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

by Gary Winston Brown

  THE AGENTS WERE DEAD. Headshots. Delivered seconds apart to opposite sides of the estate. No time to react, no opportunity to warn the targets inside the mansion of the imminent threat to their lives.

  The grounds now unprotected, Rigel snaked his way through the trees and down the hillside to the concrete wall which surrounded the Farrow estate. He dropped to one knee, leveled the weapon on the wall, and surveyed the interior of the home through the rifle scope.

  No activity. No shadows played on the walls of the illuminated rooms. Nothing moved. The family and their protection detail were somewhere inside the massive home. Which meant Rigel could not gain a visual confirmation on any of his targets. This was a purely tactical play, a secondary line of defense should the perimeter be compromised, which it had.

  Rigel eased himself over the stone perimeter, ran across the floodlit grounds and reached the wall of the estate undetected. One of the dead sentries lay several feet away. Rigel knelt, inventoried the body, and found the man’s identification inside his jacket pocket: Francis Carter, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Rigel shoved the ID into the front pocket of his tactical vest. Though not as meaningful a souvenir as the trinkets he had collected from his victims, it was a valuable acquisition just the same. The official FBI credentials would come in handy in the future. In his line of work every small advantage helped.

  Rigel pulled the two-way communications earbud out of Carter’s ear, fitted it into his, and listened.

  A voice said, “Carnevale, report.”

  “North sector clear,” came the reply.

  The voice again. “East sector, status report.”

  No reply.

  The voice repeated the request. “East sector. Carter. You there?”

  Francis Carter, Special Agent.

  Rigel replied on the dead man’s behalf. “East sector clear.”

  “Copy,” the voice said. “West sector, report.”

  No response.

  The west sector of the estate was being covered by the second agent he had shot and killed. The man’s communication device operated independently. Rigel was unable to fake the second response.

  “West sector… report.”

  Silence followed.

  “Lehman?”

  Nothing.

  The voice assumed the worst: “Be advised Lehman is down. Callum, cover the west sector. Carnevale and Hanover, move the family.”

  The time had come to make his move. He would take out the rest of the detail, one by one, until he found the family and killed them all.

  He remembered the sweet smell of the woman as she lay in her hospital bed. He wouldn’t underestimate her this time, much less give her an opportunity to defend herself. The second he located her he would kill her. Then he would take her. Jordan Quest, daughter of deceased tech billionaire Michael Farrow, and one of the world’s most gifted psychics, would herself become the ultimate prize in his collection. His body shuddered at the thought of such a conquest. He was lucky. Life was good.

  Rigel dragged Carter’s corpse behind a row of shrubs in front of the mansion wall and dropped it on the ground, out of sight, then circled the estate and found the body of the second sentry laying on the ground at the foot of a floor-to-ceiling picture window. Inside the mansion, the S.W.A.T. team commander came running down the stairs. Rigel raised his rifle and fired. The bullet disintegrated the glass and found its mark in Callum thirty feet away. Rigel wasted no time. As Callum tumbled down the staircase, he advanced into the room and fired a second round into the agent. Callum’s lifeless body rolled down the last few steps. Rigel stopped it with his foot.

  Rigel called out. “Honey, I’m home!”

  Upstairs, the children screamed.

  47

  “I’VE GOT THIS!” Hanover yelled. He ran past Carnevale and Dunn toward the sound of the crashing glass and the voice of the intruder announcing his presence from the Great Room below.

  To Carnevale, he said, “You know the layout of the house?”

  “Every inch,” the agent replied.

  Below, a massive wall mirror reflected the shooter’s image as he stepped over shards of broken glass and entered the home. Hanover immediately recognized him as the orderly he had chased into the bowels of the hospital just hours ago, and who would surely have killed him had it not been for the unexpected intervention of the mechanical engineer, Abe Carmichael. “I’ll deal with this sonofabitch,” he said. “Get the family out of here!”

  Andrew Dunn’s cellphone rang. The unfamiliar name on the display read BEN MAYNARD. He took the call. “This is Dunn.”

  “Dad?”

  Dunn’s heart slammed in his chest. “Shannon?” he cried. “Is that you?”

