The time had come.
Rigel lifted the cover.
All clear.
He scrambled up the ladder and gently lowered the steel cover behind him.
On the opposite side of the room he saw the bank of commercial clothes dryers and identified the one behind which he had stashed his belongings. He ran to the unit, changed out of the scrubs and back into his street clothes. He picked up the plastic box that served as a prop for his charade and walked through the department, faking his inspection of the machines, affably engaging the staff in small talk, apologizing for the intrusion, assuring them that all the machines were now operating exactly as they should, and made his way through the exit door into the hallway.
Two men in business suits walked in his direction: plain-clothes cops or federal agents judging by their body language. Rigel spotted a floor cleaning cart across the hallway. He walked to the trolley, removed a yellow A-frame sign labelled SLIPPERY WHEN WET and placed it in the middle of the floor. He wrung out the wet mop, pulled it from its bucket, and began to clean the floor. “Watch your step,” he said. The cops, too involved in their conversation to pay attention to him, walked through the doors at the end of the corridor.
Rigel left the hospital through the same doors he had entered less than an hour ago.
An LAPD patrol car blocked the exit from the rear parking lot to the road. Ten vehicles sat in cue waiting to leave the facility. The officers were inspecting each car and checking the identity of the occupants. The trunk of the lead vehicle was open, an officer rummaging through its contents.
A light rain fell. The night air smelled sweet and intoxicating, a blend of night-blooming jasmine and eucalyptus. Rigel took a deep breath, savored the invigorating floral aroma. He searched the parking lot for additional signs of police presence, saw none. No security teams roamed the grounds. The only attention being paid to the rear of the building was to the exiting vehicles.
Rigel removed his car keys from his pocket and sauntered across the parking lot. From the corner of his eye he saw he had caught the attention of one of the officers at the makeshift checkpoint. The cop turned on his flashlight and pointed it in his direction. Rigel waved, shook his car keys, and pointed to the back of the lot. The cop gestured to the last car in the cue, as if instructing him to take his place at the end of the line upon leaving. Rigel smiled and gave him a thumbs up.
A low wall separated the rear parking lot from the common roadway shared by a community of low-rise townhouses. The cop followed him with the flashlight as he walked across the lot. Reaching the driver’s door of a nearby SUV, Rigel put the plastic case on the roof of the car along with his car keys and removed his service technician jacket. He took his time, deliberately drawing out the moment, until he achieved the desired result. Satisfied, the cop clicked off the flashlight and turned his attention back to the checkpoint. Rigel observed the officers. All were busy inspecting the vehicles. One employee, irate at having to wait so long to leave work, had stepped out of his car and begun shouting obscenities at the police. The entire inspection team turned their attention to him. The situation escalated to the point where they handcuffed the man and shoved into the backseat of a black-and-white.
The perfect diversion had presented itself.
Rigel collected his belongings from the roof of the car, turned the jacket inside out –now a solid black windbreaker– and hopped over the low back wall of the parking lot, away from the scrutiny of the authorities.
He had parked on a side street about a block from the hospital which he estimated to be a short walk from the townhouses. He planned to take his time, enjoy the stroll, and take in the sensorial gifts the night air offered.
He was passed by two late night joggers, both blonde, beautiful, typical of Los Angeles. Models or actresses, he thought. Strippers, maybe. One woman wore her hair in a ponytail while her running partner preferred to let hers bounce freely. They smiled at Rigel as they ran past. He wanted to stop them and ask if they could recommend a good Hollywood agent, someone whom he could trust to put his yet undiscovered talent as an actor to work. Or he could just knock them both out with two well-delivered blows, drag them into the alley they had just passed, enjoy them for a while, kill them, and take a souvenir or two from each for his collection.
No, not tonight. He needed to stay focused and make sure he didn’t call any undue attention to himself.
Rigel watched them run around the corner. Pity. He could have shown them such a good time. But he had an assignment to complete. And he was a professional.
