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

by Gary Winston Brown

  Lily pointed outside. “The main house.”

  “Did Uncle Emmett put you out here?” Zoe said.

  Lily nodded.

  “Why?” Shannon asked.

  Lily kicked the straw at her feet, stared at the ground. “Because…”

  “Because why?” Zoe asked. She was afraid of what the young girl was about to say. Live or die.

  “I was bad.”

  “Bad… how?”

  Lily shook her head. “I don’t want to say.”

  Shannon leaned over. “Tell you what,” she said. “Let’s sister-swear on the answer. You whisper it to me, and I’ll whisper it to Zoe. It’ll be our secret. No one else will ever know, not even the horses. We promise. Deal?”

  Lily relented. “Okay.”

  “Good,” Shannon said. “Now tell me, sweetie. Why did your Uncle Emmett lock you in here?”

  Lily cupped her hand to Shannon’s ear and shared her secret.

  Shannon looked at Zoe. The anger in her eyes spoke for her.

  Zoe understood. She clenched her fists at her side. Live or die... Live.

  “Come on, honey,” Shannon said. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

  “Where are we going?” Lily asked.

  “Someplace safe,” Zoe said.

  Lily pulled back. “No! I can’t leave!”

  Shannon tried to reason with the young girl. “You can’t stay here, Lily. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I won’t leave my parents!”

  Shannon kneeled down. “Honey, you told me your parents were dead, remember?”

  Lily nodded. “They are. But they’re here, too.”

  Zoe asked, “What do you mean, your parents are here?”

  The girl walked into the adjoining stall, stood in the middle of the floor, pointed at the dirt floor. “They wouldn’t do what Uncle Emmett wanted,” she said.

  “Jesus,” Zoe said. “Are your parents buried here?”

  Lily nodded.

  Shannon took Lily’s hand. “We’ll come back for your mom and dad, Lily. I promise.”

  “Sister-swear?”

  “More than that,” Zoe said. “We promise you on our lives.”

  The entrance door to the stables was ajar. Zoe eased it open, looked outside. The ground was a blanket of fog, the night black, the moon eclipsed between wisps of passing clouds. In the faint lunar light Zoe saw the tree line of a forest several hundred yards beyond the stables.

  “Woods,” she said. “Not far. We can make it, but we’ll need to move fast.” She turned to Shannon. “You ready?”

  “One-hundred percent,” Shannon replied.

  “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Under the dark cloak of night, Zoe, Shannon, and Lily fled the stables for the woods.

  20

  REACHING THE BOTTOM of the stairwell, Hanover cleared the door, raced along the corridor, rattled door handles, found all but one of the rooms locked. He peered through the mesh-glass windows of the MECHANICAL ROOM doors and listened. Inside, the room hissed with the sound of pipes carrying pressurized steam. He swung open the door, slipped inside, dropped low, took cover against the iron handrails on the landing and surveyed the room.

  A maintenance worker lay at the foot of the stairs, his yellow safety hat and clipboard several feet away from his body.

  Hanover descended the metal stairs. He held the Glock 9mm handgun tight to his chest, his eyes following the red dot of the weapons laser sight as it glanced off the massive boilers, heat exchangers, generators and ceiling pipes which filled the room. He reached the floor, checked the man’s carotid artery for a pulse.

  Dead.

  He drew his fingers back. They were wet, tacky to the touch. A deep laceration circled the man’s neck. Blood seeped from the wound. His final expression in life was one of bewilderment; a vacant stare, born of surprise, cast by fear.

