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

by Gary Winston Brown

  Finally, Zoe asked, “Did you ever hear them talk about us?”

  “Maybe,” Lily said.

  “What do you mean?” Shannon asked.

  The girl turned in her chair. “A couple of weeks ago they were sitting at the kitchen table. I was making lunch. They always ate the same thing.” She rolled her eyes. “Bologna sandwiches with mustard, ketchup, and mayo. Ben says he thinks he has a plan to get them out of trouble with the drug dealers. He tells Uncle Emmett and Basil about a conversation he’d overheard. A business associate of one of the drug dealers was asking if he knew anyone who could carry out a kidnapping. When the dealer asked who it was all he would say was that they were the daughters of someone important in the FBI. When the dealer said he didn’t know anyone who could do it the guy threatened him. He told him that if he ever breathed a word of their conversation to anyone, he’d kill him and his family. Ben eventually found out who the guy was, contacted him, and told him that he and Basil could do the job. They were going to use the money the guy was offering to clear their debt with the dealers. Two days later I heard their car pull up and watched them pull you two out of the trunk and drag you into the barn.”

  “You didn’t call the police?”

  “Do you think I’d still be here if I could have called the police?” Lily exclaimed. “I couldn’t. We have no phones anymore. The boys disconnected them. I looked everywhere but I couldn’t find them. They either threw them away or hid them. Guess they figured that’s exactly what I’d do the first time I had the chance. They have cell phones but they’re never out of their reach. Then there’s this...” Lily showed them her raw, chafed wrists. “They kept me chained up in the barn, just like they did to you. The only difference is they’d let me have a bath once a week. Uncle Emmett didn’t want me playing with Denny if I was dirty.”

  Zoe shook her head. “This is insane.”

  Shannon removed a hardcover book from the bookcase entitled, “The Coldest October.” It was one of several by the same author, a nuclear physicist by the name of Dr. Colton Maynard. She skimmed through its pages. “According to this guy we’ve continued to be on the brink of nuclear war since the Cuban missile crisis of 1962.”

  Lily took the book from Shannon and turned it over. The author and his family were pictured on the back cover.

  Shannon recognized Lily from the photo. “That’s you,” she said.

  Lily smiled. “And my mom and dad, Rose and Colton Maynard.”

  “Your dad was a nuclear physicist?” Shannon asked.

  “He was the nuclear physicist,” Lily replied. “Dad was the only civilian advisor to the Department of Defense in his field with top-secret clearance. Even had the ear of the President.”

  “What was his area of expertise?” Zoe asked.

  “The long-term effects of nuclear retaliation by a foreign power on American soil,” Lily answered.

  “He built this place to protect you and your mom in the event of a nuclear war?” Zoe said.

  “That’s right.”

  “And no one else but you know it exists?”

  “Nobody.”

  Shannon asked, “How long could we stay down here if we needed to?”

  Lily shrugged. “That depends on how far we are from ground zero - the origin of the blast site. The place is stocked with enough provisions to last about four months. But we probably wouldn’t have to stay in here any longer than one.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Eighty percent of nuclear fallout occurs on the first day. It starts to dissipate after that. We’d have to stay inside for at least three weeks until the outside radioactive contamination had dropped to a low enough level that it would be safe enough for us to leave.”

  “Some fathers build their kid a treehouse,” Zoe said. “Yours builds you a friggin’ nuclear shelter.”

  “And some kids get to play with their dad in that treehouse,” Lily replied. “I don’t.”

  Zoe realized the inappropriateness of her remark. “You’re right, Lily. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

  Lily shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  Shannon said, “You’re quite a remarkable young lady for your age.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Lily replied.

  Zoe laughed. “And humble, too.”

  “I’m home-schooled,” Lily said. “I tend to take after my dad. Solving complex problems comes easily to me, especially when they involve the application of logic, science or math.” She pointed to the family’s framed MENSA Supervised Test Certificates on the bookshelf. “My parents were both geniuses. Dad’s IQ was 212, Mom’s was 198. That level of intelligence is shared by less than one percent of the world’s population. And as far as being humble goes, they raised me to be an independent thinker and say what’s on my mind.”

  “So, you’re a genius, too?” Shannon asked.

  “Yes. But I’m not as smart as my parents. I only scored 185. Guess I screwed up a little.”

  “You got a few questions wrong on a test that confirms the intelligence level of some of the smartest people in the world,” Zoe said as she sorted through the bottles in the wine rack. “Yeah, I can see how scoring a measly 185 could be utterly devastating. Puleez.”

  All but one of the bottles were sealed. Its foil capsule had been cut away, exposing the cork. Zoe tried to pull the bottle out of the rack, but it wouldn’t budge. “Shay,” she called. “Come check this out.”

  Shannon walked over to the rack. She tried to remove the bottle as well, couldn’t. She examined it closely. “This stopper doesn’t even look like a cork. You don’t think…”

  “I’m already one step ahead of you,” Zoe said. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I think.” She pressed the faux cork with her finger.

  With a click the wine rack popped opened. Zoe eased open the false door.

