The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1

by Gary Winston Brown

  And the smell of fresh blood.

  7

  THE MAN PULLED into the reserved parking space marked EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY, stepped out of the maroon fire department sedan, removed an aluminum clipboard from the back seat, and adjusted his cap. The uniform he wore and the credentials he presented to the desk clerk were legitimate, having once belonged to the dead man in the trunk of the car.

  The man introduced himself. “Captain Mark Viegas. Aviation Emergency Response. I’m here to inspect the premises.”

  The clerk looked puzzled. “We were just inspected two weeks ago,” he said.

  “What can I say?” the fake fire captain said. “You’re on the list.” He opened the clipboard. “Name?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Name?” he repeated.

  “Pirelli,” the clerk replied. “Anthony Pirelli.”

  “As in Pirelli the tire company?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any relation?”

  The clerk cocked his head. “Seriously? You think I’d be working here if I was?”

  The man waited for an answer to his question.

  “No, no relation,” Pirelli replied.

  He motioned to the aircraft hangars. “They all occupied?”

  Pirelli shook his head. “Just A and C. It’s a slow day.”

  “Call them,” the man said. “Tell the mechanics to clear the floor. I’ll need thirty minutes per box.”

  “Thirty minutes?” the clerk complained. “Are you frigging kidding me? You realize we have to pay these guys whether they’re working or not, right?”

  The man held up his phone. “It’s that or I make a call and shut you down for the rest of the day. Your choice.”

  The clerk fired back. “I have a suggestion. Call your dispatch. I’m sure there’s a kitten up a tree somewhere that needs help. Tell them to send you there instead.”

  “Ah, cat jokes,” the man said. “Never heard those before.” He leaned over the counter. “Listen to me, son. I strongly suggest that you pick up the phone and clear those hangars right now, ‘cause you’re real close to getting your ass canned.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Pirelli made the calls. “There,” he said. “Happy now?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  “I’m putting you in my log.”

  “You do that.”

  “This is a straight up hassle, man.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get over it. I’ll be out of here in an hour. I suggest you put that time to good use. Maybe call the tire company. Ask if they’re hiring.”

  “Funny.”

  “I don’t want to see a soul in those hangars when I get there,” the man warned. “We clear?”

  The clerk pointed to the two teams of aircraft maintenance workers strolling across the tarmac towards the employee lounge. “There you go, boss. All present and accounted for.”

  “Good. I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m working.”

  “I’ll tell the men to try to contain themselves.”

  “You do that,” the man replied as he walked through the sliding automatic doors that led out to the aircraft hangars. “And it’s Captain, not Chief.”

  “Whatever,” the clerk said. He returned to his paperwork.

  The fake fire captain entered Hanger A. A business jet, white with blue and red stripes, stood in the middle of the facility, the cowlings of its Pratt & Whitney engines removed for servicing, the engines exposed. He removed a sheet of paper from his pocket and checked the tail number noted in the bottom corner of the sketch: HN-3RN. This was not the aircraft he was looking for.

  No match.

  Pirelli had mentioned C hangar was also occupied. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  Ahead of him stood the jet, tail number HN-3RN.

  Match.

  He locked the hangar door behind him. Sunlight poured into the room from the open bay doors which faced the runway at the opposite end of the building. Outside, the absence of wind beneath an unlimited ceiling of bright blue sky offered a perfect day for flying.

  The man went straight to work. He read the encrypted text he had received on his phone two hours ago before killing the fire Captain and assuming his identity. The instructions provided by New York were specific. He referred to the sketch, located the tool chest standing against the wall of the hangar, removed the specified tools, walked over to the aircraft, and followed the instructions. He removed a sheet of plastic from within the aluminum clipboard case, handling it carefully so as not to damage the fingerprints which had been transferred to its surface, and applied the prints to the specified tool. He placed the tool on the floor of the hangar several feet from the aircraft. The scene set, he took a picture and emailed it to New York.

  His phone chimed a second later. The text read REVISIONS NECESSARY. CHECK IN.

  Strange.

  He called the number.

  “We have a problem,” the voice answered.

  “Not on my end,” the man replied. “We’re good here.”

  “There’s been a development. Your contract has been changed.”

  “You better not be talking about my fee.”

  “Relax, Tasker. The funds were transferred as soon as your photo was received.”

  “Good answer. What’s the issue?”

  “We have another contract. It was closed.”

  “Was?”

  “We’ve discovered a problem with the operator. One that could bring undue attention to us. We’ve decided to reopen the contract. But there’s a contingency.”

  “And that is?”

  “You’ll need to eliminate the contractor as well as the target. You interested?”

  “Who are we talking about?”

  The caller paused. “Check your phone.”

  Harrison Tasker watched the photo pop up on screen. He recognized the man. “He’s good.”

  “We know.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “We don’t have a choice in the matter. You want the contract or not?”

  “How much?”

  “Same as the original offer. Five million on retainer, plus another five with proof of termination.”

  The hitman raised his voice. “Don’t screw with me. We both know a contract of that amount covers the target alone. How much more is it worth to you to make your contractor problem go away?”