  Hanover looked around the massive room. On his left, six gas-fired high-pressure boilers stood shoulder to shoulder, above them a network of pipes - the source of the hissing sound. Gauges on the wall indicated their respective purposes to the hospital: steam sterilization, heating, water, kitchen, laundry. Ductwork for heating and ventilation, plus unmarked supply lines and piping for the hospitals fire sprinkler water distribution system crisscrossed the ceiling. A ladder at the end of the room led to a narrow second-floor catwalk. A metal sign, normally suspended between two chains which warned of restricted access to the service way, turned lazily on a single chain. Hanover read the swinging sign: Authorized Personnel Only Beyond This Point. He surveyed the catwalk. The structure had been erected to create an immense second floor within the room. The facility itself was immaculate, the equipment and floor spotless. Logic dictated that in a room so well maintained there was no way a member of the mechanical staff would have crossed the yellow and black warning markings on the floor and accessed the ladder without first ensuring the warning sign had been rehung behind him. Hanover trained his weapon on the top of the ladder and slowly began his ascent. At the top of the catwalk he stopped and looked down. At the opposite end of the room, down on the ground floor, the hospital orderly stepped out from between the boilers and ran for the exit. Hanover aimed and fired but the round missed its mark. Unfazed by the gunshot, the man dropped to the ground and shoulder rolled across the polished concrete floor. Hanover tried to re-establish a line of sight, couldn’t. The orderly reached the wall and bolted to his feet.

  “Not very smart, firing a weapon in a room full of pressurized pipes,” the man called out. His voice echoed in the room.

  Whoever this guy is, Hanover thought, he sure as hell was no amateur. Only a professional could remain this calm under fire.

  “You’re right,” Hanover yelled, stalking the service way, peering down through the slits in the metal floor grates as he made his way towards the boilers in search of the man. “I guess there’s no point in getting blown up, is there?”

  “Got any suggestions on how we should handle this?”

  “Yeah, one,” Hanover replied. “Walk your ass into the middle of the room and get down on your knees. I’ll come down and cuff you. We’ll call it a day.”

  “That doesn’t really work for me,” the orderly replied. The voice had moved to another location in the room. The man was somewhere under the catwalk to Hanover’s left, heard but unseen.

  “Why kill the engineer?” Hanover said.

  “I don’t know,” the man answered. “Force of habit, maybe.”

  “That a question or a statement?” Hanover replied. On his right now. But where?

  Around him, steam hissed and crackled in the pipes. Ducts cooled, contracted, popped. Drops of condensation from a pressure relief valve above dripped on his head. The trapped air between the ceiling and the catwalk was oppressively hot. Hanover wiped beads of perspiration from his face.

  “The guy wanted to be a hero and got in my way,” the orderly said. “I don’t do heroes.”

  “So you slit his throat?”

  “Slit? The man laughed. “That wouldn’t be very artistic now, would it?”

  Keep him talking, engaged. Let him give away his location, then take him out. “That how you see yourself?” Hanover asked. “Some kind of artist?”

  “Come on down,” the man called out. “You can experience my work first-hand.”

  There! Hanover saw him standing beside an electrical panel.

  The agent took aim, but before he could take the shot he heard a click. The master circuit breaker on the electrical control panel had been thrown. The windowless room fell into darkness.

  Disoriented in the now pitch-black room, Hanover waited for the emergency lighting system to engage, then looked at the electrical panel where seconds earlier he had seen the man.

  Gone.

  Hanover called out. “I’m not surprised you like the dark. Most rodents do.”

  No response.

  Hanover slowly retraced his steps. Sections of the metal catwalk creaked
under his weight. He cursed the sound. The beam of the Glock’s laser sight illuminated airborne dust particles, sliced through the darkness, and danced off the walls and heavy equipment in the room. He switched off the device.

  “Why try to kill Mrs. Quest?” Hanover yelled.

  No reply.

  Movement in the shadows, behind the bank of boilers.

  Hanover reached the top of the ladder. He knew the descent would leave him exposed, temporarily vulnerable. He had no choice. If the orderly were to choose this moment to flee through the far exit doors it would be impossible for him to race down the ladder, run across the room, make his way up the stairs and out the door in time to see in which direction he had escaped. He would lose Jordan’s attacker and the engineer’s murderer. The man would be free to kill again. He wasn’t about to let that happen.

  Hanover descended the service ladder, one hand on the rung, the other on the Glock, until he reached the ground. Anticipating an attack, he swept the weapon left to right, then stopped and listened to the room for sounds of movement, heard none.

