Sanders and Pagano glanced at each other and then back to Culder.
“Do you have any intel on the place?” Sanders asked. “I don’t want to go in there blind.”
“I’ll pull something together while you pick up what you need,” Culder said.
His cell phone rang again. He handed a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it to Pagano before starting toward the door.
“I’ll take this one outside. Give them a call and see what they have on the place.” Once he was outside he answered the call. “Chuck?” he answered in a condescending tone.
“It’s done.”
“It is?” He was beginning to enjoy his little conversations with Dr. Charles Reed. The only thing that could make them better would be a video feed so he could watch him squirm.
“Yes,” Reed said, his voice void of emotion.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Culder said.
“Look, I have confirmation that the package was delivered by your guy from the New York office.” Anger and desperation had started to seep into Reed’s voice. “There’s plenty of damning information in there that will connect President Cross to certain Island Industries’ activities.”
“I believe you,” Culder said, knowing it was too late for the man to turn back. “This is something you can be proud of, Dr. Reed. You don’t have the opportunity to bring down the most powerful man in the world every day.”
Satisfied he had what he needed from the man, Culder decided to leave a lasting impression. “What do you think the press will call it? Islandgate? Spygate? This has Hollywood written all over it.” The director got no reaction, so he decided to up the ante. “Maybe you can go tell your story on the talk-show circuit? They can dub it crack-whore-gate.” He paused to let his words fester. “I like that last one. How about you, Chuck?” He heard heavy breathing on the line and smiled. “Your little Shelly will be released once I have my confirmation, don’t worry, Daddy.” He disconnected the call and headed back into the hotel room.
Sanders looked up when Culder opened the door. The director wore a grin that showed his satisfaction.
“What happened to you? Did you get laid or something?” Sanders asked.
Culder laughed and replied, “It was better than sex.”
Sanders looked over at Rudy Pagano, and they both shrugged.
“Are we ready to do this?” Culder asked, his grin replaced with intensity.
Sanders pulled out his cell phone and powered it on. “Not quite. Rudy just had a chat with the locals, and they said these Russians don’t fuck around. Ex-military.”
“He’ll have some serious firepower,” Pagano added.
“I have a local contact who can hook us up with some kit pronto,” Sanders said. “I just need to give him a call.”
“Nothing we can’t handle,” Pagano said. “The agent is putting a package together for us to pick up. We’ve been worse off.”
Sanders nodded in agreement. “We should be good to go. On point within the hour.”
His phone chimed after it finished powering up, signaling a new voicemail.
Chapter 121
A mixture of overgrown shrubs and run-down structures peppered the flat landscape of the former steel mill. It was like an abandoned set from a Western movie had been invaded by rusted post-apocalyptic props from Mad Max. The entire property was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, with several locked gates that provided access for vehicles.
Jack and Trent Turner parked their rental car more than a kilometer away and sent the PMD off ahead of them to scan the area while they tabbed their way to the compound. Night was falling on the city of Chicago, and both men welcomed the extra cover the darkness would provide.
By the time they reached the outer perimeter of the fence, the PMD had processed the area and provided its preliminary analysis to the operatives. There were no telltale heat signatures that indicated recent vehicular activity, and its sensors were able to identify three sentries posted outside.
They had very little intel on the compound, so they were going to have to play it by ear. The PMD’s flight time overhead had been limited, and both men understood the details it first supplied to their XHD3s might change. Dennis Zander had confirmed the concrete building that was situated closest to the northern end of the property as their objective.
Trent Turner scanned the area and turned to his Uncle Jack. “Good thing help is on the way,” he whispered. He gestured toward his uncle’s foot and said, “It looks like we’ll need it.”
Jack was obviously annoyed. “I’ll be fine,” he said.
“Didn’t General Custer say that too?” Trent asked sarcastically. “You shouldn’t be out here when you’re gimpy like that.”
Jack glared at his nephew, but the response acknowledged he was right.
“Do you know who they’re bringing in?” Trent asked.
“No idea. Hopefully they’re getting some sleep on the plane. All of our assets were in Europe. Addy said he had something in the works. He wanted to bring someone new on board if he could, but he wasn’t sure whether it was going to work out. He didn’t have time for details. Shit was hitting the fan all around us.”
Trent flashed him a smile. “You do smell a little funny.”
“Leave it to you, kiddo,” Jack said with a laugh. “Busting balls, when here I thought you’d be glad to see me.” He made a production of giving himself a sniff test.
“Ah, you know it’s always great to see you, Unc, but would an occasional shower be asking too much?” He patted him on the shoulder and said, “What comes around goes around.”
His uncle’s verbal chops from his time as a SEAL instructor were legendary. Jack wanted to laugh but instead jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow.
“Let’s save the beauty for last this time,” he said, motioning Trent to head through the slit he’d just cut in the fence.
“Can you read us, Poor Man? Over.” Trent asked. He’d given Millar the handle based on his reaction to what the PMD acronym stood for.
“Loud and clear. I’ll let you know if I see anything, over.”
“We’re going in, over,” Trent confirmed.
He then turned to hand signals as he directed their approach to the building. They leapfrogged positions and used what little cover was available to remain concealed. They quickly arrived at a small shed with a beat-up Ford F-150 parked alongside.
“You need to take a look at the monitor,” Millar cut in nervously. “Lots of movement at the northeast gate, over.”
Trent Turner positioned his head inside the tactical sleeve on his kit. The fabric was designed to stretch so that he could review the latest stream of information sent down from the PMD on the XHD3 mounted to his forearm. The purpose-built shroud concealed the light from the device so it wouldn’t give away his position. His head was still buried in his sleeve when he said, “Not looking good, Unc.”
“I know. It’s getting pretty bad,” he admitted. “I’m having a hard time keeping up.”
Trent turned off the display and pulled his head out of the sleeve. “Not your foot. It looks like we’ve got company, and lots of it.” He nodded down the driveway perpendicular to them as the approaching headlights came into view. Both men quickly improved their cover.
The perimeter security forces had gotten organized quicker than they would have expected, with some of the men hopping out at the gate. The PMD sent in a steady stream of information about their movements, and Millar was doing a good job of keeping them informed as the patrols closed in. The situation was getting progressively worse. Trent knew his uncle’s foot injury was a major handicap to their mobility, and he wasn’t about to let the Russians murder another member of his family.