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

by Gary Winston Brown

  Paula Quest fell to her knees. “No, no, no…” David Quest held his emotions in check.

  “Your husband tried to hold on, Mrs. Quest,” Tremaine said. “He put up one hell of a fight. But his injuries were far too great. You have my sympathy. My staff will help you with anything you need.” The doctor excused himself and left the family to grieve.

  Jordan’s tears turned to anger. “Someone was in the hangar, Uncle Grant,” she said. “They tampered with the jet. I saw it.”

  Carnevale tried to calm her. “No, Jordan. This was just an accident. A terrible, tragic accident.”

  Jordan shook her head. “This was no accident. I tried to stop the jet from taking off, to warn them, but no one would listen. This is all my fault.”

  Carnevale kneeled beside his goddaughter and looked into her eyes. “Now listen to me, Jordan. None of this was your fault. You hear me? You had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “I know what I saw, Uncle Grant. I’m going to find out who was responsible for this. And when I do, I’m going to kill him.”

  “There will be an investigation into the crash, Jordan. We’ll learn the truth soon enough. If it turns out there’s more to this than meets the eye, I assure you we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “I won’t need the Bureau’s help. I’ll take care of it myself.”

  Considering Jordan’s raw emotional state Carnevale tempered his response. “I know how much pain you’re in right now, honey. So are Paula and David. And me. Your father was my best friend, so I’m going to talk for him right now. Before you set off on some wild path of revenge, keep in mind you have two small children who will need their mother now more than ever. I know it seems like you won’t, but eventually you will get through this. Grieve for as long as you need to, then move on. Because as deeply as you loved Keith, Emma and Aiden loved their father just as much. And their world just imploded.”

  Returning to her room, Grant Carnevale lifted the children into his arms and carried them down the hall to the waiting room while Jordan broke the news of the death of her husband and parents to their housekeeper, Marissa DeSola. Jordan had never known a woman as caring and loving as Marissa; the same woman who two decades earlier had dove into the pool, pulled her to safety, and saved her life as a child. Marissa had practically raised her in her parent’s absence when the demands of her father’s position as Chairman of Farrow Industries required him to travel the world, and her mother, a celebrated sculptor, put in long hours in her studio to meet the deadline for her latest commission. Marissa fell into Jordan’s arms and sobbed. Jordan wrapped her arms around her friend, held her tight.

  “The children…” Marissa said.

  Jordan brushed away Marissa’s tears. “I know,” she said.

  “Do you want me to be with you when you tell them?”

  Jordan shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

  Marissa nodded. “I’m here if you need me.”

  Jordan smiled. She held Marissa’s beautiful face in her hands. “I know you will. Just like you’ve been my whole life. There when I need you the most.”

  Marissa composed herself. “This is so hard,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Your parents and husband were three of the kindest people God ever put on this planet, Jordan. They will be missed.”

  “Thank you.”

  Marissa looked around. “Where are the children?”

  “Uncle Grant is watching them.”

  Carnevale sat with Emma and Aiden in the waiting room.

  “He was a good friend to your father,” Marissa said.

  Jordan nodded. “Dad said he was one of the few people in this world he could trust with his life.”

  “The children need to know what’s happened.”

  “I know.”

  Emma and Aiden hopped up on the bed as Jordan closed her hospital room door. She sat beside them, drew them close.

  Aiden pointed to the Immobilizer on his mother’s arm. “You okay, mom?” Emma nestled into her side.

  “Yes, honey. I’m fine.”

  “Why are we here?”

  How am I going to do this? Jordan thought. She took a deep breath, let it out.

  “Can we go home soon?” Emma added. Aiden said, “Uncle Grant said those other men are FBI agents just like him. Why are they here?”

  “To help us, honey.”

  “Why?” Emma said.

  God, this was so hard.

  “Something's happened to Dad, hasn't it?” Emma asked.

  Jordan pulled her children closer. “You know the plane ride we were supposed to take while you guys stayed with Marissa?”