  Had he missed something? Perhaps throwing the breaker was a calculated act of misdirection intended to provide the killer an opportunity to escape. The man had already established himself to be a professional, and no self-respecting pro would ever put himself in a position for which an exfiltration plan had not already been considered.

  Hanover inspected the room for an alternate exit.

  On the floor behind the boiler he found what he feared: a raised metal hatch. He unclipped his flashlight from his belt, cradled it under his weapon, clicked it on. The bright beam illuminated the entrance to a sub-basement. He turned off the light, holstered the weapon, and descended into the darkness.

  No sooner had he placed his foot on the first rung of the ladder when from behind him came a strange sound –zzzzip– followed by the sensation of a metal wire looping around his neck, cutting deep into his throat. The assailant pulled him up and out of the hatch. Hanover kicked furiously at the floor as the man dragged him backwards into the middle of the room. The open hatch had been a decoy, a trap, and he had fallen for it.

  White hot pain seized him by the throat, cut off his airway. He was growing weaker by the second, his vitality leaving his body.

  He was losing consciousness.

  21

  WITHIN FEET OF REACHING the tree line Zoe stumbled, fell hard, grabbed her ankle, and cried out. Shannon ran back for her sister.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Zoe yelled. “Don’t stop! Go!”

  Shannon kneeled, placed one arm around her neck, the other her waist. “You think for a second I’m leaving you behind? Not happening.”

  Lily pointed at the main house. “Hurry,” she cried. “They’re coming!”

  Minutes ago, the only light emanating from inside the house came from the ever-changing glow of the television screen. Now, both the back porch and perimeter security lights were on, casting the grounds and stables in harsh, fluorescent light.

  An elderly man, heavy-set, dressed in a T-shirt and overalls, walked out the back door. He stepped down the stairs and surveyed the grounds, his attention drawn to the open stable door. “Denny?” he yelled. “Where you at, boy?”

  “That’s Uncle Emmett!” Lily cried. Shannon pulled her to the ground and covered her mouth, hushing her, fearing the girl’s voice would carry on the dense mist. Though a thousand feet away, Shannon could hear the man’s voice clearly. He called out once more. Not receiving a response, he returned to the house, then reappeared a few seconds later, shotgun in hand. He was accompanied by two younger men.

  Shannon whispered to Zoe. “Can you walk?”

  Zoe held her ankle. “Not sure.”

  “What happened?”

  “Fucking tree root.”

  “Potty mouth,” Lily whispered.

  Zoe stared at girl. “Yes, that would be true,” she said, massaging her ankle. “I indeed have a potty mouth.”

  “You shouldn’t swear,” Lily said.

  “Why not? It fucking hurts.”

  “Swearing shows a lack of intelligence and is a verbal indication of an underdeveloped mind,” the girl said.

  “Is that so?” Zoe replied. “And who might I ask told you that?”

  “My parents.”

  Zoe relented and accepted the chastising she had just received from the young girl. “Sorry, Lily. My bad. Your parents were right. Swearing is wrong.”

  Lily grinned triumphantly.

  “It’s a habit of mine. Terrible. You shouldn’t do it.”

  “That’s right,” Shannon added.

  “However,” Zoe whispered, “with all due respect to your parents, you should know that there will be times in your life when swearing up a storm will feel like the most appropriate response to a given situation. Especially a highly stressful one.”

  “Really?” Lily asked. “Like when?”

  “Oh, let me think,” Zoe said. “How about when you’re running from a fucking death house, trip on a fucking tree root, and almost break your fucking ankle. Yep, that qualifies.”

  Lily stared at her, speechless.

  “I think you made your point,” Shannon said. “How’s the ankle?”

  “Hurts like a sonofabitch. But I’ll be okay.”

  Shannon watched the men walk down the steps, cross the yard, enter the stables, and turn on the lights. Seconds later, the sound of screaming and yelling rose above the cries of the horses.

  “Sounds like they found Denny,” Zoe said.

  Shannon nodded. “We have to get out of here. They’ll come looking for us any second.”

