The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (51 page)

Sanders shot him an angry look.

“I’m going to level with you,” Jack said. “You just lost a good friend, and none of us know you well enough to send you into battle under the circumstances.” He motioned to Moynihan and said, “She has to go, or they’ll kill those two kids.”

Sanders nodded his understanding.

“I’ll see you soon,” Moynihan said.

She started toward the car and turned back to Sanders. She gave him a tear-filled smile and knew his friend would have wanted him to hear what he had said. It could be now or never, and that fact wasn’t lost on the FBI agent.

“He said you’re a fucking asshole.” She nodded toward his fallen friend with a tearful laugh. “But that he loves you like a brother anyway.”

Sanders smiled as she turned away and ran to the car. When she got there, Victoria and Etzy were ready to go, and no one else was in sight.

“Where is everyone?” Moynihan asked.

Etzy Millar handed her a pistol. “Mostly down there waiting for us. They put a plan together and took off. They wanted to get there before us.” She checked the weapon and tucked it away. “What’s the plan?”

Victoria Eden started the car and laughed. “Don’t get yourself killed,” she said.

THE AUDI APPROACHED the front of the Bratva compound slowly over the sparsely graveled road. Bruce Campbell was feeling confident, although he didn’t like the communication barrier between him and some of the Russians. Pavel Kozlov always put the men fresh from the motherland in Virginia for that very reason. The lack of radios to keep them in constant contact was also a concern, but he knew these men were experienced. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been here. There was a sense that they would soon have company, if not originating from a call for help from the individuals in the car in front of them, then certainly from the dead cabbie’s dispatcher. Like any good soldiers, they would rely on their training and instincts.

Three of the soldiers had come with the Bratva leader from Chicago, and Campbell knew them well. That made a difference. Including him, there were seven capable men— more than enough to keep things in order and quickly dispatch any uniforms that happened by. Campbell’s driver had already proven himself to be useless. Kozlov was injured, which compromised his effectiveness, and the two hackers, having finished their jobs, had already been snuffed out.

Campbell was standing at the front edge of the covered entrance flanked by columns. He was trying to put his finger on the strange feeling he had when he noticed a flash of movement. He shifted his eyes upward to get a better look. From what he could tell, something was casing the place from above—some sort of eye in the sky.

Campbell looked at the Russian standing next to him and said, “There’s something up there.” He motioned to the sky. “Make sure your men are on point. I don’t think it’s a teenager playing with a new toy.”

The Russian looked up, acknowledged the flying machine and then turned his attention back to the Audi.

“It’s too soon for the FBI or police to have something that small in place. Perhaps it is nothing,” the Russian reasoned.

“Good point,” Campbell agreed, still feeling uneasy. “I don’t know what it is, but it can’t be good. We don’t need any surprises. Just make sure the men are ready.”

The Bratva soldier rattled something off to the man next to him in Russian and gave Campbell a nod. The American looked down at their AK-74 assault rifles and smiled to himself. He couldn’t blame them for sticking with a weapon that felt like home, but as he gripped his HK416 with its compact eleven-inch barrel, there was no doubt he preferred the precision of the German-made weapon.

“Hands where we can see them,” Campbell yelled as the car came to a stop.

The occupants complied, carefully raising their hands into view.

“Driver,” Campbell continued, “slowly reach down and turn off the car. Take the keys out of the ignition, and throw them over here to me.”

Victoria Eden moved with deliberation—slower than Campbell would have liked—but not slow enough for him to bark his frustration.

“Now reach down to the door handle on the outside of the car and slowly open the door.” Campbell waved his Heckler & Koch for emphasis and said, “I want all of you to exit the car from this door. And I need to see your hands. Do you understand?”

All three of the passengers nodded, then crept out of the vehicle one by one.

“I want you to lock your hands behind your heads, turn around, and back up slowly until I say stop.” Nothing happened. “Now!” Campbell barked.

His impatience turned into doubt as he studied the faces of the three people lined up in front of him. The muted crack of a gun confirmed what he had sensed, and he instinctively dove for cover behind a column at the entrance to the building. Shards of brick lashed out at his face. He eyed the pockmarks they left in their wake.

