The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (52 page)

He descended the staircase, and the musty smell from the basement grew stronger. His eyes were trained like a laser on the entrance to the stairwell, the sight of his Heckler & Koch MP7A1 framed and ready to inflict damage. When he neared the bottom, he keyed a button on his comms to silently acknowledge he had arrived at his position to Brendan Manion and Throaty. He waited a few seconds and checked that Manion had started down the first flight of stairs.

His next move would be suicide without cover fire. Turner gave his friend a hand signal to let him know he was ready and grabbed a flashbang from his tactical jacket. He stole a quick glance at Manion, who returned it with a nod.

Turner crept closer to the opening. The FBI agent had said that it led to a long hallway where they could access the area she had been held. He pulled the pin and quickly tossed the cylindrical container through the opening, making sure it landed at the angle that would provide him with the most protection. He heard shuffling sounds just before the device erupted into a concussive thud and blinding flash.

The operative turned the corner with the determination of a moth headed into the flame, while Manion quickly closed in from behind. Turner spotted five individuals along the hallway when he turned the corner. All but two were in motion. He lined up his sight with the forehead of the lanky, disoriented Tango he recognized from the park in Washington, DC as he squeezed the trigger. The others had moved too quickly for him to take a shot, so he sprinted toward the dead man as he fell, hoping to snatch up Maria Soller before the remaining men went on the offensive. Their keen reflexes told him this wasn’t the first time they’d seen action.

He latched onto her shoulder and started to pull. She began to panic, and he decided it was because the blast had taken both her hearing and sight away.

“I’m with Etzy,” Turner yelled in her ear.

Soller stopped struggling and began to move in the direction he was pulling her. The familiar rat-tat-tat of AK-74s erupted from behind and burrowed pockmarks on the walls and floor around him. He shoved Soller into the stairwell before turning with his weapon to help Manion silence the deadly barrage of fire.

Turner turned to his friend and said, “Keep them pinned down. I’m going to get her out of here. I’ll be back before you can say blueberry pie.”

Manion couldn’t help but laugh at the
Pulp Fiction
reference. “Don’t wake the gimp up,” he replied with a sideways glance.

Turner ushered Soller up the stairs and met Throaty and Cathy Moynihan at the top. He motioned for them to follow him to the exit. He planted his palms firmly on her shoulders and gave her a reassuring look.

“Maria, I need your help. Can I ask you a few questions?”

She nodded and began to cry. “They’ve got Melody,” she said. “You have to get her out of there.”

“That’s the plan, but I need you to think—I mean really think hard about what I’m about to ask you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“How many of them are down there?” He met her eyes as she tried to remember.

“The guy that was holding me, is he…?”

“Don’t count him,” Turner said.

“The older man killed two of them. I think there are four of them down there now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Okay, good. What can you tell me about them? Let’s start with the older man.”

“His leg is hurt. He wasn’t looking very good. He’s got an accent. I’m not sure, but I think he might be Russian.”

Turner nodded in confirmation. “And the others? Anything in particular about them?”

“They’re all pretty big and mean looking. One of them is an American, and the other two have an accent.”

“The same kind of accent that the old man has?”

She nodded.

“Okay, you’ve done really well. Really well considering everything you’ve been through. Thank you.” Turner looked to Throaty and said, “Keep her, Etzy, and Victoria safe. Brendan and I can handle the rest of them. Make sure they don’t surprise us like they did in Chicago.”

Turner noticed Etzy Millar running toward them, and motioned for Maria to turn around.

Millar put his arms around her, and she hugged him tight. “I’m so sorry, Maria,” he said.

“Melody is down there,” she said, her voice shaking from fear. She turned to Turner. “Oh my God, please get her out of there.”

Turner looked to Millar and said, “I’m going in for her now. See you soon.”

“I’m coming,” Moynihan said. “I know the inside better than any of you guys. I might be able to help.”

Turner nodded, and they headed back down the stairs.

HIS EARS WERE ringing like mad, but he and the two Russians had managed to avoid being blinded by the flashbang that had just been tossed into the hallway.

