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

by Gary Winston Brown

  “They’re gone, Jordan. Your mother and father, Rock, the flight crew… they didn't make it.”

  “No.”

  “If the transport hadn’t hit the jet…”

  “God, no…”

  “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  Jordan was unsure whether to scream or cry.

  “It’s a lot to process right now…”

  No, this was not the time to cry. She would deal with her emotions later. The faces of her children flashed though her mind. “Where’s Keith?”

  Carnevale didn’t reply.

  “You said my parents and Rock and the crew were dead. You said nothing about Keith. Is my husband dead or alive, Uncle Grant?”

  “He’s alive, Jordan.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Here.”

  “You mean here, as in this hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  Jordan once more fought against the pain in her wounded wrist, tried to lift herself out of bed, couldn’t. She searched the plastic guardrail for the electronic lowering mechanism. When she couldn’t find it, she kicked at the barrier, tried to knock it loose.

  “Settle down, Jordan. You’re only going to make your injuries worse.”

  “Get me out of here, Uncle Grant. Take me to Keith. I want to see my husband.”

  “Jordan, please.”

  “Now!”

  “You can’t, honey.”

  “Why not?”

  Carnevale paused. “Keith is on life support.”

  The words stopped her. “Life support?”

  Carnevale nodded. “He’d been exposed to the fire and the fumes for some time before the paramedics could extricate him from the wreckage. The damage to his body is… extensive.”

  “Is he going to make it?”

  “We don’t know. His doctor says it’s touch and go.”

  “I have to see him.”

  Carnevale conceded. “I know.”

  “Where is he?”

  “The burn unit.” He sighed. “He’s not good, Jordan. Not at all.”

  “Take me there.”

  “Honey…”

  “I want to see my husband.”

  “Let’s check with your doctor first. See what he has to say.”

  “I don’t give a damn what any doctor has to say!” Jordan yelled. Her voice trembled. Her eyes were wide with fear. “Either help me out of bed or get me someone who will.”

  Carnevale called out. “Agent Hanover?”

  Chris Hanover pushed open the door and entered the room. “Yes?”

  “Tell Dr. Lyons we’re going to the burn center. Mrs. Quest wants to see her husband.”

  Hanover nodded. “Right away.”

  “You sure you’re up to this, Jordan?” Carnevale asked.

  “No,” Jordan replied. “But I have to be.”

  12

  KOST 103.5, KIIS-FM 102.7 and every other radio station James Rigel tuned in on his drive from the Arizona border to Los Angeles were reporting on the story of the hour: the unfathomable aviation disaster that had befallen a private jet during its take-off from LAX.

  Speculation abounded as to the cause of the crash which brought down the aircraft and the inevitable collision that followed when it broke through the steel safety barrier at the end of the runway, slid across the highway, and came to rest in the path of a fully loaded eighteen-wheeler. Mechanical malfunction or pilot error were the most widely offered theories for the tragedy, though none of the bystanders knew exactly what had happened, except that the passengers of the ill-fated jet had lost their lives under truly horrific circumstances.

  But the most widely reported account relating to the crash was the miraculous survival of a woman who escaped the aircraft seconds after it came to rest against the interstate divider. They had watched as she stood in the middle of the highway and stared helplessly at the jet, oblivious to their cries urging her to get to safety, her back turned to the immense rig barreling towards her at highway speed, a victim itself to the immutable laws of physics and inertia, unable to slow under the weight of its load, brakes hissing, tires stuttering as it tried to stop, couldn’t, then jackknifed with her directly in its path. They watched her throw herself to the ground as the out-of-control rig rocketed over her at full highway speed, slammed into the helpless jet, and drove it down the highway in a fiery explosion. They saw her rise to her feet then run toward the roiling inferno until she was intercepted, caught in the arms of Good Samaritans who held her back and escorted her to safety seconds before the gas tank of the eighteen-wheeler erupted, the explosion so intense that the windows of adjacent passenger cars, abandoned by their owners as they ran to safety, exploded from the heat of the blast.