  Clipped inside the cavity were two semi-automatic handguns. Three gas masks hung on hooks beside the weapons.

  “Holy shit,” Lily said.

  Zoe smiled at her. “Potty-mouth,” she teased.

  32

  RIGEL KILLED THE LIGHTS, clamped his hand over the teens mouth, dragged him across the basement floor and whispered in his ear. “One sound and I’ll snap your neck like a toothpick. Got it?”

  The kid nodded.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Out,” came the muffled reply.

  “When will they be back?”

  “Dunno.”

  Rigel took out his cellphone and swept the room with the glow of the screen. The gun safe stood in the corner of the room.

  “You know the combo?”

  “Maybe,” the teen replied.

  Rigel wrapped his hand around the kids throat and squeezed. “Now is not the time to get smart with me, son. I’ll get out of this little predicament just fine. You, I’m not so sure about. Those rounds you heard tearing up the place? That’s a machine pistol our friend is carrying. It’ll cut you in half in a heartbeat. So, if you want to live long enough to get over acne, I suggest you tell me the code.”

  Rigel loosened his grip enough to let the kid catch his breath. “0-6-0-4-0-1.”

  “Let me guess. Your birthday? Mom’s birthday? Parent’s anniversary?” Rigel asked.

  “My birthday.”

  “How original.” Rigel entered the six-digit code, watched the LOCK status indicator light turn from red to green, then turned the handle. The door clicked open.

  “Good job,” he said.

  Among the rifles standing in the safe were a Smith and Wesson M&P 15 .223 and Soviet SKS, both semi-automatic tactical weapons, a Remington 783 bolt-action rifle with scope and several target rifles. The collection of handguns mounted inside the safe door included a Taurus PT111 9mm, Glock 19, Smith & Wesson Shield 45ACP, Ruger LC9S, Sig Sauer P238, and an Honor Guard 9mm. Boxes of ammunition were stored on the top shelf.

  “Your dad knows his guns,” Rigel said.

  “He should,” the kid said. “He’s a cop. LAPD.”
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  “We can’t all be perfect,” Rigel replied. He removed the Glock 19 from its mount, checked the clip, full, slammed it back into the weapon, then raised the back of his jacket and tucked it into his waistband. He lifted the Smith and Wesson M&P 15 out of the safe, repeated the inspection protocol, and laid the rifle on the workbench beside the safe. “I’ll be needing these,” he said.

  The kid stared at the rifle.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Rigel warned. He palmed the Glock. “By the time your hand has touched the stock I’ll have put two in your head.”

  Now more angry than afraid, the teen asked, “Who the hell are you? And who’s the guy upstairs?”

  “Who I am is none of your business,” Rigel said. “As for the guy upstairs, beats the hell out of me.”

  “You don’t know him?”

  “Never seen him before in my life. I’m thinking maybe road rage. Let this be a lesson to you. Drive safely. Watch your speed. And for God’s sake, don’t piss anybody off. You never know who’s packing these days.”

  The floor creaked again, the sound nearer to the top of the stairs.

  Rigel snatched the rifle off the workbench. His eyes had now adjusted to the near lightless basement. He noticed a door across the room. “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “General crap. Christmas decorations, odds and ends, stuff like that.”

  “Does the door have a lock?”

  “Why?”

  “Does it lock?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Rigel grabbed the teen by his collar, pushed him across the floor to the room and opened the door. “Get in.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “Opinions differ.” He shoved the teen inside and held up the tactical rifle. “Ever fired this before?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Then you know how big a hole it’ll punch through the door and you if you make a sound.” He pointed his finger at the teenager. “By now I’m sure you’ve figured out I’m not the kind of guy who asks twice.”

  “I got that impression,” the kid answered.

  “Good boy.”

  “Screw you.”

  Rigel smiled at the teen as he closed and locked the storage room door.

  Another creak. The gunman had reached the top of the stairs.

  Rigel considered his options. He was well armed. If the situation came down to a gun fight, he was confident he’d be able to defend himself without difficulty. Besides, the gun safe behind him provided him with ready access to an arsenal of weapons and ammo should he need it. But the fact remained that he was at a tactical disadvantage. Despite having the armory at his disposal, he was still trapped in the basement. He needed to find a way out of the house that didn’t include removal in a body bag.

  He remembered seeing a cast-iron reloading press anchored to the work bench when he scanned the room with the light of the phone. Being a cop, the boy’s father probably did a lot of field and range shooting to keep his reaction time quick and reflexes fast. The press meant the cop made his own ammo at home. Which also meant he kept the necessary shooting supplies on hand. Rigel had an idea. He returned to the open safe. On the top shelf he found what he was looking for. A large container of smokeless gunpowder.

  Rigel placed the container on the workbench. With a few more supplies he would have everything he needed to create the perfect diversion. On the shelf above the bench, he found several glass jars containing wood and metal screws, each labelled according to thread size and length. Additional jars were filled with nuts and bolts. A can of gunsmithing oil and two cleaning rags sat on the corner of the workbench beside the reloading press. On the opposite end of the bench lay a hammer and an open box of one-inch finishing nails.