  “You better help me up,” Zoe said. Shannon pulled her sister to her feet. Zoe tested the ankle.

  “How is it?” Shannon asked.

  “I’ll survive.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Damn straight.”

  Lily said, “I know a place in the woods where we can hide. Dad called it the secret place.”

  “Secret?” Zoe said. She looked toward the stables. Flashlight beams escaped through slits in the walls of the building. “Do they know about it?”

  Lily shook her head. “I don’t think so. Dad was very careful. He warned Mom and I never to tell anyone else about it.”

  “Think you can find it in the dark?” Zoe asked.

  “I can try.”

  “Good enough. Which way are we going?”

  Lily pointed into the forest, east of where they were standing. “That way.”

  “All right,” Zoe said. “Let’s go.” Using Shannon for support, she shuffled for a few steps then stood on her own and retested the ankle. “Resting it helped,” she said. “Must have just rolled it a little.” She took another tentative step. “No pain,” she said. “I’m good.”

  Commotion behind them.

  Cloaked in the ethereal forest fog, they watched the two men run out of the stable. Uncle Emmett lumbered behind, shifting his weight as he stepped through the door in order to accommodate his large frame. He stopped, stared at the woods, then yelled into the night: “You’re dead, you hear me? All of you. Dead!”

  From around the back of the stable the sound of revving engines broke the stillness of the night. The men re-appeared on ATV’s, raced them around to the backyard of the house. One man stayed with the idling all-terrain vehicles while the other ran inside, then returned a few seconds later. Zoe watched him shove something into his waistband and toss an object to the other man. Guns. They were armed now, coming after them, and no doubt would kill them when they found them. Apparently, they hadn’t taken too well to the discovery of Denny’s corpse.

  This was their property, their woods, and no doubt they knew every square inch of the land. True, they had home field advantage. But what they didn’t have was them. Zoe intended to keep it that way for as long as she could.

  She remembered her life of horror with her birth father and the six-word mantra she created to help her navigate the turbulent waters of her y
oung life: Never again. Live or die. Live.

  “Show us the way, Lily,” Zoe said. “We’re running out of time.”

  Behind them, outside the stables, Zoe watched the ATV’s lighting systems flash on, casting an amber glow over the moonlit fog. The men raced the machines engines, dropped the vehicles into gear, and raced toward the forest.

  Lily panicked and screamed. The men heard her, looked in their direction.

  “Run!” Shannon yelled. “Wherever this secret place is Lily, you’d better find it... now!”

  22

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATE for the start of his shift, Abe Carmichael jogged along the hospital corridor and burst through the double doors into the Mechanical Room. He expected to encounter one very miffed John Skelton cooling his heels as he waited for him, unable to leave the sensitive equipment unattended until his arrival. Carmichael had recently made a habit of being late for work, due to his inability to limit his late-night consumption of cheap Scotch to just one or two shots, opting instead to kill half the bottle. Passing out and waking up well past his alarm had lately become the norm. This morning, looking down from the top of the landing, he encountered John Skelton, his friend and co-worker of the past ten years, lying in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs. A man was being dragged into the center of the room by a hospital orderly Abe did not recognize. He was clawing at his neck. It was clear the orderly was trying to choke him to death.

  “Hey!” Abe yelled. He jumped over the metal railing to the ground, landed squarely on his feet, and dropped his six-foot four, two-hundred and fifty-pound frame into gear. He ran at the orderly like the former college linebacker that he was, hellbent on a sacking the man’s attacker.

  Rigel saw the man enter the room, heard him call out. Dammit! All he had needed was another few seconds and Zippy would have taken care of the fed. Now he had another hero to deal with. Reluctantly, he released the FBI agent. Hanover slid to the ground, gasping for air. Rigel kept his back to the human freight train barreling towards him, listening to his footsteps, timing his defense. At the last second, he turned, grabbed the man by his outstretched hand, wrenched his wrist tightly, and heard him cry out as he drove the man’s arm under him in a smooth, circular motion.