The women would wait. If the two runners were any example of what L.A. had to offer the city would prove to be an excellent hunting ground.
After receiving his final compensation for eliminating the Quest woman and fulfilling the terms of his contract he might even consider making the City of Angels his permanent home. He could be happy in this town, pursuing both his acting career and passion for killing.
So many women, so little time.
He would need a few more souvenir boxes.
And an agent.
25
CHRIS HANOVER WINCED as Jordan’s nurse, Audrey Lane, dabbed a cotton ball against his neck wound, a visible reminder of his encounter with Jordan’s attacker in the mechanical room. The antibacterial astringent stung as it bubbled on the surface of his skin and crept into the crevices of the laceration.
Nurse Lane looked surprised. “That hurts?” she asked.
“It’s not that bad,” Hanover replied.
Nurse Lane applied more of the solution into the deeper areas of the wound. Chris groaned.
The nurse smiled. “And I thought all FBI agents were tough guys.”
Hanover looked at her. Nurse Lane was beautiful. Tall, blonde, with a slender build, high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Had she not chosen a career in nursing she could have been a fashion model in a heartbeat. She wore no wedding ring. Hanover wondered if she was married. “The guy tried to take my head off with a garotte and all I end up with is this scratch on my neck. That’s not tough enough for you?”
“You couldn’t just fight him off, huh?” Lane pursed her lips, tried to conceal a smile.
“The situation was a little more complicated than that.”
“I’m sure it was. But you’re trained in martial arts, right?”
“If you’re referring to close quarter hand-to-hand combat, then yes, I am.”
Nurse Lane smiled but said nothing.
“What does that mean?” Chris asked.
“What?”
“You’re smirking.”
“Am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Nurse Lane tried not to laugh.
Hanover was getting perturbed. “Okay, Bruce Lee, suppose you tell me exactly what you would have done in my position.”
“Well, I can think of one thing right out of the gate,” Audrey replied.
“This ought to be good,” Chris said. “Okay, I’ll bite.”
She smiled. “I’d have paid more attention in self-defence class.”
“Funny.”
“Especially the one when they cover how to survive an attack from a garrote-wielding psychopath hiding out in a hospital basement. I definitely wouldn’t have missed that one.”
“Oh, I get it. What you’re telling me is that I let this happen.”
“You went after the guy without waiting for backup. So yes, I suppose I am.”
“Wow,” Hanover said, “I’m impressed.”
“With what?”
“How you’ve been able to amass such encyclopedic knowledge about police procedure - how to handle a high-risk takedown, in particular - all the while maintaining your full-time gig as a nurse.”
“Easy answer.”
“Shoot.”
“S.W.A.T.”
Hanover rolled his eyes. “How could I have missed that? It’s comforting to know your law enforcement expertise comes from watching television cop dramas.”
&nb
sp; “Oh, I don’t watch S.W.A.T. to learn about law enforcement, or even police procedure for that matter,” Audrey Lane replied.
“Really? Then why? I mean, let’s face it. You could practically teach Psychopathy 101.”
“You’re so ill-informed.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Everyone knows there’s only one reason to watch S.W.A.T.”
“And that would be?”
“Shemar Moore. He can take me into custody anytime.”
Hanover started to laugh, then winced. “I’ll give you that. The man’s one hell of an actor. Good looking guy, too.”
“Dreamy.”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far.”
“Dreamsville. Dreamalicious.”
“You can stop now.”
Audrey applied a liberal amount of Ozonol to the wound to prevent infection and wrapped the injured area with medical gauze. “There,” she said. “That should do it. Now you can go back to chasing bad guys.”
“Thanks,” Chris said. “You know, you have a great touch.”
Audrey smiled. “Thank you.”
“Mind if I buy you a cup of coffee later?”
“As much as I’d like that, I can’t. Hospital rules. No fraternizing with the patients.”
“Then you leave me no choice.”
“Is that so?”
Chris nodded. “Yep. I’m going to have to take you out to dinner. For purely professional reasons, of course.”
