The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (37 page)

“What the hell is going on here?” he muttered to himself.

Somewhere on Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois

SHE WAS STILL on a high from her performance as the armored Bentley Mulsanne sped through the streets of Chicago. It didn’t take long for Victoria Eden to realize there was a problem. A big problem. Excitement could only mask the dark intentions of her chaperone for so long. The car was eerily quiet as it whisked through the streets at an uncomfortable pace. She shared increasingly awkward glances with Pavel Kozlov. Her anxiety grew with the searing silence until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Pavel, where are you taking me?” she asked nervously.

“We’ll be there soon,” he said. His voice was void of emotion.

“What’s going on?”

The mood in the car was tense. Her nervousness escalated to fear as they entered an industrial section of the city. Some of the buildings were run-down, and the streets were empty.

“Pavel?” she pleaded insistently.

He wore a mask of disdain when he turned to her. “One can never be too careful of the company we keep,” he said.

“What’s that supposed…?” She stopped herself midsentence. Her eyes filled with recognition as she conjured up the image of her mysterious acquaintance. He was attractive, confident, even kind, but she would never forget the words he spoke, and the tone with which he delivered them. “I’m no good for you,” he had said so adamantly. “You’ll just have to trust me on that. Maybe in another life.” She bit her lower lip as she replayed their chance encounters in her head, the silent tension they had both felt. Then she considered the man sitting next to her. Russian. Wealthy. A man who collected instruments worth millions and, judging by his hands, probably couldn’t play a note.

Her body tensed up as she put the pieces together. Pavel was a powerful man—that much was clear. She now found herself tangled in the world the man she had begun to fall for had warned her about, and she desperately needed to find a way out.

Studebaker Theater, Chicago, Illinois

JAKE SANDERS WINCED from the blow. He wasn’t expecting the target to run up the stairs, but it didn’t matter. Even though his forward motion had been slowed by one of the patrons, there was no way he would have been quick enough to cut him off. The two local agents were just ahead of him as he navigated the stone stairway two steps at a time. He was about to pass the slower of the two men and barked out an order for him to watch the stairwell as he passed. The FBI agent immediately hunched over and dropped his hands to his knees. Sanders knew it was the best way to keep all the assets he had in the game.

He continued to gain on the agent still in front of him. The man was in good shape but still no match for the HVT Squad leader. Both men reached the top of the stairs at the same time. The stairway spilled out into the front row of the third floor’s amphitheater-styled seating. Each had an injection device loaded with M99 in his hand with enough of the substance to knock out Mike Tyson.

“I’ll go after him alone,” Sanders said as he tried to catch his breath. He didn’t want the opportunity blown because a novice got in the way. “Stay here. Be ready for anything.” He lifted his sleeve to his mouth and said, “Rudy, get to the lobby and keep your eyes peeled. Let me know when you’re ready.”

“Roger that,” Pagano confirmed.

He went over the layout of the third floor in his head. He reasoned that the target was crouched behind the chest-high divider situated behind the final row of seats. He pushed the FBI agent back a couple of steps. Sanders wanted to keep him out of the line of fire in case things turned hot. He wished he had a way to deliver his payload without having to get up close and personal, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that now.

“Ready when you are,” Pagano said.

Sanders removed the plastic cap from his syringe and pushed the plunger just enough for a few drops of the liquid to drip out onto the floor. He had already recovered from the dash up the stairs and was mentally preparing himself for what needed to be done.

He lifted his sleeve to his mouth and said, “Preparing to engage.”

He pulled his sidearm out of his shoulder holster and took a deep breath.

TRENT TURNER HAD made it to the top floor first. He knew there were at least four men after him, but he also spotted three unknowns who fired him an unsettling glare as he headed toward the stairs.