  “Yeah,” Aiden said.

  “There was an accident.”

  Jordan could see the panic in her son’s eyes. “Mom, where’s dad?”

  “Your father and your grandparents…”

  Aiden’s eyes welled. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, babies,” Jordan replied. “I’m so sorry.”

  15

  SHANNON SCREAMED. Zoe scrambled to her feet and banged her shackles against the metal gate of the stable. She yelled. “Touch her again and I swear to God I’ll kill you!”

  The Clown turned slowly, hissed, stepped out of Shannon’s stall, walked across the common hallway, and stood outside her stable door.

  Zoe stepped back. She called out. “Shannon, you okay? Talk to me!”

  No reply.

  Zoe summoned her courage, walked back to the gate, challenged the Clown’s wicked stare, and shook the bars. “What did you do to her, asshole?”

  The Clown unfastened the latch, threw open the gate, clamped his hand around her throat, walked her backwards, slammed her head against the back wall of the stall, and drew his face to hers. Zoe smelled the foulness of his breath as it escaped the mouth slit of the rubber prosthetic. He hissed again, louder this time. Part of her was terrified of him now, not knowing what he would do next. Was the man behind the mask truly as insane as he portrayed himself to be? Would he prove his dominance over her by ending her life, as he may already have done with Shannon?

  Zoe swallowed the rising fear, let it sink. She flashed back to the nightmare years of her adolescence and that fateful day when she emancipated herself from the living hell that was life with her birth father. The visits in the middle of the night when he would perform unspeakable acts on her… the beatings he would deliver daily, without warning or provocation… the mental and emotional abuse that should have left her forever unsalvageable, a damaged teenager, broken beyond repair, had it not been for her relentless determination and resilience.

  The stench of tobacco on the Clown’s breath –the same putrid stink that had once belonged to the man who called himself her father– triggered a psychological break in Zoe. This time however there was no nearby brass lamp to grab hold of and slam against the side of his skull, no .44 Magnum handgun hidden under the sink to scamper to on hands and knees, racked with terror, retrieve, and fire! fire! fire! fire! fire! fire! into him, until the last round had been expended, and all she could hear was the click-click-click of the empty cylinders rotating with every additional pull of the trigger, long after she had liberated herself from him.

  Fight or flight.

  Life or death.

  Never again, she thought. Not in this fucking lifetime. And sure as shit not like this.

  Life.

  Zoe struggled against the Clown’s powerful grip and raised her head. Curious, he removed his hand from her neck.

  Zoe gasped, sucked in the air, coughed, waited for the light-headedness to subside.

  The Clown turned his head from side-to-side, examining her with great interest, as though in her act of defiance he had discovered a new and rare species of human.

  Zoe whispered. “Closer...”

  The Clown hissed loudly, grabbed her neck once more. When Zoe again began to choke, he relented and released his hand from her throat. Cat and mouse. Zoe coughed again. The Clown ju
mped up and down, laughing, denoting his approval of the game. He permitted her to raise her shackled hands to her neck and massage her damaged throat.

  Zoe spoke again, her words barely audible. “Come… closer.”

  The Clown hesitated, then brought his head to hers, turned his ear to her mouth, and listened.

  “Is my sister all right?”

  The Clown nodded slowly.

  “Thank you,” Zoe said. She lifted her head, forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry for what I said to you before. That was wrong.”

  The Clown dropped his head, nodded.

  “You don’t really want to hurt me, do you?”

  The Clown shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so,” Zoe replied. She lowered her voice. “I have a secret that no one else knows. Would it be okay if I told you?”

  The Clown stood back. He clapped his hands together gleefully, nodded.

  Zoe cleared her throat. “Hard to talk,” she said. “Lean in.”

  The Clown rested his head on her shoulder, put his ear to her mouth.

  “Much better. Ready?”

  The Clown nodded.

  “When I was a little girl,” Zoe said, “my father bought me a doll. It was a clown, just like you.” She forced a smile into her voice. “And you know what?”