  Grant Carnevale overheard the call, saw the Director’s reaction, and immediately called the Bureau. “This is Special Agent Grant Carnevale,” he said. “I need an emergency track and trace on the cell phone of Director Andrew Dunn. Ping the caller’s coordinates and dispatch a Hostage Rescue Team to the location ASAP.” He called out to Dunn. “Bureau’s on it. Keep her on the line.”

  Dunn nodded. “Where are you, honey?” he asked his daughter.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is Zoe with you?”

  “She told us to run.”

  “Us?”

  “Lily and I. They killed her parents.”

  Lily?

  “Are you safe?”

  “I’m not sure. I hear gunshots. Lots of them. Close by.”

  Dunn was terrified at the thought of his daughter being hunted by armed killers. “Listen to me very carefully, Shannon. HRT has been scrambled. They’re on their way to you right now. You need to find somewhere to hide. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t know… maybe… yes.”

  “Good. And keep this line open. Do not hang up on me. Got it?”

  Shannon voice suddenly changed, became subdued, introspective. She no longer sounded frightened. “Dad?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, baby girl.”

  The pressure of the ordeal was taking its toll on her. She broke down, began to sob.

  “I know how scared you are,” Dunn told his daughter. “I promise it will be over soon. You’ll be back home before you know it. But you need to hold it together just a little while longer. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Take a deep breath.”

  Shannon stopped crying. She inhaled deeply, let it out. “I’m okay.”

  Lily screamed. “Zoe!”

  Shannon turned. Her sister was walking toward her, gun in hand, soaked to the skin, covered in blood and mud. Shannon threw her arms around her. “You’re alive!”

  Zoe returned the hug. “I’m fine. Bad guys… not so much. You two okay?”

  “We’re fine,” Lily answered.

  Zoe pointed to the phone. “Dad?”

  Shannon nodded.

  Zoe held out her hand. “Gimme.” Shannon handed her the cell phone. “Hey, Dad,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “Zoe, honey,” Dunn asked. “Are you okay?”

  “To be honest, I’m wet, cold, tired, pissed off and could use a stiff drink or three. Other than that, I’m good.”

  Carmichael broke in. “Sir, we have a lock on the phone. HRT is in the air. They’re en route to the location.”

  “Help is on the way, Zoe.”

  “I heard.”

  “Stay where you are. Do you think you can signal the chopper when you see it?”

  “Don’t worry. They won’t have any trouble finding us.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  In the background of the call, Zoe heard gunfire. “Dad?” she said.

  No reply.

  “Dad… are you okay?”

  Nothing.

  “What’s happening?”

  The line went dead.

  Three rounds ricocheted off the corner of the wall behind which Chris had taken c
over. The gunman was proceeding up the stairs, his shots calculated, timed to keep the agent pinned down and unable to return fire.

  Hanover turned to Dunn and Carnevale. “Get them out of here! Now!”

  The agents fled down the corridor with the family. A metal canister bounced off the wall and rolled to a stop at Chris’ feet. It started to spin.

  A cloud of tear gas hissed out of the OC fogger. Chris covered his mouth. The noxious vapor stung his eyes, seared his lungs.

  Hanover fought his body’s desire to surrender to the incapacitating cloud. He swung his arm around the corner and fired blindly at the intruder.

  Then he ran.

  48

  TASKER LEFT THE site of the unfinished home, drove the Mustang GT to the end of the street where he had a clear view of the mansion, and parked the car. He fumbled through the contents of his medical kit, removed the emergency vial of Morphine, ripped the syringe out of its plastic wrapper, filled it with the drug, forced out the air bubble, jammed the needle into his leg, pressed down on the plunger and injected the contents into his thigh. Within seconds the drug produced the desired effect. The firestorm of pain coursing through his body began to subside.

  Three muzzle flashes, followed by concussive gun blasts, drew his attention to the upstairs balcony inside the mansion. A floor-to-ceiling windowpane at the back of the mansion had been blown out. Smoke swirled at the top of the stairs. Tasker watched as the man who taken cover at the top of the stairs turned and ran as his pursuer closed in on his position.

  Rigel.