Audrey laughed. “How is that?”
“You attend to Jordan, so there’s a chance you might have seen something. Better yet, someone.”
“And you think that by taking me out to dinner I can be of help to you in your investigation?”
“One-hundred percent.”
Audrey smiled. “Then never let it be said I wasn’t willing to cooperate with the FBI.”
“Your government thanks you.”
“So exactly where and when is this interrogation to take place?”
“Tomorrow night. 8:00 P.M. The Palm.”
“Good choice.”
Director Dunn approached and spoke to Nurse Lane. “How’s Agent Hanover doing?”
Audrey winked at Chris. “On his way to making a full recovery.”
“Good,” Dunn replied. To Chris, he said, “I need to speak with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please let me know if I can be of further assistance, Agent Hanover,” Audrey said as she excused herself. “You can reach me here at the hospital.”
Hanover smiled. “I’ll be in touch.”
Dunn waited for the nurse to leave. “Carmichael’s here. He’s got the blueprints you asked for. I’ve requested two additional agents, Carter and Lehman.” Dunn motioned to the men conferring with Carmichael and Carnevale, reviewing the architectural layout of the hospital. “They’ll be assisting in the search of the building. So will LAPD. Since you and Carmichael are the only ones who know what this bastard looks like, I’m splitting you up. You’ll run point with Carter on Team One. Carmichael and Lehman will accompany Agent Carnevale on Team Two. I’ll stay with Jordan. LAPD will keep the place locked down. If the sonofabitch is in the building, we’ll find him.”
“Tell the men to watch their backs, sir. This guy’s a pro. He won’t hesitate to kill them if he gets the chance.”
Nurse Lane approached the two men. “Sorry to disturb you,” she said. She handed Chris a slip of paper. “For the pain, in case it gets worse.”
“Thank you,” Chris said, pocketing the note.
Nurse Lane continued. “Director Dunn, Mrs. Quest says she’d like to speak with you when you have a minute.”
Dunn nodded. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”
“Of course.”
Carnevale called out to Chris, held up the blueprint, and gestured for him to join the others in the waiting room. Chris waved back. He winced as he turned his neck.
“You sure you’re okay?” Dunn said.
“Fine, sir. How’s Jordan doing?”
Dunn shook his head. “She’s tough as nails. The woman impresses the hell out of me.”
“Me too,” Chris agreed.
“I’m going to check in on her and see what she wants. Find this guy, Agent Hanover. He’s coming after Jordan for a reason. We need to know what that is. If you’ve got to put a hole or two in him in the process so be it. Just bring him in alive.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dunn tapped his communications earbud. “Start the search. I’ll be on comms if you need me.”
“Copy that.”
As Chris headed to the waiting room, he read the slip of paper Audrey Lane had handed him. He smiled. She had given him her phone number.
Jordan was sitting up when Andrew Dunn entered the room. Nurse Lane adjusted her pillow.
“Better?” she asked.
“Much,” Jordan replied.
“Good. The CALL button is on the bed beside you. Press it if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Jordan said.
Dunn waited until the door fell shut behind the nurse. “You asked to see me, Mrs. Quest?”
“I did,” Jordan replied. In her hand she held the necklace which belonged to the Directors daughter, Shannon. She placed it in her lap. “I think I know where to find your daughters.”
26
BEEP… BEEP… BEEP...
The GPS tracking dot suddenly reappeared on Tasker’s phone. It had found Rigel. The contractor was less than two blocks away, moving in his direction. Tasker pressed the stereo MUTE button on the GT’s steering wheel three times. With a click, the passenger seat cushion popped up. From a secret compartment, Tasker removed a loaded Tec-9 machine pistol which he’d converted from its default semi-automatic mode into a fully automatic weapon capable of firing multiple rounds with a single press of the trigger, along with a spare clip, customized sound suppressor, shoulder harness and two tear gas grenades. He pulled off the road, stepped out of the car, slipped into the rig, affixed the silencer to the end of the gun and drew back the bolt. After adjusting the harness for a comfortable fit, he grabbed his former Oakland A’s team jacket and ball cap from the back seat, put them on, and sat back in the car. The blip on the screen pulsed. Rigel was close.
