Who the hell was this guy? Why had he been sent to kill him? And the most important question of all: How had he been able to find him?
Only two answers made sense. New York was behind this. But why? He had worked for the syndicate for most of his professional career. As to how he had been found only one answer made sense. He was being tracked. His car had been tampered with. A device of some kind had been placed inside or beneath the vehicle and broadcasted his location to Tasker. But the more he thought about it that didn’t make sense. His car was still half a block away. If the vehicle itself was being tracked Tasker would have found the car, waited for him to return to it, then tried to kill him. But that wasn’t what had happened. Tasker had rolled up and opened fire on him when he was still on foot. They had to be tracking him by some other means. Of course, he thought. His smartphone. Whoever hired Tasker had hacked the phones operating system and was tracking his location in real time. Even if he was wrong, if some other technology was being used to locate him, he’d still need to lose the phone. If Tasker’s screams were any indication, the pursuit was already over and the man dead, consumed in the fire. Nevertheless, he wasn’t prepared to take any unnecessary chances. New York knew his reputation. After all, they had profited from it on numerous occasions. They would have assumed he would be hard to kill. If Tasker had been sent to kill him and failed, New York would soon know about it. Others would follow. The pursuit would continue until he was dead. The rules of the game were clear.
Rigel removed the slip of paper from his pocket on which he had written the Laundry Services managers computer password for Angel of Mercy Hospital. He powered up the phone, entered the URL, logged into the hospital computer network and followed the prompts.
PATIENT LAST NAME: Q-U-E-S-T
PATIENT FIRST NAME: J-O-R-D-A-N
PROCESSING…
STATUS: OBSERVATION UNIT, SUITE 604, BED 2
ATTENDING: PAUL TREMAINE, M.D.
NOTES: FBI/MEDICAL PERSONNEL ONLY. NO VISITORS PERMITTED
The target was still at the hospital. Despite the heavy FBI and police presence he would need to find a way to get to her. He had slipped into her room undetected once before. He could do it again. This time he wouldn’t leave until she was dead.
Rigel knew how the Feds operated. If he didn’t get to the hospital soon, he would lose his window of opportunity to kill her. They were probably preparing to move her, likely to an FBI safe house, which would complicate matters somewhat but not prove to be an insurmountable problem.
Sirens in the distance. Getting closer.
The authorities were en-route to the burning house.
Someone had called 9-1-1. Very thoughtful.
Having acquired the information he needed, Rigel removed the cover on the back of his phone, pulled out the SIM card, tossed it on the ground, and crushed it under foot. If his phone was being used to track him it wouldn’t be any more. Without a functioning chip-card the device was useless. Assuming his car was free of similar tracking devices he would now be invisible, a ghost.
Rigel noticed the Mustang’s passenger seat cushion rested on an odd angle. He lifted the seat and found Taskers secret weapons compartment. Empty foam cut outs outlined the shape of the Tec-9 machine pistol, its sound suppressor, and secondary clip. Two OC foggers, more commonly known as tear gas canisters, sat in their respective holders. Rigel pocketed the devices.
The horn of an approaching fire truck sounded three long blasts. It would be on-scene any second.
Rigel slammed the door of the Mustang and walked down the street. He would be back to his own car in a matter of minutes, then on to the hospital.
He hoped the pungent smell of tear gas wouldn’t overpower the intoxicating aroma of the woman’s perfume.
34
EYES WATERING FROM the acrid smoke, Harrison Tasker swept his hand across the fire-ravaged floor until his fingertips found the Tec-9’s shoulder-sling. He drew the weapon to him, used the wall for support, forced himself to his feet, and shuffled back into the kitchen, away from the rising fire.
Tasker had warned New York the man would be difficult to take down.