“The top looks good from the plans,” Millar confirmed. “You’re right. The air return will take you out to the third-floor common area next to the theater. From there you can head down the fire escape on the south side of the building.” There was a momentary pause before Millar continued. This time his excitement had turned to nervousness. “It looks like two of them are at the top of the stairs. One stayed behind on the second-floor landing. The PMD hasn’t been able to mark number four yet.”

Turner remained crouched in the back corner of the third-floor viewing area. He was low enough that nobody could see him. There was only one set of stairs that could bring them up.

“One of them is starting to close in,” Millar said.

The operative pulled a tool out of his pocket and snapped off the screw heads securing the cover for the ventilation system’s return duct. The theater had just been renovated, so he hoped the floor plans he had studied weren’t out of date.

“He’s really close,” Millar said frantically.

Turner quickly ripped the cover off the wall and slid inside the dark tunnel. The aluminum popped and twisted as he snaked his way through the confined space and around a corner. It wasn’t long before he recognized the same sound off in the distance. He knew someone else had made their way into the metal maze. He didn’t have his light on, so when he bumped his head into what seemed to be the end of the ventilation system he was surprised.

“Etzy, it looks like I’ve reached a dead end. Can you confirm?”

“It shouldn’t be,” Millar said. Panic had crept into his voice. “The blueprints say it goes out to the third floor…a big common area.”

The sound was getting closer. Turner didn’t want a confrontation with an FBI agent, so he needed to get creative.

“What’s below me?” he asked.

“Nothing that I can see. You’re pretty much next to the stairwell.”

The sound from his pursuer had stopped. Turner braced his hands on the sides of the metal ventilation shaft and began to rock it violently from side to side. At first there wasn’t much noise or movement, but after a couple of hard shoves the sound increased until there was a massive thud.

Trent Turner shook his head and tried to get his bearings. It was still pitch black, and it felt like he had fallen quite a long way. He pulled out his XHD3 and shined its small LED light toward the immediate threat from above. He saw that he had snapped the vent shaft supports for the section he was in. He had fallen around fifteen feet, but his descent had been slowed initially when the metal had bent down toward the ground. The shaft had folded onto itself and now managed to obscure the view into the unclaimed space he currently occupied.

There were no doors leading out of the small room. It appeared to have been closed in for decades. He could see by the angle of the ceiling that one side faced the stairwell and the other the theater. Most of the wall was plastered, but he saw one section that had been repaired with drywall.

He knocked on the wall a couple of times to confirm and asked, “Etzy, what’s in front of me?”

“It looks like the stairwell, but I’m not sure I trust these blueprints.”

He laughed to himself. “I hear you.”

The aluminum above him started to flex and rumble. It sounded like the man was testing the supports. Turner couldn’t help but smile when he considered the advantage of being chased. You didn’t have time to think about shit like that.

“Okay, I’ve got an update,” Millar said. “There’s one guy practically on top of you, one right next to you, one standing at the top of the stairs on the third floor, and I’ve picked up the other guy. He’s down in the lobby, waiting.”

Turner pulled a tool out of his pocket and used a knife-edge to slice into the drywall lengthwise along the vertical two-by-fours that held it in place. He then punched a small hole into the drywall at eye level with a stabbing motion. He cleared away the debris with the tool and peeked through. It took him a second to realize he was staring at an eyeball on the other side of the hole. He heard pounding above as Millar chimed in once again.

“Man, you are standing right next to the guy in the stairwell,” he said.

Turner was out of time. He brought his elbow back and delivered a devastating blow to the bridge of the man’s nose through the drywall. The operative quickly kicked the rest of his way through producing a haze of white dust. He barely registered the people screaming as his now ghostly form popped through the wall. The FBI agent’s face was bloody, and he had balled himself up on the floor as he groaned in pain.

“I need a little help,” Turner said.

He knew Millar had been desperately searching for a way out.

“It’s hard to see if the south side is clear,” the hacker said, “and the PMD can’t get a view into the covered alley between the theater’s bathrooms and the school. The other options don’t look good, if that’s any help.”