  He shook his head.

  “I hated that thing!”

  Before the Clown could react, Zoe wrapped her chain-bound wrists around his neck and jumped twice in the air, delivering two brutal knee strikes to the Clown’s ribs. Her captor let out a cry and fell against her. Zoe spun around and pulled the chain link around his neck as tightly as she could. She listened to him gag, felt him struggle, strain, and kick out against her back as he tried unsuccessfully to fight back. She interlocked her wrists, gained an even greater advantage over him, then pulled down with all her might.

  Snap.

  Zoe heard his cervical vertebrae break. The Clown’s body fell slack and slid to the ground behind her.

  The key.

  She turned, rummaged through his pockets, found the skeleton key, fiddled with the locks, removed the shackles from her wrists, and slipped her head out of the noose.

  Free at last.

  Zoe looked down at the man lying at her feet on the dusty floor. Even in death the hooded figure remained a menacing sight. She kneeled and pulled off the Clown’s mask.

  He was a youth, seventeen years old at the most, but physically a man by anyone’s definition. Zoe had no idea who he was, nor did she care that she had killed him. Instead, she took consolation in the hope that his plans for them, whatever they might have been, had likely died with him.

  Zoe patted down the Clown’s body and found the stun stick hidden in his boot. She pressed the trigger and held it against the metal shackles laying on the floor. Sparks danced on the surface of the chain.

  She kept the weapon. Perhaps it would prove useful to them in their escape.

  Across the hall, Shannon moaned.

  16

  ARRIVING IN DOWNTOWN Los Angeles, James Rigel parked on a side street half a block from Angel of Mercy Hospital, opened the trunk of his car, unclipped the emergency road safety kit from its mounting brackets, dumped the contents of the plastic case on the floor of the car, returned the flashlight and flares to the case, opened his overnight bag, removed a lightweight windbreaker embroidered with the name ‘Walter,’ slipped it on, and slammed the trunk shut.

  At nine o’clock in the evening, the back entrance to the hospital was as quiet as he expected it would be at this relatively late hour. He held open the door for a pretty young nurse as she left the building. She smelled of bergamot. Rigel breathed in the sweet essence as she walked past. He couldn’t help but wonder what trophies lay hidden beneath her clothes. Were it not so late he would have taken her to a secluded area at the back of the parking lot where they could become better acquainted, enjoy a little time with her, introduce her to Zippy, and add another treasure to his collection. But there was important work to be done, and he took his work very seriously. He suppressed the urge to ravage her. Instead, he bid her a good night and entered the building.

  The corridor had been freshly sanitized and positively reeked of cheap citrus-smelling floor cleaner. Disgusted, Rigel covered his nose. How could any place tasked with the responsibility of prolonging the lives of its patients expose them to such olfactory filth? Senses offended but undaunted, he pressed on. At the end of the hallway he saw the sign he was looking for: LAUNDRY SERVICES. He entered the room.

  The fresh, clean smells within this room were much more appealing. Dozens of pairs of medical scrubs were stacked neatly on metal racks, ordered by size. Rigel helped himself to a pair, opened his plastic case, rubbed a safety flare against the garment, re-locked the case, and wandered into the main area of the facility.

  A voice called out from behind him. “Can I help you?”

  Rigel turned and smiled. An elderly woman stood a few feet away. He held up his case. “Facilities Management, ma’am,” he replied. “Which one’s causing the problem?”

  “Problem?” the woman asked. “What problem?”

  Rigel held up the garment he had just intentionally soiled and pointed to the red mark on the pants. “This is the third complaint we’ve had tonight,” he said. “Which machine is acting up?”

  The woman looked baffled. “I haven’t received any complaints.”

  “Which is why they call me and not you, my dear. You run the machines; I fix them.” Rigel looked at her name tag. “Who’s in charge here, Agnes?”

  “I am,” Agnes replied. “Have been for ten years.”

  “And you’re telling me you weren’t aware your scrubs were leaving here looking like… this?” Rigel feigned disgust. He held up the pants with two fingers.