Blisters had formed on his face and hands, the result of direct contact with the flames. Shards of glass, metal screws and finishing nails were embedded in his arms and legs. He attempted to remove a piece of the shrapnel, couldn’t. The pain was unbearable. He knew he desperately needed medical attention. If the shrapnel remained in his body for too long the wounds would become infected. Sepsis would follow, then death. But his injuries would have to wait. He summoned his strength and focused his attention on reacquiring his target. James Rigel had a reputation for being an expert evasion strategist and had just proven it by using the tools at his disposal to ingeniously defend his position in the basement. Tasker needed to find a way to successfully breach the room, get downstairs, and eliminate the bastard.
The fire in the hall was growing fiercer by the second and had now encroached upon the kitchen. He had a minute, two at the most, before it would spread out of control and cut off his access to the basement entirely. He had to act quickly.
Tasker searched the kitchen. In the cabinet beneath the sink he found an assortment of aerosol cleaning products: canisters of furniture polish, stainless steel and antibacterial counter surface sprays, oven cleaner, barbeque grill degreaser, and foaming tub and tile cleaners. All were neatly organized in a portable plastic caddy. Tasker hauled the caddy out of the cabinet and stumbled back along the hallway. At the end of the narrow corridor crackling and hissing accompanied the smell of burning wood. The fire had found the front of the house, started to consume the dining and living room furniture. A mirror shattered from the scorching heat. Chandelier bulbs popped in their light sockets.
Tasker knew he had only one shot at this. For his plan to work he would have to walk back into the fire, breach the basement landing, and move down the stairs despite the intolerable pain electrifying every nerve in his body. Rigel had probably prepared a secondary defense, and if it proved to be as effective as his first Tasker knew his chances of survival would be slim.
He forced the Tec-9 into his blistered hand, fingered the trigger, tried to steady himself, couldn’t. Screw it, he thought. You only live once.
Tasker shuffled through the open doorway, stumbled down the first few stairs to the open landing, tossed the caddy of aerosol canisters into the darkness below and fired a barrage of rounds into the room. Boom!-boom!-boom!-boom!-boom!-boom!-boom!-boom! The bullets ripped through the pressurized canisters. A succession of fireballs lit up the room. Tasker stood on the staircase and braced himself for Rigel’s retaliation.
The room remained dark and still. The smell of incinerated chemicals drifted up from the basement.
Tasker leaned against the handrail and slumped down the stairs. He swung the machine pistol high to low, left to right, his brain conducting an instantaneous threat assessment of every shape and shadow in the room as fast as his eyes could adjust to the darkness.
Nothing moved.
Across the room, a stool lay on the floor beneath the ground level window well he had walked past outside. The window stood open. Gusts of wind blew skeins of rain into the basement.
Tasker froze. Was the fallen stool a diversion? Had Rigel staged the scene and hidden himself away in the shadows, waiting for him to take the bait… the proverbial mouse to the cheese?
It was then he noticed the small room.
Tasker trained the Tec-9 on the door but stopped short of pulling the trigger.
The teenager.
He remembered Rigel shoving the kid through the doorway when he invaded the house. What if the kid was in there, bound and gagged, unable to call out, or being used as a human shield? Were other members of the family in the room as well?
This was a war between professionals. Tasker saw no good reason for civilians to be caught in the crossfire. He yelled at the door. “Let the boy go. He doesn’t need to die today.”
N
o response.
“Now, Rigel.”
Movement within the room. The sounds of shuffling, coughing. The chemical cloud produced by the exploding canisters had seeped under the door, found its way into the small room.
As he suspected, the room was occupied. A voice called out. “It’s me.”
“Me who?”
“Tim… Crawford.”
Tasker leveled the Tec-9 at the door. “Come out… slowly.”
“I can’t,” the teen replied. “I’m locked in here.”
Tasker noticed the deadbolt on the doorframe. It had been engaged from the outside. Which meant it would have been impossible for the teen to have locked himself in the room in this manner. Still, maybe this was another ploy to distract him. Perhaps Rigel was still in the room, hiding where Tasker could not see him, ready to surprise him at the opportune moment, shoot him in the back, then murder the boy and his family, lock them all in the cellar, and leave it to the fire to consume them and reduce their bodies to ash.