  The caller hesitated. “I’ll need approval.”

  “Then I suggest you get it.”

  Tasker waited. The caller reconnected seconds later. “We can do another five,” he said.

  “Ten.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Then I guess he’s not as big a problem as you think he is.”

  “I’ve been authorized to go to six.”

  “Nine.”

  “Eight. Not a penny more.”

  Tasker said nothing.

  “You there?” the caller asked.

  “Yeah,” Tasker replied. “All right. Eight million, in advance, plus the original ten for the target as stipulated. And you re-close the contract. I’m not interested in dealing with competition on this. He’s not going to be easy to take down.”

  “Agreed. You’ll have exclusivity for seventy-two hours. If you can’t complete the job by then we go to the next name on the list and the eight million will be rescinded.”

  “Fair enough. What’s his location?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “I’m here now.”

  “We know. Stay put. The contractor is on his way to L.A. We’ll send you a code. You’ll be able to track his location on your phone. Questions?”

  “None.”

  “Remember, Tasker. Seventy-two hours.”

  “I heard you the first time.”

  The caller hung up.

  Tasker scrolled through the pictures in the file. The family stood beside a private jet on the tarmac at Maui’s Kahului Airport terminal building. The aircraft looked familiar. He noted its tail number,
HN-3RN, and realized he was standing under the jet.

  “I’ll be damned.” He read the list of names whose immediate termination had now been entrusted to him: Michael Farrow. Mary Farrow. Jordan Quest. Keith Quest. Emma Quest (child). Aiden Quest (child).

  He recognized the name. Anyone who was even slightly in the know about advancements in computer technology knew the name Michael Farrow. The next two names were unfamiliar to him until he read the familial relationship: Jordan Quest was Farrow’s daughter, Keith Quest her husband. The last two names were those of the Quests kids. Killing children always bothered him, but in his line of work emotional involvement was right up there with second thoughts. Neither were a luxury he could afford. Attachments of any kind led to hesitation and hesitation led to someone dying. He preferred it not be him.

  He opened the second dossier, that of the contractor, and studied the man’s face. Though he knew of him by reputation there had always been something about the man he disliked. Something disturbing even to someone in his line of work. Something… off.

  No matter. Within a day or two he’d be taken out and no longer of concern to anyone.

  He checked his watch. An hour had passed. It was time to leave. It would be just like the smartass desk clerk to return the mechanics to the hangar early even though he’d specifically told him he was not to be disturbed.

  For a moment Tasker welcomed an intrusion by the irritating clerk. The weapon under his jacket was equipped with a silencer. No one would hear the gunshot.

  The thought made him smile. The trunk of the fire captain’s car was generous enough to accommodate two bodies, not just one.

  He could make room.

  8

  THE WINE… something in the wine…

  Shannon Dunn tried to push back the mental fog that had rolled in, obscured her ability to concentrate, and left her memory of the past week as scrambled as the mismatched sides of a Rubik’s Cube; pieces of a puzzle, twisted, turned; parts of a whole, yet incomplete.

  Her last memory was watching Zoe collapse. They had been in Los Angeles for only an hour, unpacked their clothes and put away the few basic groceries they had purchased en route to the condo (milk, eggs, bread, corn chips, a six-pack of Dos Equis beer). She noticed the bottle of wine and accompanying card sitting on the dining room table. Zoe read the note aloud, reminded her sister how fortunate they were to have such a thoughtful father, then picked up the bottle of Lotus California Cabernet Sauvignon and paraded it around the room with theatrical vigor, extolling the wines ‘fruity undertones, with just the right hint of spice,’ and how it would, in the absence of expertly prepared filet mignon, pair perfectly with Spicy Nacho Doritos.

  She remembered pouring the wine and their toast to Harvard. Minutes later she felt lightheaded. Her body had become tremendously heavy. The room had begun to spin. Walls wrapped around her. Her peripheral vision narrowed, faded to black, and caused the room to morph into a tunnel. The strange change in her equilibrium caused the condominium floor to rise and fall as though she were on the deck of a ship being tossed about in foul weather, trying to maintain balance. Before consciousness finally left her and she fell to the floor, she called out for Zoe.

  Shannon recalled another side of the jumbled memory cube before riding the swell into darkness. The lobby communication panel had chimed three times, with long pauses between each ring. Minutes later, two figures let themselves into the condo. Both wore reflective vests, work boots, and gloves. They wheeled two large gray bins into the room, dropped two heavy duty vinyl bags on the floor, one beside her, the other beside her sister. They unrolled the bags and pulled down their full-length metal zipper. Even in her impaired state Shannon recognized what it was: a body bag, used to transport the dead. One of the men rolled her into it, then pulled the zipper up past her face.

  She recalled being picked up by the men, dropped unceremoniously into the maintenance bin, and rolled out of the condominium. The ding, ding, ding sound of the elevator as it traveled from the tenth floor down to the basement. The jostling around of her body in the bin as the container rumbled over a rough concrete surface and down a ramp. The beep… beep… beep of a truck’s warning system as it backed up, the high-pitched squeal of its brakes as it came to a stop, and the hissss of its hydraulics as the driver shifted it into Park. All the while, Shannon treaded water on the ink-black surface of unconsciousness, fighting the urge to surrender to the incapacitating effect of whatever drug was coursing through her bloodstream, desperate not to sink deeper into a place from which she might never resurface. That they had both been drugged and targeted for abduction was clear. But why, and by whom?