  Half an hour later as he approached the city limits, KIIS-FM announced the name of the woman found on the highway: Jordan Quest. The doomed aircraft had belonged to her father, tech billionaire Michael Farrow. Although representatives for Farrow Industries refused to confirm or deny if their founder or any members of his immediate family were among the dead, the rumor mill had already begun to turn. Reports of a second victim, medical status unknown, had been removed from the wreckage and transported by air ambulance to Angel of Mercy Hospital in Los Angeles.

  Rigel pulled off the highway. He needed to think. Was Farrow already dead? The contract! New York had already deposited five million into his account with a second five million payable upon its completion. If Farrow was dead, they would know about it by now. Every broadcaster and social media feed in the country, perhaps even the world, was breaking the story at this moment.

  He thought about the money. The first five million was guaranteed. That was non-negotiable. But the question that concerned him most right now was whether he would lose the balance.

  A text notification dinged on his cellphone. He read the screen: CALL IN.

  Dammit!

  New York had made the terms of the contract clear. Farrow and his family were to be taken out. There were to be no survivors. The specifics of how it was to be done had been left up to him. He assessed the facts. As far as anyone knew right now, Michael Farrow might not have been on the jet when it crashed. He was a billionaire, for God’s sake. Perhaps he had given his daughter the use of the aircraft for a personal trip. Maybe Farrow himself was alive. He had five million reasons to think positively about the situation.

  Rigel had always prided himself on his ability to maintain an optimistic disposition, even under the most difficult circumstances. Beyond his exemplary skill at killing, which he had proven repeatedly, he believed his affable nature was one of the reasons why New York enjoyed their relationship with him as much as they did and why he remained in such high demand. Had he not chosen to pursue a career as a professional killer he would have made an excellent movie actor, perhaps sharing the screen with the likes of Morgan Freeman or Anthony Hopkins. He had so much to offer, so much life experience he could to bring to his roles. One day he would give all of this up and star in motion pictures. But for now, he was having too much fun doing what he loved to do most. Which was to kill.

  The phone dinged again. The second message read URGENT YOU REPLY.

  He turned off the phone, tossed it into the cup holder between the seats, and decided to continue to Los Angeles and investigate Farrow’s status firsthand. If he were still alive, he wouldn’t be much longer.

  The radio announced an update on the tragedy. “The names of two of the survivors of today’s catastrophic plane crash at Los Angeles Airport have been released. The first is Jordan Quest, celebrated attorney, psychic and daughter of computer technology magnate Michael Farrow. The second is her husband, Keith Quest. Mr. Quest was airlifted from the scene to Angel of Mercy Hospital. He is reported to be in critical condition with life-threatening injuries.”

  Critical. Life-threatening. But not dead. And the daughter was still alive. Rigel strategized the situation. He would fulfill the Farrow contract in stages if he had to. First kill the family, then Farrow himself. New York
would be pleased. They would appreciate his ability to adapt so fluidly to such unusual and exceptional circumstances.

  He put the car in gear, turned on his signal light, sped up, and merged into the flow of traffic.

  He checked his watch: 8:30 P.M. Visiting hours at Angel of Mercy Hospital would be over soon.

  As always, his timing couldn't be better.

  13

  DR. PAUL TREMAINE, MD, chief of Angel of Mercy Hospital’s Burn Center Unit, stood beside Jordan and her godfather. Keith lay unconscious before them in the Acute Zone, a room specifically designed to protect its occupants from exposure to bacterial particulate or micro-organisms which could be introduced by staff, thereby increasing the possibility of infection. The door to the room was fitted with a pressurized airlock which provided a secondary barrier against the threat of airborne contaminants.

  The ward was quiet, the lights dim. Staff kept their movements around their patients to a minimum.

  Grant Carnevale helped his goddaughter out of her wheelchair. Jordan looked in at her husband through the glass walls of the visitor corridor. An involuntary gasp escaped her. Tremaine and Carnevale caught her as she collapsed, then helped her back into the wheelchair. She began to weep.