Tasker investigated the open basement. Except for the furnace, there were no major obstacles behind which Rigel could hide and not be seen.
The teen coughed again. “I smell smoke,” he yelled.
“That’s because your house is on fire.”
“On fire?” the kid replied. “Jesus Christ! Open the door!”
Tasker shuffled to the door and released the latch. The teen was on his knees, choking on the smoke and chemical fumes. He looked up at Tasker. “Who the hell are you?”
“LAPD,” Tasker lied.
The kid wiped his face. “My Dad’s LAPD,” he said, coughing into his sleeve. “You don’t look like LAPD to me.”
“Undercover narcotics.”
“Right,” the kid said. He rose to his feet and pointed at the Tec-9. “I suppose you’re gonna tell me that’s standard issue?”
“I was driving past your house, saw the fire, broke down the door, and found you here.”
“Bull.”
Tasker ignored the remark. “You’re welcome. Now stop talking and get out of here.”
“Who’s Rigel?”
Tasker didn’t reply.
The teen pressed. “Before you opened the door, you called me ‘Rigel.’ Is that who locked me in here? This Rigel guy?”
Tasker pointed to the stairs. “Just leave, kid.”
In the faint light of the room the embedded glass shards glittered on Taskers black face and hands. Tim noticed the screws and nails sticking out of his jacket and pants. “Jesus! What the hell happened to you?”
“It’s nothing,” Tasker said. “Go.”
The kid began to walk toward the stairs. “All right,” he said. “Come on.”
Tasker leaned against the wall. “No,” he said. “I’m done. Leave me here.”
“The hell I will.”
Tasker shook his head. “I won’t make it halfway up the stairs.”
“Yeah, you will,” Tim said. “Lean on me.”
“Look, kid…”
“You tellin’ me you’d prefer to die down here?” Tim said. “What do cops say… ‘Not on my watch?’ No way, mister. Not gonna happen. You saved my life. Now I’m gonna save yours.”
Tim helped Tasker to the foot of the stairs. “Wait here,” he said. Tasker leaned against the wall. The kid ran to his father’s workbench, pulled a fire extinguisher from its wall bracket, then ran back and cradled Taskers arm over his shoulder. “We’ll be out of here in a minute,” he said. “You ready?”
“Just get me to my car,” Tasker said. “Black Mustang, parked across the street.”
At the top of the stairs they heard the sound of sirens. Emergency vehicles were closing in on the burning house. Tim blasted the hallway with a heavy blanket of foam and extinguished the flames blocking their path. He referred to the sirens. “They’ll be here any second.”
“I can’t be here when they arrive,” Tasker said. “No cops, Tim.”
“No kidding,” Tim replied as he helped Tasker out the front door. “I never would have guessed.”
35
THE FBI ESCORT TEAM pulled into the main entrance of Angel of Mercy Hospital and exited the three Chevy Suburban’s. Hanover and Carnevale met with S.W.A.T. Commander Alexander Callum and mapped out their route to the Farrow Estate. Callum spoke to his team. Within minutes, Marissa, Emma, Aiden, David, and Paula Quest had been safely transferred to the armored vehicles.
Dunn heard Callum’s status report in his earbud and acknowledged the Commander. “Copy that,” he said. He turned to Jordan. “Your family’s secure, Mrs. Quest. Time to go.”
Dr. Paul Tremaine was conferring with Audrey Lane at the nurse’s station. Jordan walked to the desk.
“Thank you for trying to save Keith’s life,” Jordan said.
“You have my deepest condolences,” Tremaine said, shaking her hand. Jordan hugged her nurse. “Good luck, Mrs. Quest,” Audrey said.