  “Absolutely not!” Agnes said. “I run a spotless shop. My staff and I would never allow a garment to leave here with even the smallest mark on it. We inspect every one of them before they’re shelved. I have no idea how this happened.” The woman looked mortified at the thought that such an oversight could have occurred in her department.

  “Don’t worry, Agnes,” Rigel said. “I’ll find out what the problem is.” He winked. “No one needs to

  know about this besides us.”

  “Thank you,” Agnes said. The woman looked like she was on the verge of having a heart attack. “You scared the life out of me.”

  “Let me take care of it,” Rigel said. “I’ll slip in behind the machines and take a look. I’m sure it’s nothing major. Probably just a simple fluid leak. If it’s a machine problem, I’ll find the culprit, lickety-split.”

  “Do you want me to wait?”

  “No, my dear. Not at all,” Rigel said. He checked his watch. “It’s after nine. When does your shift end?”

  “It was over a few minutes ago.”

  “What? Oh, that’s just not right. I’m sure you’ve had a very long day, Agnes. Go home, put your feet up, make yourself a nice cup of Earl Grey and leave this with me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Is the Queen British?”

  Agnes laughed.

  Rigel smiled. “Now scoot. When you come in tomorrow morning everything will be good as new. You’ll see.”

  “Thank you,” Agnes said.

  “My pleasure, dear.”

  Agnes gathered her belongings. Rigel walked her to the door. “Have a pleasant evening,” he said.

  The old woman smiled. She looked at the name on his jacket. “You as well, Walter.”

  Rigel closed the door behind her, walked behind the commercial washing machine, removed his street clothes, folded them neatly, put on the scrubs, removed the flare from the case, shoved it into his waistband, and hid the case and his clothes under the machine.

  After locating Agnes’ office, he turned on her computer, accessed the patient registry, and soon found the information he was looking for: QUEST, JORDAN. EAST WING. Room 604, Bed 2.

  R
igel left the department, walked down the hallway, rode the service elevator to the sixth floor. The lobby ahead was busy. He turned left, kept his back to the crowd, and walked over to a portable blood-pressure machine standing in the hallway. He fiddled with the device, listening intently as a doctor addressed the group.

  “I wanted to check in and see how everyone is doing,” Dr. Tremaine said. “Once again, please accept my deepest condolences for your loss.”

  Andrew Dunn spoke. “How is Jordan doing, doctor?”

  “To be honest, she’s one very strong lady. As you can imagine, in the last few hours she’s been to hell and back. I’m going to insist she stay for the night. It would be prudent to keep her under observation for a little while. She appears to be all right. But considering the circumstances I have my concerns.”

  “About?” Grant Carnevale asked.

  Tremaine hesitated. “Suicide.”

  Carnevale shook his head. “Not Jordan, doctor,” he replied. “No way. Not a chance.”

  “I know how irrational that might sound,” Tremaine replied. “But in the last few hours Mrs. Quest has lost her parents, her husband, and from my understanding of the accident, several close friends. That totality of loss, experienced in such a short period of time, can be overwhelming.”

  “You don’t understand, doc,” Carnevale said. “Jordan lives for her kids. She would never think of leaving them without a mother. Especially after all of this.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Tremaine said. “Unfortunately, I’ve seen it happen. Some individuals simply aren’t strong enough to cope with the loss.”

  “Jordan is,” Carnevale snapped.

  Sensing he had struck a nerve with the man, Tremaine said nothing.

  Andrew Dunn put his hand on Carnevale’s shoulder. “The doctor’s right, Grant. Perhaps the best thing for Jordan right now is rest and time alone to process all that’s happened.”

  Carnevale reluctantly agreed.

  “I’ll arrange for her to receive a mild sedative,” Dr. Tremaine said. “Something to help her sleep.”

  Marissa DeSola spoke, “Mr. and Mrs. Quest can stay at the estate with me and the children. We can come back and see Jordan first thing in the morning.”