  Keith’s fire-ravaged body was unrecognizable.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Quest,” Dr. Tremaine said. “I can’t even imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

  Jordan stared at her husband. She offered no reply.

  “What is Keith’s status, doctor?” Carnevale asked.

  Respectful of the deep shock Jordan was experiencing at seeing her husband’s condition for the first time, Tremaine chose his words carefully. “We have a comprehensive team standing by to help Mr. Quest with everything he’ll need, from cardiology and wound care to microvascular and reconstructive surgery.”

  Jordan wiped the tears from her eyes. “You didn’t answer the question, doctor,” she said.

  Tremaine nodded. “You’re right, Mrs. Quest,” he said. “I meant no disrespect to you or Agent Carnevale. As I’m sure you can appreciate, situations like these differ from one patient to the next. In your husband’s case his injuries are most extreme.”

  “Tell me what I’m dealing with,” Jordan insisted. “I can handle it.”

  Tremaine gathered his thoughts. “Your husband’s situation is dire,” he replied. “Perhaps the worst I’ve seen in my twenty years treating burn victims. To be perfectly honest, it’s a miracle he’s even breathing. The trauma to his body from the crash is extensive: Broken bones, multiple fractures, contusions, damage to his spinal cord, inhalation burns from prolonged exposure to burning jet fuel and smoke… I could go on.”

  “Will he recover?” Jordan asked.

  “It’s too soon to tell. His immune and respiratory systems have been severely compromised. Even the slightest infection could kill him. His prolonged exposure to the burning jet fuel damaged the air collection sacs in his lungs. The alveoli are barely functioning, which means his ability to expel carbon dioxide is impeded. Aside from the obvious external trauma, his wounds are so extensive we can’t use hyperbaric treatment to facilitate their closure. Our sole effort right now is keeping him alive, and that’s proving to be a challenge. There is one more area of concern you need to know about. Your husband received a penetration injury to his head.” Tremaine removed a plastic bottle from the pocket of his lab coat and handed it to Jordan. It contained a twisted metal object measuring an inch in length. “We think it’s part of the aircraft. Airborne debris, most likely. It was embedded in the left frontal region of his skull. If the left lobe has been damaged, which I suspect it has, the affect to his brain will be extensive. Motor control, speech, memory… all will be impacted. We don’t know if that’s the case yet, but it must be considered. My concern is for the cumulative and permanent effects of his injuries, both mental, physical and physiological.”

  Jordan sat quietly, deep in thought, her mind processing the gut-wrenching information Tremaine had just shared with her. She looked up at the two men. “I’d like to be alone with my husband,” she said.

  “Of course,” Dr. Tremaine said. Carnevale leaned down and hugged her. “Take all the time you need, honey. We’ll be down the hall.” The men walked to the visitor’s lounge.

  Not since her experience as a child lying lifeless at the bottom of her parent’s pool had Jordan so felt Death’s imminent presence. The man lying in the hospital bed in front of her, her wonderful, sweet, incapable-of-harming-a-soul Keith, adoring husband and loving father to their two beautiful children, was slipping away right before her eyes. She had always been a strong woman, capable of taking on whatever punches life threw at her and striking back twice as hard. Yet now she felt utterly destroyed, lost, without hope, mentality and emotionally crushed. She knew in her heart that it was only a matter of time before her husband succumbed to his injuries. No one could survive such terrific physical devastation, not even her soulmate, her rock, the one she always referred to as the better part of me; her Keith.

  Jordan called out. “Dr. Tremaine?”

  Tremaine and Carnevale stood in the doorway of the lounge. “Yes, Mrs. Quest?” Tremaine replied.

  “What are my husband’s chances for survival over the long term?”