  A putrid smell seeped out of the back of the truck. Even in her semi-conscious state Shannon felt the gorge rise in her throat. She fought back the urge to vomit, knowing that if she did, she would choke to death on the bitter bile inside the body bag. The man lifted her out of the container, then rolled her into the rear hopper of the truck. She lay on her side in the trash collection basin, surrounded by the stomach-churning smell of rotten food and the stench of diesel fumes, when she heard a sickening thud. Zoe fell in beside her. She heard her sister moan. Bags of garbage were thrown on top of them. The brakes released, and the truck shuddered as it jumped into gear. They were moving.

  Shannon passed out. When her senses returned, her body ached from head to toe. She had no idea how long they had been in the back of the garbage truck, how far they had traveled, or where they were. All she knew was that she was still alive.

  She woke in the corner of a room, lying on a bed of straw, wearing only her bra and panties, and covered with a poncho. Her shoes, jeans and blouse sat on a stool in the corner of the room. Steel shackles separated by a chain link bound her wrists. A plastic-coated steel cable, fashioned into a noose and fitted around her neck, was secured to a metal O-ring in the wooden ceiling. A ceramic heater glowed and provided heat to the damp, musty space.

  Shannon pressed her back against the wooden wall and struggled to her feet.

  The cable was sufficiently slack to permit her to walk the perimeter of the room. She recognized her prison: a horse stall. In one corner stood a compostable toilet. The rear and side walls of the stall were made of wood, the front wall a composite framework of vertical steel bars above horizontal wooden planks. The latched gate was locked.

  The toilet reeked of feces and urine. Hers?

  Shannon called out. “Zoe? You there? Can you hear me?”

  In the stable a horse responded with a loud whinny.

  “Zoe?”

  Her sister answered from a stall across the hallway “Yeah, Shay. I’m here. You okay?”

  “I guess so,” Shannon replied. “You have water?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Food?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “Any idea where the hell we are?”

  “None,” Zoe said.

  “We need to get out of here.”

  “You think?”

  “I don’t want to die here, Zoe.”

  “Neither do I. And I’m sure as shit going to make sure you don’t either.”

  “You think anyone’s looking for us?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Dad hasn’t heard from us for a while. He’ll suspect something’s wrong.”

  Zoe didn’t reply.

  Movement at the end of the barn. The clop-clop-clop of boots on the rubber mat. The horses stirred and snorted. Mealtime.

  Shannon gasped at the sight of their captor. He stared at her from outside the stall, unrecognizable in his red, green, and blue polka-dotted costume and knee-high yellow boots. A clown mask covered his head; a wild-eyed, evil-looking prosthetic with bushy red hair, long protruding jaw, and wickedly sharp teeth. In his hands he carried two buckets, one filled with soapy water, the other with cans of liquid meal replacement and bottles of water.

  The Clown didn’t speak. He gestured to Shannon, indicated that she was to move to the f
ar corner of her stall.

  Shannon hesitated, then stepped back. The Clown unlocked the gate, entered, threw the bucket of soapy water over her, then tossed two cans of meal replacement and a bottle of water at her feet.

  “What do you want from us?” Shannon screamed as she wiped the water away from her face with her bound hands.

  The Clown raised a finger to his lips. Shhhhh.

  “Why are you keeping us here?”

  He wagged his finger and shook his head. A warning. He removed a rubber-gripped metal rod from inside his boot.

  Shannon’s voice cracked as she pleaded. She slid down the wall as the Clown walked toward her. “Please... no.”

  The Clown lifted the chain links between her shackles with the metal rod, cocked his head, and pressed the trigger.

  One-hundred-thousand volts of electricity conducted on the wet chain, shot out of the stun stick, and surged through Shannon’s body.

  A chattering scream escaped her, then faded.

  The darkness returned.

  9

  ROCK PARKED THE LIMOUSINE in the Executive Air gated lot and opened the door for Jordan. During the drive from the conference center to the airport a light drizzle had christened Los Angeles. The tarmac glistened with beads of oily raindrops. Wisps of steam ascended from its hot black surface and drifted lazily across the private runway. Ahead, the engines of Michael Farrow’s private jet whined softly.

  Rock and Jordan cleared the security counter, gathered their bags, and walked across the tarmac to the jet. Jordan’s mother and father greeted her at foot of the stairway. Keith kissed her.

  “Shortcake!” Michael Farrow called out to his daughter. “How’s my gorgeous girl?”

  “Hi dad,” Jordan replied.

  “Too bad the kids couldn’t come along,” her mother said. “They would have loved Maui.”

  “I know,” Jordan replied, “But the thought of being away from them for just one week is more than I can handle. Two months? I’d go out of my mind.”

  “You realize you’re denying us our grand-parental right to spoil them rotten,” Farrow said. “It’s in the handbook, you know.”