The burst of gunfire had been effective. He noted the pool of blood welling where he once stood and looked to the lifeless body of the sniper hanging precariously from the tree stand. Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. Two of the four men outside were now dead, and it appeared the would-be prisoners had made a break for the woods. One of the Russians, the one with the stained teeth, had made it to the car amidst the flurry of gunfire. He signaled that he had one of the attackers pinned and was clearly waiting for the target to present itself again, this time for the kill.

Bruce Campbell knew by their weapons and controlled bursts that this couldn’t be the police, and he doubted the FBI could have gotten a SWAT team there so quickly. They had used the advantage of surprise well, and the only way to regain control of the situation was to be aggressive. He was contemplating his next move when the door to the compound flew open. The Bratva soldier was cut down before he could take two full steps. That left four men he thought he could count on in a fight. At this point he had only heard two distinct enemy weapons fire.

IT WAS PITCH black, and they had stopped moving. Trent Turner listened intently to the man’s voice and tried to make out what was being said. He was rocked side to side slowly several times and sensed things would begin to unfold as the first cracks of gunfire broke the silence. He remained still, waiting for his cue. He shifted to improve his position, knowing they needed to move quickly in order to have a chance at stopping the Russians. Another short burst of gunfire was followed by a familiar voice in his earpiece.

“Somewhere a village is missing an idiot,” Brendan Manion said quietly into the comms. “Three Tangos down. Throaty nailed the birdcage, and I’ve installed two door mats on the front porch, over.”

Turner wouldn’t have known his friend had just chopped down the Russian who had mindlessly sprinted out the front door, but his imagination elaborated on the radio commentary and brought a sly smile. With the information the FBI agent had provided on their numbers, they still had plenty of work left to do.

“One of their guys has me pinned down,” Throaty grumbled. “Finger, he’s at your twelve last I saw. I’m at seven o’clock, and Caretaker is at your five. Caretaker, let Finger know when to pop the weasel, or I’ll be a clump of Swiss cheese the next time you see me. I’m behind a tree stump, over.”

“Caretaker copies that, Throaty. I don’t have a shot, repeat, do not have a shot on the Tango by the car. The Tango by the front door has me cut off, over,” Manion explained.

Trent could now sense the Russian crouched down in front of the Audi preparing to make his move on Throaty. He heard him yell in accented English, “Cover me.”

“You’ll have to work fast, Finger,” Manion said. “He only has a few steps before he’s on top of our man.”

Turner could hear the tension in his voice, and the truth of the matter was sinking in. Missing the Russian at the front of the car now looked to have been a fatal mistake. He knew the only thing going in Throaty’s favor was the morning sun burning brightly in the sky just behind him.

“Wait for my mark,” Manion added. “I’ll cover the porch, over.”

“Roger that, over,” Turner said quietly.

There was an anxious silence.

“Go, go, go,” Manion shot into the comms.

Trent Turner pushed up on the trunk of the Audi—and it wouldn’t open. He tried again amidst the sounds of automatic gunfire—and still no luck. He worked quickly on the release, knowing Throaty’s life was in the balance.

“Finger, go!” he heard Manion yell again when the first cracks of daylight pierced the trunk. His eyes adjusted to the bright light as he leveled his weapon to the eight-o’clock position he had anticipated for his target. It took him a split second to process the scene. He looked down at a scowl-faced Russian fumbling to turn his weapon toward the source of his fall, his yellow teeth looking more like fangs.

Turner recognized the long legs and torso extending from underneath the car. They belonged to Victoria Eden. He reflexively hammered two rounds into the Russian just before the violinist had slid into the soldier’s sights. He helped her from beneath the car and into a crouched position.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she said with a mix of amusement and fear.

“You owe me dinner,” Turner said.

She shook her head and motioned toward Throaty’s position. “No, he owes us both dinner.”

Turner smiled and relayed the news. “Throaty, it looks like you’ve got an angel. Tango down, over.”

She snuck him a quick kiss on the lips and Turner smiled, surprised.