Although the assignments he fulfilled for New York required substantial pre-planning, Tasker found his job as a contract killer remarkably easy. After receiving the electronic dossier from his handler, he would spend a day or two researching the target. He observed their daily routine, noted drive routes to and from work, pick up times if their children attended school, the restaurants or bars they frequented, times of day they walked their dog, and assessed their personal protection detail (if they had one) for areas of vulnerability or weakness. He believed most of his targets deserved their fate for being the self-important multi-millionaire assholes or business executives they were. Men and women who had ruffled the feathers of the more powerful, only to learn just how unimportant they really were; the point being made by the delivery of a bullet to the back of the head.
Unless otherwise instructed by New York, Tasker was required to follow specific rules of engagement. Only the principal was to be eliminated, never members of their family. The death of a child was to be avoided at all cost (unless the child was the target). Only once in his professional career had this been the case. A fourteen-year-old microbiology and chemistry prodigy had made a game out of successfully circumventing the cash-cow patents of a major pharmaceutical company and selling the information on the Dark Web to the highest bidder. The firm, fearful of experiencing a catastrophic meltdown of its stock and a mass exodus of its shareholders, contacted New York and ordered the boy’s termination. Although Tasker had been paid a staggering sum to fulfill the contract with no suspicion of foul play, it haunted him. Killing a man or woman and watching them die was one thing. But taking the life of a gifted kid was a whole different matter. Tasker had given the hit much consideration and refused to use bullets, poison, kniv
es, electrocution or suffocation. When the boy was not in his home-based lab hacking drug formulations, he loved to skateboard. To his detriment, he had a habit of not wearing a helmet. Tasker’s plan was simple but effective: slip into the family’s garage in the dead of night, loosen the bolts securing the rear wheel assembly to the kid’s board, remove and refasten the mounting platform using double-sided tape, then wait for the inevitable to occur. His plan succeeded. The following afternoon the local news reported on the boy’s death following a catastrophic head injury which he had sustained in a freak accident at a local skateboard park. The back wheels had come flying off the kid’s board as he raced down the half pipe on his first run of the day. He fell back, cracked his head open on the concrete form, and died at the scene. Tasker watched from a distance as the boy leaned forward and launched himself off the leading edge of the ramp, lost sight of him when he hit the ground, then observed the ensuing panic as fellow boarders ran to his aid. He was extradited from the scene fifteen minutes later by emergency medical personnel. New York congratulated him on the ingenuity he displayed in completing the assignment and extended the client’s appreciation. Tasker stayed in town to attend a candlelight vigil held at the skatepark in memory of the dead boy. Weeks later, he was offered two more high-profile contracts involving tender age targets. He refused them both. Killing the boy had taken a greater psychological toll on him than he thought it would. One night, thousands of miles away from the skateboard park on the other side of the country, he was sitting in his hotel suite, lamenting on the loss of his pro-baseball career, the muzzle of the Tec-9 pressed against his temple, his finger on the trigger. Disgusted with himself for not having the nerve to end his own life as unemotionally as he had those of dozens of his targets, he threw the weapon across the room. After falling asleep in the early hours of the morning, he awakened to find the boys decaying corpse lying in the bed beside him, his skeletal arm draped over his shoulder. He could not move at the sight, much less scream. Summoning his courage, he jumped out of bed, retrieved the Tec-9 from the floor, swung around and targeted the bed. As he prepared to riddle the hellish corpse with bullets, he suddenly realized that the boy was not actually there. He had pulled the sheets off the bed while experiencing a horrific nightmare. A loosed thread from his pillowcase lay where he had envisioned the boy’s remains to be. Filled with terror at the thought of returning to sleep, he instead packed his bags and checked out of the hotel. He hoped he’d left the boy behind.
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 11