Bruce Campbell quickly snuck a look at the hallway around the recessed doorway again. This time he wasn’t forced back by an onslaught of automatic weapons fire. He saw his driver’s lifeless body sprawled out on the floor in a growing pool of blood, but no sign of the prisoner. His face soured with the thought that they had lost her.

He made eye contact with the closer of the two Russians and signaled that he was going to retreat and look after Pavel Kozlov. The soldier acknowledged and counted down from three, before whipping his weapon around the recess and opening fire toward the stairwell. Campbell quickly sprinted down the hall and turned the corner just as the magazine had emptied its final round.

Kozlov was leaning against one of the small tables with the barrel of his Makarov pistol pressed firmly into Melody Millar’s skin. The teenager had a distant look in her eyes, and Campbell shook off the inclination to feel sorry for her. “We just have her now,” he said.

More shots rang out from the hallway. The bursts were controlled, and the lack of return fire was alarming.

“You’d better head out now. I’ll hold them off with the girl,” Campbell said.

“I don’t know that I can make it out this time. They’ve surely learned from Chicago.”

Kozlov took his tablet from the desk and reviewed the camera that displayed the hallway leading to their location. “It’s not looking good, my friend. I can die proud knowing we’ve accomplished what we’ve set out to do.”

Campbell was beside himself. He’d never seen the bastard give up on anything, and now when things had gone belly-up he was ready to throw in the towel? He was seething with anger until he realized the problem. The man in front of him was fading. The gunshot wound had been sucking the life out of him and bled his resolve.

“Go. I’ve got this,” Campbell said. “You can make it out of here, and I’ll be right behind you, if I can help it.”

Kozlov smiled. “Okay. I will go. Take her and make sure you make it out behind me. Driving with my leg like this will be a bitch.”

Campbell nodded and grabbed Melody Millar. They both watched the Russian limp away and Campbell grabbed his Sig Sauer P226R from its holster and assumed the position Kozlov had left. He looked to the hallway, and did a double take when his gaze was met by The American. His heart pounded as he stared down the silencer fitted to the man’s MP7A1 and wondered whether this would be how it all ended.

“What’s the cliché? So we meet again… Is that how it goes?” Campbell said.

The American didn’t answer, and his silence brought with it the realization that Campbell had been transformed from the hunter into the hunted. He felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead which were in direct contrast to the coldness of the man’s eyes. He considered his options, subconsciously pushing his gun deeper into the flesh of the frightened teenager.

“What now?” Campbell asked as his thoughts spiraled out of control. He firmed his finger’s grip on the trigger, desperately grasping for a position of strength.

TRENT TURNER REALIZED that he had just cornered a wild animal. Experience told him that the man in front of him holding the gun to Melody Millar’s head was smart enough to know he was out of options. He could see the man’s confidence drip away with the sweat down his forehead. His voice had lacked confidence, but more than anything else, it was the desperation in his eyes.

“It’s over. Put the gun down and let the girl go,” Turner said, emotionless.

The words only further agitated the man.

“What, so you can kill me?” he said sarcastically. “Sure. I’ll just hand over my gun, maybe bend over and grab my ankles, if that suits you. How does that sound?” He shook his head in disgust. “How about this…?” he said, stabbing the barrel of his gun into Millar’s skin with each syllable. “You can keep your gun. Just turn the fuck around and leave. Then this will be over.”

Turner remained silent. He recognized him as the man from the park in DC and knew the gunman’s ego would also be in play.

He tightened his grip on the girl. “No?” he spat. He motioned his head in the direction his gun was pointing. “Then how about we make that wall our canvas and try a little Jackson Pollock experiment?”

Turner’s eyes narrowed.

“Blood and brain matter make a unique medium for a work of art,” the gunman said. “We can take art to the next level.” He smiled with a crazed expression on his face. “You only have one chance to get it right. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and some clumps of hair will make it to the wall too. I’ve always been a fan of modern art. How about you?”