He saw Throaty’s head peek around the stump and then heard him say, “Roger that. Let’s move in before they get too comfy inside, over.”

“Looks like the Tango by the front door headed inside,” Turner said into the comms as Throaty sprinted across to their position behind the car. “I’ll take the lead,” Trent continued, “Keep your eyes on. After Chicago, who knows what sort of tunnels and passages they have here to circle back around on us, over.”

BRUCE CAMPBELL SHOT down the stairway in search of the Bratva leader. He reached the room where they held the prisoners and saw that only the bodies of the dead hackers and their two laptops were left inside, so he continued farther down the hallway. At the end, in an open-area rectangular room near the underground exit, he was greeted by the two remaining soldiers, his driver, Pavel Kozlov, and the two prisoners. The space had several small tables around the walls, and once he had taken a couple of steps into the room, he could see the recessed hallway that led to the exit.

“They’re coming in fast, Pavel,” Campbell said.

The Russian looked down at the device that displayed the video-camera feeds and back to his man. “How the hell did The American make it out of Chicago?”

Campbell could sense the hatred in his voice, and could see his condition was worsening from the gunshot wound.

The Russian looked each of his men in the eye and said, “We were successful with the cyber-attack. That is what was most important, but there is one thing more I ask of you. I want that American dead before you leave this building. No exceptions.”

Kozlov looked at the remaining pair of Russians and commanded what Campbell thought might be the same thing in his native tongue to make sure they understood. They both responded with a curt nod.

“I want to take one of the girls with us,” Campbell said.

Kozlov nodded his approval, so Campbell looked at Maria Soller and said, “You. You’re coming with us.”

Her skin went from flush to pale as Campbell approached, grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her toward him. He grabbed a roll of duct tape from the small table next to him and tore off a piece before forcing it over her mouth. He looked to Kozlov.

“Where are they?” he said.

The Russian looked down at the display and back to Campbell. “Three of them have just come in the door and are clearing the first floor. They will soon make their way down the stairs.”

Campbell nodded and signaled for the soldiers and his driver to follow him.

“Wait,” Kozlov said.

Campbell turned to him.

“The FBI woman has just come in the front door as well,” Kozlov confirmed. “She is armed.”

As they worked their way down the hallway, Campbell grew concerned with how his human shield might slow his response time. With a man like The American on the prowl, every fraction of a second would be crucial. He wasn’t ready to become another statistic.

“Here,” he said to his driver. “Keep her in front of you and do what I say.”

The driver nodded and grabbed hold of the girl with his lanky arm.

The men carefully worked their way down the hall at Campbell’s direction, using recessed doorways for cover when it was possible and Soller as a human shield when it wasn’t. Campbell quickly jumped to the front and stopped them fifteen feet short of the only stairwell that led upstairs. The men listened for any sign of the operatives approaching. He was leery of the loud noises coming from the level above. The men they were up against were professionals, and he knew he couldn’t lose sight of that. Every second that ticked by served to whittle away their advantage, so he motioned for one of the Russians to advance.

As the Bratva soldier moved forward, he grabbed Campbell’s driver by the shoulder with his massive hand. The soldier had been around long enough to know that the operatives hunting them down would need to consider whom they were shooting before squeezing the trigger. That gave them a significant advantage that he planned to exploit with the girl.

His AK-74 remained trained on the opening to the stairwell as they began to close in. The former Spetsnaz soldier moved like a great cat stalking its prey, which was in stark contrast with the nervous pair he directed beside him.

He stopped and held up his hand. It was clear that he had heard something—or it was one of those times when an experienced operative knew something was about to happen.

EVERY STEP HE took was as deliberate as it was silent. He timed his movement with the noises from above, sounds that were designed to seem random unless you knew the count. Trent Turner found himself in a position a covert operative tried to avoid at all cost. Getting in a fight was always a last resort. In his line of work, it was something that only happened when you couldn’t take the enemy out in one fell swoop. They had taken all the advantage they could with the element of surprise, and now they were left to rely on their experience, and no Island Industries operative would bet against another.