“Absolutely, sir.”
“Were you able to dig up any recent photos?”
“Yes, he had one of the girl. I made a copy, and we found a recent shot of Millar on Soller’s mobile phone. Both were added to our facial-recognition systems about an hour ago.”
“Good, Agent Moynihan, good. It sounds like you’re moving in the right direction. If you manage to find him first, it would be in your career’s best interest,” he lied in an attempt to increase her motivation.
“Yes, sir. I’ll do everything within my power to make that happen.”
Her voice sounded skeptical, and Culder decided being called in by the FBI director might have been unsettling. Then he thought better of his initial assessment. There was something more he sensed in her voice, and he didn’t like it one bit.
“This is very important to me personally, Agent Moynihan,” he said, trying to smooth out her nerves. “If you need something beyond your power to make it happen, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”
“Will do, but there’s something else…” she said, before she realized Culder had already ended the call.
Chapter 25
The flight from New York to Dulles International Airport took the Island Industries’ Gulfstream G650 just over thirty minutes. It gave Jack Turner enough time to make it to the company’s private hangar. He pulled up in his bright yellow RAM 1500 extended-cab pickup truck. Hemis and Harleys represented his hard-ass nature and material pleasures in life simultaneously. His toys were always impeccably clean and kept in perfect running order. The hangar was large enough for Jack to drive his truck inside.
The admiral walked briskly to his truck.
“Good to see you, Jack,” Simpson said with his hand extended.
“Likewise, Addy. It’s been a rough week all around, that’s for sure,” he admitted as they shook hands.
Both men were over six feet tall and atypically fit for their age. They stood eye to eye, two old friends not concerned with softening the edges on what needed to be said.
“I’m really sorry about your nephew,” Simpson said. “How are your brother and his wife holding up?”
“Cathy’s a complete mess.” Turner’s face hardened. “Trent stopped by to see Ryan, and they had a conversation that wasn’t what she expected.”
Simpson nodded.
“He told her Ryan’s death was his fault.” Turner shrugged his shoulders.
“How much did he clue her in on?”
“Not much. He was vague, as you would expect. He’s a loyal kid, though, and I think he felt obligated to open up to her. You know, try to come clean the best he could under the circumstances.”
“Understood.” Simpson drew in a deep breath. “That’s a lot of weight to carry on your shoulders,” he said, referring to Ryan’s death. “Keeping your head clear is your biggest asset. It’s impossible to stay alive in this business if you don’t. Hopefully this won’t throw him off.”
Simpson knew Jack would be loyal to him. The concept of family was something that their world completely redefined. Absolute trust was implicit.
“She said he was having a hard time with Ryan’s death,” Turner said. “He got there as they were rolling him out of the room.” Jack Turner massaged his temples with his forefinger and thumb before elaborating. “Trent just missed his chance to say good-bye.” He shook his head, his face reflecting raw emotion. “That had to hurt.”
Simpson closed his eyes and rubbed them before looking back to his friend.
“The short of it,” Turner continued, “is that there was someone in the room who finished him off a couple minutes before he got there. Trent pulled any details his mother could give him out of her and took off to hunt the guy down. She hasn’t heard from him since.”
Simpson contemplated the situation. He owed a lot to Trent Turner, so there was no way he was going to jump to conclusions about him going off the deep end. He needed to find out everything he could. His thoughts were muddied with concerns about whether the situation would escalate to the point of no return. If Trent had lost control, it would be a complete disaster. Not only for him personally but the company as well. He needed to be direct. Jack understood what was at stake, and if Trent Turner had gone rogue he’d have to be eliminated.
Simpson’s eyes narrowed. “So has Trent had anything to do with the killings going on in the area? He went dark. I need your help, or this could get really ugly.”
Jack Turner let out a long exhale. “Hop in. I’ll fill you in on the way to the office. You’re not going to like it.”
The two men got in his truck, and Jack turned to his friend and said, “This is going to be a tough one for me.”
Chapter 26
Trent Turner contemplated whether he might have some sort of death wish. He let the thought hang in the air as he avoided contact with the emergency personnel congregating at the hotel. His brother’s murder had hit him hard. The incredible guilt had played its part and managed to overwhelm him with emotion. He found it lucky that he hadn’t already gotten himself killed. There were some things in life where no amount of training could help to soften the blow.
He headed down the long first-floor hallway toward the room Cannibal had indicated was the most likely to belong to the assassin. The police were getting organized. His XHD3 knew his physical location, and it had automatically sent the information that had been provided to the police about the incident. They would soon start their room-to-room searches for a possible gunman, so there wasn’t much time for him to make his move.
As he approached the hotel room, he noticed the door was cracked open. The telltale smell from a discharged firearm grew stronger with each step. He could see the casing from a 9 mm round had prevented the door from closing. He noted the positions of the doors for the neighboring suites and tried to predict the layout of the room. He checked the hallway as he drew his HK45CT and married it to its suppressor. He reached for the doorknob and prepared for an aggressive entry.
The door opened silently, and he swung his eyes and weapon from left to right. There was no sign of Aliaksandr Petrov in the main room. The streaks of blood that ran down the wall and dark stains on the floor told part of the story, but the sound of running water coming from the bathroom was about to tell the rest.
“We’ve got some unfinished business,” Turner said.
The Russian moved the towel from his bloodshot eyes and looked at the operative through the haze of fog that had begun to work its way up the mirror. His expression suddenly turned to one of disbelief. Before he could speak, Turner delivered a heavy blow to the back of his head, knocking him unconscious.
Turner put his weapon away, heaved the large frame of Petrov over his right shoulder, bounced his limp body into a stable position, and grabbed the assassin’s laptop from the dresser before leaving the room. The trip out the door and up the stairwell to his third-floor suite was as short as it was strenuous. He used plastic flex-cuffs to secure the massive Russian to the desk chair and sent his handler a message.
Smelling salts snapped Petrov back to consciousness. His eyes were still blood red, and he was confused. He was in bad shape physically. He had been shot a couple of times but was lucky that no vital organs had been hit. The assassin was still bleeding but had done a good job of staunching the blood flow before Turner had arrived. He would need medical treatment soon to stay alive.