Turner heard a loud thump through the hole he had just emerged from, signaling the man had made it through. He quickly bolted down the stairs, and when he reached the bottom he could see the fourth agent charging toward him from across the lobby. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a sudden movement as he bolted to the bathroom. He hoped the window would be more cooperative this time around.

The operative shoved the bathroom door open and went straight to the window above the heat register. He had tried to pry it open in the morning when he had scoped the place out, but could only manage to crack it open part of the way. This time around he wasn’t concerned about doing any damage. He needed to get outside—and fast.

THE RUSSIANS HAD been waiting out back and were growing impatient. The FBI agents should have burst through the back door minutes ago, but they had yet to make their way outside. The three men had The American in their sights but had been caught off guard when he charged at them with the Feds they had recognized in tow. The leader of the Bratva soldiers lit his unfiltered cigarette in disgust, his other hand perched on his weapon of choice.

The directive from Pavel Kozlov had been no bloodshed inside the theater. He had been adamant about it. Their attempt to lure the agents out the back door and out of the public’s view had failed. There were no more doubts; their plan didn’t work. They had been eyeing the man in the car twenty meters away and had grown wary of his presence. They planned to pay him a visit after they finished with the FBI to make sure there were no witnesses.

“We need to check inside,” the leader said to his squat comrade with the pockmarked face.

“
Da
. Let’s make it quick in case they’ve called for more men.”

The Russian followed his direction and tried to turn the knob on the door, but it was locked. He grabbed hold the doorknob again, this time with both hands, but it still wouldn’t turn.

The leader took another drag off his smoke, and looked toward the car. His face wore a scowl. “Help me,” he told the others.

The three men gathered around the door. The largest of the three grabbed a long piece of steel that was leaning against the wall and tried to pry the door open, while the other two men pulled on the handle. The door wouldn’t budge.

“It’s no use. Let’s go around to the front,” the Russian with the steel bar said.

The others nodded in agreement.

The Russian in charge flashed another look at the car and exhaled a stream of smoke from his nose before leading the men south to circle around the building. Chicago’s Fine Arts Building was connected to Roosevelt University, so when they rounded the corner to head east toward Michigan Avenue, they faced a tunnel that ran beneath the second floor of the adjoining buildings.

“Pavel will be pissed if The American gets away again,” he said before taking another pull on his cigarette.

“
Da
,
da
. we will be flipping hamburgers if he doesn’t shoot us first,” the pockmarked Russian agreed.

The leader shook his head. “I don’t know what he was thinking when he asked us to take care of a man such as him with conditions.”

“What do you think we should do about it?” the squat Russian asked.

“Fuck the conditions,” he said in a dark tone. “If you see him, kill him. He should already be dead. It will be in our best interest to beg for forgiveness rather than to ask for permission.”

The men nodded in agreement and increased their pace. They had made it halfway through the tunnel when a loud creaking sound caused them to freeze and take stock.

“What the hell is that?” the Russian said, flicking his cigarette to the ground.

The one with the pockmarked face pointed to a first-floor window. “There.”

They watched curiously as the window rocked back and forth, its rusty metal hinges screaming out in protest.

HE PUMPED THE window back and forth vigorously on its hinges. Trent Turner heard a series of noises in the theater outside the bathroom as he worked to force an opening large enough to fit through. First there was a sliding sound, and then the sound of metal crashing, followed by gasps from the crowd. Whatever it was that made the noise, he was thankful knowing the FBI agents should have made it into the bathroom by now. That was a confrontation he wanted to avoid if at all possible. He gave the window one last heave, and it belted out its final wail in surrender.

He had made just enough room to squeeze through. He pushed himself into a handstand from the top of the bathroom’s heat register and thrust himself legs first out the window. He slowed his fall using his elbows and hands and landed softly on the concrete. The operative stood and spun 180 degrees from his crouched position. The three men standing in front of him looked confused. He recognized one of them. He was part of Pavel Kozlov’s security detail.