  “Are you asking if he’ll ever return to his former quality of life?” the physician asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The odds aren’t in his favor. Keith has fourth degree burns to ninety-five percent of his body. He’s looking at perhaps two hundred skin grafts to repair the damage, plus numerous related surgeries. I suspect there is brain damage. If his lungs do manage to repair themselves, he’ll be on oxygen for the rest of his life. That’s just a cursory evaluation. There are additional health challenges going on inside his body we haven’t yet been able to diagnose. The next seventy-two hours are critical.”

  “And if there’s no improvement by then?”

  “A decision will have to be made.”

  “Meaning?”

  “For patients with catastrophic injuries like your husband’s we may advocate for the withdrawal of life support. But that discussion would only take place if we believe his chances for survival have significantly diminished.”

  The words slashed at her. The reality of the truth behind them cut even deeper. It was all too much. Unable to take anymore, Jordan broke down. “I don’t know what to do,” she cried.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Quest,” Tremaine said. “Trust me when I tell you we’re doing everything in our power to help your husband. But right now, his life is in God’s hands, not ours.”

  From a monitor in Keith’s room an alarm sounded. The nursing staff rushed to the air lock.

  Dr. Tremaine excused himself. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Quest. I have to leave.”

  Carnevale steadied Jordan as she tried to stand. “What’s happening?” she said. “What’s wrong with Keith?”

  Tremaine hurried out of the visitor’s sub-zone. He called back as he entered the airlock leading to Keith’s room. “Your husband is going into cardiac arrest.”

  Jordan held on to her godfather, afraid that if she let go she would most certainly collapse.

  Carnevale heard the door to the visitor lounge open behind him. Agent Hanover entered the room. He stopped, intuitively aware of the gravity of the situation.

  “Agent Carnevale,” he said uncomfortably, “Mr. Quest’s parents have arrived. They’re asking to see their son.”

  14

  ANDREW DUNN WAS STANDING in the corridor speaking with Keith’s parents, David and Paula Quest, when Chris Hanover returned to Jordan’s hospital room. The FBI Director was attempting to answer their questions and bring them up to speed on what few details he knew about the plane crash. The Farrow’s housekeeper, Marissa DeSola, had also arrived. She had been charged with caring for the Quest’s seven-year-old twins, Emma and Aiden, while they traveled. The children stood by her side.

  “We’re still putting the pie
ces together,” Andrew Dunn said. “All we know for certain is that Mr. Farrow’s jet encountered a problem during takeoff and crashed. The Director of the National Transportation and Safety Board is a friend of mine. I’ve already spoken to him. He’s agreed to prioritize the investigation. My agents will be talking to their people as well as investigators from the Federal Aeronautics and Aviation Administration. A hangar has been secured at LAX for NTSB and FAA personnel to piece together the remains of the aircraft and commence their investigation. We should learn the specific cause of the crash very soon.”

  “Thank you, Director Dunn,” David Quest said. “Where are my son- and daughter-in-law now?”

  Hanover answered. “Fourth floor, sir. I’ll take you there as soon as you’re ready.”

  “I’ll stay with the children,” Marissa said.

  “Go,” Dunn said. “Be with your family. I’ll let you know the minute we hear anything of importance.”

  Jordan and her godfather watched the flurry of activity taking place in the confines of the air-locked room. Under Dr. Tremaine’s direction the nursing staff worked as one, performing the same emergency procedures on Keith as they had done dozens of times before on patients in need of their lifesaving skills.

  The elevator door opened. The Quests saw Jordan, crying in the arms of her godfather. They rushed to her side.

  The activity in Keith’s room suddenly stopped. Dr. Tremaine conversed for a few seconds with his team before leaving the room through the primary airlock and exiting the secondary airlock into the visitor corridor. He walked toward Jordan and lowered his surgical mask. The look on his face telegraphed the words Jordan was afraid to hear.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Tremaine said, addressing the family. “The trauma was simply too much for him. Keith’s heart couldn’t take it. There was nothing more we could do.”

  Jordan collapsed. Carnevale eased her into the wheelchair.