As Jordan and Director Dunn waited for the elevator the events of the day flashed through her mind. In less than twenty-four hours she had lost her husband, Keith, her parents, and Rock Dionne, whom she witnessed sacrifice his life to save hers. She had lived through the experience of the plane crash and narrowly missed being killed by the tractor trailer as it slid over her on the highway and slammed into the jet, killing its driver, her family, and the flight crew. She recalled the onset of the vision prior to the occurrence of the tragic events; a warning provided by her mysterious gift. Not being able to stop the doomed flight would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Suddenly, Jordan was again struck by the Gift. She closed her eyes, connected with the vision, and saw the man; tall, black, athletic build, standing in the aircraft hangar beside her father’s jet, a tool of some kind in his hand, wearing a fire department uniform. The man had two faces, which meant to Jordan that another soul was connected to him in death. The faces morphed, first the black man’s face, then the face of the second man. He had been responsible for taking this man’s life. This feeling was strong, and she learned long ago that when she felt this way she was never wrong. The dead man’s spirit was trying to come through, to connect to her, speak to her… possibly even warn her. Jordan tried to understand the message, but the symbolism confused her: the man, dead, in the trunk of his car; a horse in full gallop; the three-star tattoo on the hand of the man who had attacked her in her room, a fierce battle between the tattooed man and the killer of the man in the trunk. But perhaps the most prominent aspect of the vision was the feeling it gave her that the men were near. Despite assurances from the FBI that she was safe, Jordan intuitively knew the danger to her and her family was far from over.
Andrew Dunn spoke. “Are you okay, Mrs. Quest?”
Jordan hesitated. “I’m fine.”
Dunn could see she was worried. “Your apprehension is understandable, but you can relax. Your family is under our protection now. We won’t let anything happen to them. The agents waiting downstairs are highly trained. They’ll have you and your family home before you know it, safe and sound.”
“Thank you, Director.”
The elevator doors opened. Jordan and Dunn stepped inside.
As the car descended Jordan was struck by a sensation of impending danger.
Lights cutting through the night…
Engines racing…
A subterranean room…
Gas masks…
Three figures in motion… two adults, one child.
Jordan waited for the vision to end. “I connected with Shannon and Zoe,” she told the Director.
“Where are they?” Dunn asked.
“In hiding,” Jordan replied. “Somewhere below ground. Wherever it is, they’re safe. At least for now.”
“You said earlier you saw a ranch house with stables and shackles hanging from the ceiling. Should we still be looking for that?”
“Yes. I don’t sense that’s changed. I’d know if it had. That building is still important.”
“Could one be
connected to the other? Are they being held in the basement of the ranch house?”
“It’s possible.”
The Director heard the desperation in his own voice. He was too close to the case and he knew it. He should never have allowed himself to become involved in the investigation. Had the circumstances been different, had this happened to any one of his agents, he would never even have permitted them access to the file, much less participate in the resolution of the case. Personal involvement led to poor judgement, poor judgement led to unnecessary mistakes, and mistakes to lost lives. It was much easier on the other side of the desk. He had been in situations like this before with undercover agents who had been pulled out of deep cover, their operation blown, but not before their families had been kidnapped, tortured, or killed. He’d watched them fall apart, no longer useful to themselves or the Bureau. Some had been unable to live with the guilt and taken their lives, while others threw their loyalty to the Bureau and the justice system out the window, taken matters into their own hands, sought out the killers, and exacted their revenge. He was standing in their shoes now. He understood how they felt. How could he not get involved? His daughters were missing. All he wanted was for them to be alive and safe, and if that wasn’t to be the case then he too would tender his resignation and perpetrate righteous justice on the person or persons responsible for invading his world and harming his children, because no human need is greater than that of a parent to protect their child.
The elevator door opened. Chris Hanover stood in the lobby. Grant Carnevale waited at the front entrance. Both agents held their weapon at their side.
“All clear, Director,” Chris said. “We’re in the lead car. Jordan’s family will follow in the second unit. The assault team will ride in three.”
“Intersections?” Dunn asked.
“LAPD’s got us covered all the way to the estate. We’re good to go.”
“And the advance team?”
“Carter and Lehman are on their way. Ms. DeSola gave them the entry codes for the gate and the residence.”
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 15
