building to sign for the priority delivery. He was frustrated by the delay but had been the only person in the building with a pay grade high enough to accept the item.

Even with the interruption, it took Hood less than fifteen minutes to get to Jack’s Boathouse. His mind was still racing through the sequence of events that had transpired. The deputy director found himself in uncharted territory. He was ready to risk everything for the little girl he had seen blossom into a formidable young woman. She had incredible potential, more than he could have imagined, and he wasn’t about to sit back and let someone wipe it away.

His moment of contemplation was interrupted by the sound of an approaching vehicle. He was surprised to see a massive pickup truck pull over to the side of Water Street and park. The choice of transportation didn’t quite fit with what he had expected from the man he had spoken to over the phone, but he wasn’t one to judge.

Addy Simpson got out of the bright yellow truck and walked over to greet him.

“Deputy Director Hood, John Simpson.” Simpson smiled as he gripped Hood’s hand firmly. “Thanks for meeting last minute like this.”

“Nice to meet you, Admiral Simpson,” Hood said.

“Likewise. Please, call me Addy.”

Hood nodded and said, “Call me Ivor.”

Simpson returned his nod and surveyed the area before he continued. “Our mutual friend tells me the director might be running a black team.”

Hood looked past him and said, “Looks that way.” He smiled without any humor and returned his gaze to Simpson. “He really slipped up getting my goddaughter involved, or else he’d still be in business.”

“The president told me. I’m sorry to hear that.” His eyes showed genuine concern. “Suffice it to say this is now personal for both of us.”

“Then I suppose we should get to the point.”

“Indeed,” Simpson agreed. “We traced Culder’s men to a house in Poolesville. Three men had been killed there by professionals. We were able to match them up with the list our friend provided to confirm they left the bureau in February 2003. All but two of the men on that list are now dead.”

Hood shook his head in disgust.

“There’s more,” Simpson said. “Agent Moynihan, your goddaughter, was also captured on video at the house.”

The deputy director’s eyes filled with dread.

“She arrived before and then appeared again shortly after the killings,” Simpson continued. He shook his head. “We managed to trace the people who carried this out to a Russian named Pavel Kozlov.”

Hood’s expression bore recognition. “Chicago?”

“That’s him. He’s part of an underground network—”

“Of hardline communists,” Hood said.

“You know our man then?”

“Sure. I used to work with the organized-crime task force, but I don’t understand why he would be here, in the area.” Hood’s eyes narrowed as he tried to make sense of the information. “And Culder? What the hell is he involved with on the side that would have a connection to the Russian mob?”

Simpson went on to explain everything he knew. From the senator’s involvement with Director Culder to what was turning out to be an imminent attack on the country’s financial systems and its connection to the senator’s son.

They compared notes and were able to determine that the BlackRock Corporation, which had been formed as part of the Presidential Directive, and the BR Corporation, which was tied to the Poolesville home and cellular phone records from devices in the area at the time of the killing, were one and the same. Hood confirmed that he had a number he thought belonged to Sanders. Simpson was able to match it to the cell records from Poolesville, and they developed a strategy to move forward.

“Do you need some men?” Hood asked.

“No, but thank you for the offer.” The assistant director didn’t look happy about being left out, so Simpson said, “You don’t want a good cop getting mixed up in something as toxic as this. Their rules of engagement are different. Things won’t end well, trust me.”

Hood appreciated his candor and asked, “Then what can I do?”

“I need to know what Culder is up to. I’ll make sure my men do whatever it takes to get Agent Moynihan back to you safe and sound, but you have to understand their primary objective will be to stop Kozlov.”

“I understand. So is hers,” Hood said.

Simpson was impressed with the man, and passed him an envelope. “I hope you’ll find some of this information helpful.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”