It was painful for Turner to see the teenager having to deal with this stress. The operative knew his limits. His expertise was in killing people and vanishing. They were things for which he had an incredible talent. Trying to negotiate a hostage situation wasn’t part of his playbook, and the man in front of him was coming unraveled.

“You know it’s too late, don’t you?” the Bratva soldier said in desperation. “One of the dead guys in the other room,” he continued, “he’s the only one who could’ve stopped whatever shit they’re up to from happening.”

Those were words Turner didn’t want to hear. Unless The Shop could work some kind of miracle, he’d failed. The only upside was that he was now left with only one concern: saving the young woman in front of him.

The lack of response continued to unnerve the gunman. “So if I were to let her go, where would that leave me?” he asked.

The stone-cold face of The American gave nothing away.

“You’ll make it out of here alive,” Trent Turner finally said.

He could tell his answer didn’t sit well. This was a man who would do anything to avoid prison, and with every passing second he could see the man’s eyes processing the fact that life as he knew it was over.

At fifteen feet, Turner had no doubt that he could quickly sink several of the DM11 Penetrator rounds into the man’s head without harming the girl. He just needed an opportunity to do it before the bastard could squeeze the trigger. It was clear that his target had a short fuse—and it was burning fast. Turner remained a picture of focus, detached from any emotion Melody Millar’s despondent eyes might bring to the surface.

He first sensed it, and then he saw someone in his peripheral vision approaching from the left. He took a step back so he could have a clearer view without taking his eye off the Bratva soldier. The person’s frame was much smaller than Manion’s or Throaty’s, so he knew it had to be FBI agent Cathy Moynihan. He began to breathe slowly to reduce his heart rate, knowing there was no margin for error with Melody Millar’s life in the balance.

Turner was confident Moynihan would walk into the target’s view, based on the aggressive position he’d taken with his weapon and stance. He just needed a little luck for her to provide the distraction he needed before it was too late. He waited patiently for a flicker of movement in the killer’s crazed eyes, the momentary blip that represented the infinitesimal window of opportunity.

In a flash it was over. Turner squeezed the trigger and hammered a burst of rounds into the Bratva man. He collapsed to the ground like a stretched-out accordion that had played its final tune. Melody Millar’s face went from horror to relief as Turner took a deep breath and exhaled his stress away. The teenager locked eyes with him, and just as they had begun to soften, three sudden shots were fired.

Millar’s expression turned to shock as blood pumped from the side of her neck. Her legs started to give as Trent Turner sprinted forward to break her fall. He swung his gun in the direction the gunshots had come from when the long passageway came into view. He recognized the form of Pavel Kozlov and he squeezed the trigger, but he didn’t break stride. His focus was on Etzy Millar’s sister. Trent made a final lunge to catch her before she hit the ground.

He wasn’t sure if he’d hit Kozlov at first, but that wasn’t his main concern. He trusted the FBI agent could handle the Russian. Turner looked down at the young girl in his arms and knew her wounds would be fatal. She didn’t deserve any of this. He knew he couldn’t live with himself if he let her die scared and alone. The fear was something he couldn’t do much about, but at least he could be there for her.

He looked into her eyes and said, “Stay with me, Melody. Your brother is on his way. Hang on. You’re going to be okay.”

She coughed up blood when she tried to speak, tears welling up in her eyes. Turner looked down and realized she had also been shot in the chest, and her lung had probably been damaged. He felt fucking useless and full of rage. As he looked back into her eyes, he heard the expected report of several gunshots. They came from two guns. He looked into the fading eyes of Melody Millar, willing away the pain from the lead that had just ripped through his chest. He needed to stay with her. Until the end.

“Just hang in there, Melody. Etzy loves you. He’ll be here soon,” he said. His voice wasn’t as steady this time; bitter sadness was now mixed with pain.

He knew all too well what it was like to look into the eyes of someone who was dying, but this time it was different. She didn’t sign up for a life of violence—she was an innocent. He watched helplessly as the person behind the frightened eyes faded away to nothing. She didn’t die alone, but that didn’t change the fact that she was dead. He had failed to save her.