  Rigel thought about his acting classes and how they had emphasized the importance of improvisation. When the circumstances called for it, one must be able to think on their feet and adapt to any situation. The overlap of his acting lessons and their application to his professional life never ceased to amaze him.

  He thought about the assassin upstairs. He too was a pro. Sloppier than Rigel, of course, but a professional, nonetheless. He had been hired by someone to kill him. Only one answer made sense: New York. But why? He had the situation under control. The Farrow’s were already dead. Just the daughter and her family remained, and very soon they too would be resting in peace for all eternity. There was more to the situation than he knew right now. He wanted answers badly, but even if he didn’t get them that would be fine. He knew the players in the New York syndicate and how to find them. If necessary, Zippy could be kept busy for a very long time.

  He grabbed the jars of wood and metal screws from the shelf, spilled their contents out over the workbench, removed and punched a hole in the metal lids with the claw end of the hammer, tore a cleaning rag into strips, soaked it in gunsmithing oil, fed each strip through the lid until it rested on the bottom of the jar, then packed the jars to the brim with screws and nails. Finally, he poured the gunpowder into each jar, shaking each one gently, watching the powder sift down and fill the gaps between the screws and nails. The jars now full, he screwed on the lids, leaving a six-inch strip of the wet cloth hanging from each container. He held the two makeshift bombs in his hands.

  He was ready.

  Across the room on a shelf stacked with camping supplies, Rigel found a spark lighter and a container of kerosene. He filled the remaining glass jars with the flammable liquid, fitted them with cloth wicks, and executed the final step in his plan.

  The window well was much larger than he first thought it to be when he had taken refuge in the room. The latch was a standard bolt-action design and secured the window to its frame from the inside. Rigel released the mechanism and slid the window back. The damp night air rushed in, bringing with it the familiar fragrance of geosmin. Rigel breathed it in. Magnificent. What a perfect evening it had turned out to be.

  Rigel returned to the workbench, picked up the Smith and Wesson tactical rifle, slid the work bench stool across the room, placed it under the window well to facilitate a fast exit, and slid the weapon out through the window onto the concrete walkway.

  Ready to face his attacker, Rigel called out. “You have got to be the worse fucking shot on the planet, asshole.”

  The door to the top of the stairs flew open. Rigel lit the wicks on each of the kerosene filled jars, threw them as hard as he could and heard them shatter. Fire danced off the walls. An orange glow licked across the landing.

  Rigel waited.

  The assassin appeared in the doorway a second later. Rigel lit the wicks on the homemade bombs, threw them at the man and dove for cover. Round after round spat out of the machine pistol, splintering the wooden stairs and basement handrail.

  Out of harm’s way, Rigel heard the explosions. Wasting no time, he climbed onto the stool, crawled out the window, picked up the Smith & Wesson and ran.

  Shards of glass, metal screws and nails flew at Tasker from all directions, embedding themselves in his face, hands, legs, and chest.

  He fell to his knees on the fire-ravaged landing and dropped the Tec-9.

  He couldn’t stop screaming.

  33

  RIGEL HAD REACHED the backyard gate when he first heard the assassin’s screams. The fire and nail bombs had created the perfect diversion, the attack crippling. The man could never have expected to find himself on the receiving end of such a well-calculated retaliation. His attempt to breach the landing behind a spray of bullets from the Tec-9 and take the basement by storm had proven to be a tactical error. Worse, it had put him in a position from which retreat was impossible. The damage inflicted upon him by the deadly combination of fire and shrapnel-filled bombs must have been severe. Which was exactly the point.

  Rigel opened the gate, unzipped his jacket, hid the rifle against his body, and walked past the bullet-riddled Jeep to the sidewalk.

  The sou
nd of the explosions had been louder than anticipated. Neighbors had come out of their homes to investigate the noise. They stood huddled together in the rain, staring in horror as the fire began to spread throughout the house. The main floor hallway was now fully involved. Behind the rain-pelted windows flames climbed the walls, illuminating the interior of the home. Fire licked across the living room floor and rolled across the ceiling, hungrily consuming everything in its path. Thick black smoke billowed out from beneath the front door.

  Across the street, an old man and his wife shared an umbrella in the pouring rain. He watched Rigel walk past the house and called out. “What happened?”

  Rigel kept the barrel of the Smith & Wesson hidden behind his leg as he turned to reply. “No idea,” he lied. He pointed to the assassin’s Mustang GT parked a few doors down. “I was driving past the house and heard the explosion. Shook the damn car. Thought I’d have a look to see if I could help.”

  “And?”

  Rigel gestured at the house. “The place is cooked. I called 9-1-1.” Another lie. “Fire department is on the way.”

  Distracted by the arrival of another neighbor, the old man turned his attention away from Rigel. Rigel walked to the assassin’s car. The driver’s side window on which the machine pistols silencer rested when he had come under fire was down. Rain blew into the car, soaking the interior. Rigel checked the ignition. No key fob. He circled around to the passenger side of the vehicle, opened the door, rummaged through the glove box, found the vehicle registration, and read the name on the document: HARRISON TASKER, New York, NY.