Millar was relieved to see his laptop sitting on the desk where he had left it. It was the reason he’d risked returning to the hotel. The computer contained the only copy of the bot software he had, and it was also where he kept the source code for the shadow program he had deployed. He pilfered a dark blue backpack from the dresser, an obvious souvenir meant for the suite’s next occupant, and stuffed his laptop inside.
An envelope in the nightstand labeled “Petty Cash” had nine hundred and fifty-six dollars inside. It was more than enough for him to score a hotel room while he considered his next move. He stuffed his laptop into the backpack and quickly headed down the stairs and out the door to E Street.
The local portion of the morning newscast snapped him back to the present. It opened up with what Millar feared most.
“And now we turn it over to our Washington, DC local correspondent, Layne Stewart,” the newscaster said as the screen displayed a dramatic graphic titled “Maryland Senator’s Son Murdered.”
“Thank you, Kate,” Stewart said in a solemn tone. “There are no new developments in the fatal shooting that occurred last night in Northwest, Washington, DC outside the upscale Mazza Gallerie shopping mall. The victim was Maximillian Soller II, the son of Maryland senator and majority leader Maximillian Soller.” Stewart paused and ruffled his brow for dramatic effect. “The twenty-one-year-old was shot to death following what witnesses have called a dramatic car chase southbound on Wisconsin Avenue.”
The screen flashed to an image of the crumpled car with yellow police tape blocking off the perimeter. The footage showed forensic investigators examining the crime scene.
“His BMW sports car,” Stewart continued, “crashed at high speed into an entrance of the shopping mall, where a man fled the scene and was chased by a gunman. A police spokesman confirmed to CNN that both the gunman and the individual who fled the scene are still at large.”
The newscaster looked down to reference his notes and looked back into the camera.
“At this early stage of the investigation, neither man has been identified. Investigators say that the gunman arrived in a black, late-model Chrysler 300 with Maryland tag EST 5-4-4. Anyone with information on this crime should call the tip hotline that has been set up for this case at 2-0-2-5-5-5-5-5-5-5. There is a hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar reward being offered for information leading to the arrest of the suspects.”
The gravity of the situation started to sink in, and his hands began to shake. Life as Etzy Millar knew it was over. Max was dead, and it was only a matter of time before his fingerprints were identified from handling the equipment he’d left at the scene. The images broadcasted from the crime scene confirmed his fears. The three yellow letters on the back of the navy-blue jackets — FBI — meant the investigation had already been escalated, and he only had one option left.
Chapter 19
He put on his turn signal and slowed down to pull into the gas station. His mind had been tortured all night, and he had found it difficult to sleep. He was distracted by emotion and knew his lack of focus was dangerous. Ryan’s death haunted his every thought.
Trent Turner considered the pain his brother’s wife and kids must be feeling right now. He wished with all his being that there was some way he could turn back the clock and take his brother’s place.
He considered the stroke of luck he had last night with his mother’s book. The reagent he had treated the cover with did its job, and the nanoparticles illuminated the faint traces of the assassin’s fingerprint. The new technology impressed him.
Heckler had sent him what they were able to learn from the fingerprint and composite image he had gotten from his mother in less than an hour. The information that came back was no surprise. It turned out that the man who had killed his brother was a Russian called Aliaksandr Petrov. He was a freelance assassin who was once a top agent for Russia’s counterpart to the CIA, the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or SVR for short. The Shop’s contacts at MI6 confirmed that Petrov was an extremely capable individual and had spent a lot of time in Britain.
Now he was waiting for Heckler to get back to him on the assassin’s possible whereabouts. Turner pulled the car next to the gas pump and headed inside to pay. He tried to remember the last time he’d been in Tysons Corner. He wasn’t sure whether it was the gas station bringing back old memories, or there was something else that was pinging his radar.
“Thirty dollars on pump three please,” he said to the cashier inside.
“Sure thing, hon,” she replied.
She cracked her chewing gum as she worked the register.
Turner laughed. “You’re pretty good at that.”
She looked up thoughtfully and offered a playful smile. He guessed she was in her late fifties, and she had kept herself in great shape.
“That’s not all I’m good at, cutie,” she said, adding a few more cracks of her gum for effect.
He nodded toward the wedding picture on top of the cash register and said, “I’ll bet. Too bad he beat me to it.”
“He sure did, and I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she replied with a wink.
“My advice…” her husband chimed in from behind the counter. He pursed his lips as if to consider something of significance. “Stay single.”
His wife tossed a bag of chips at him, and they both laughed.
Trent smiled and handed over the cash. A bell sounded as he pushed the glass door open. He had to admit he envied the couple inside. It was clear they were in love. They had made a nice, simple life for themselves in suburbia, a luxury he knew he would never have.
Something was still gnawing at him as he pressed the button on the fuel pump and began to fill the tank. His eyes were transfixed on the digital readout showing the dollars and gallons tick by. He shifted his weight and felt uneasy. When his glance drifted across the island of gas pumps, he recognized the barrel of a pistol being leveled at his head.
He recognized the outline of Aliaksandr Petrov’s face behind the weapon before an ingrained reflex pulled him down and to the left simultaneously. The loud report of the weapon was followed by an arc of sparks on the roof of his car.
He carefully peered around the gas pump as Petrov slammed his door shut and threw the car into gear. Turner quickly squeezed off a round from his HK45 Compact Tactical pistol, splintering the driver’s side of the rear window. The grimace on Turner’s face showed his frustration. He didn’t have the angle to deliver a kill shot.
He jumped into his rental car, fired up the engine and jammed the black Ford Focus into gear. A loud popping sound signaled that the gas nozzle had reached the end of its length. He saw the rubber hose snap back toward the pump in his rearview mirror and shook his head. He pointed the car at the median strip that separated the two directions on Route 7 and swerved through the traffic after the Russian.
The Focus sped through the grass divider, and Turner made a beeline for the on-ramp that led to Interstate 495. His frustration grew as the blue Chevy Impala continued to pull away from view. He shook his head and wished he’d chosen a car with a set of balls.
Chapter 20
His foot was pinned to the accelerator when the XHD3 rang out. Trent Turner cursed under his breath, annoyed with his current automotive disaster. He didn’t have to look at the display to know the call was from Heckler. He was the only person with his number.