  Tasker tested himself, moved his fingers, hands, arms, and legs. The drug was working. His body was by no means as functional as it had been before the attack in the teenager’s home, but at least he was mobile. He had no idea how long the pain-suppressing effect of the drug would last in his grossly debilitated state. Based on the extensiveness of his injuries, logic dictated he had only minutes before the pain returned with a vengeance. Fueled by adrenaline, pain suppressed by the morphine, motivated by revenge, Tasker climbed out of the car, forced himself over the low border wall of the estate and shuffled up the hill to the back of the mansion. He stood in the shattered window frame on the shards of broken glass, pulled the Tec-9 out from under his jacket, and listened.

  The great house had become as still and silent as death itself.

  Hanover, Dunn and Carnevale moved the family into the upstairs study. Chris locked the ornate solid brass doors behind them.

  The room was twenty feet tall, circular, and filled with books from floor to ceiling. Polished mahogany bookshelves wrapped around the upper and lower floors. Ten feet above, a brass walkway divided the room into two levels. Access to the walkway was made possible by a wheeled ladder attached to the second level railing. The ladder moved freely and could be rolled across the floor to any point in the room to access the bookshelves above.

  Hanover turned to Carnevale. “A library?” he said. “How the hell are we supposed to defend ourselves in here?

  “We don’t,” Jordan said.

  Frustrated, Hanover looked at Jordan. “I’ll need a better answer than that.”

  Jordan turned to her children. “Kids, you know where to go,” she said. “Don’t be scared. We’ll be right behind you. Paula and David, you’re next.”

  The agents watched the children scamper up the ladder and run along the brass walkway.

  “Jules Verne!” Emma yelled at her brother.

  “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea!” Aiden replied. “I know, I know.” He found the novel and pulled it towards him. The bookcase panel labelled “Classics,” popped open. The children pushed it back, stepped inside, and disappeared behind the shelves.

  Hanover turned to Jordan and smiled. “That is just too cool.”

  “Everybody up,” Carnevale said. “Follow the kids. Hurry!”

  Rigel waited for the tear gas cloud to clear, then rounded the corner, fast and wide, finger on the trigger. He expected to be met by retaliatory fire but instead found the corridor empty. The agents and the family were gone. Rigel listened to the acoustics of the hallway. His footsteps made a hollow sound on the marble floor, a slight reverberation. The sound in the corridor carried. Which meant the lack of any sound right now indicated they were close by. If they were still on the run, he would have heard their footfalls in an adjoining corridor. He walked down the hall and assessed the floor for possible escape routes or hiding places.

  The door to the guest bathroom was open. Rigel looked inside. It was big, but not big enough to accommodate six adults and two children.

  Clear.

  He entered the media room next. Stocked bar. Four rows of seats; eight in the back row, then six, then four, finally two. A two hundred sixty-two-inch C Seed flat screen television, one of the biggest in the world, was mounted on the wall. Who the hell needs a home theatre with a seating capacity for twenty and a TV that big, Rigel thought. Ostentatious asshole.

  Clear.

  One room remained at the end of the hall. Twin brass doors, both closed. Shadows danced in a slit of light at the bottom of the doors, then darkness fell upon the room.

  Rigel opened fire as he advanced on the door. Pling… pling… pling… pling… pling… pling… pling. The bullets failed to penetrate the solid brass, merely deflected off the metal. The ejected rounds tinkled on the marble floor.

  Rigel had one tear gas canister left. Gas them out, he thought, then make entry.

  He positioned the OC fogger at the foot of the door, jammed the nozzle into the narrow gap, then pulled the pin and waited for the gas to take effect.

  Five seconds elapsed, then fifteen, twenty. No choking, coughing, screaming or pleas for help came from inside the room. Only silence.

  Somehow the family had escaped.

  Rigel knew they were still somewhere within the mansion. They had to be.

  A noise downstairs. Footsteps on broken glass.

  Rigel turned and ran back along the hallway.

  Had the targets somehow evaded him, made their way downstairs and were now escaping through the blown-out kitchen window?

  Rigel became enraged. If this was the case, he would find them and shoot them down faster than they could run.

  Every last one of them.

  49

  ZOE HANDED THE cellphone back to Shannon.

  “What’s wrong?” Shannon asked.

  “Nothing,” Zoe lied. “Bad connection. We’re good.” After all they had been through, she wasn’t about to tell her sister about the gunfire she had just heard in the background of the call and its abrupt termination.

  “Dad’s sending a chopper,” Zoe said. “C’mon. We need to go back.”

  “To the house?” Lily asked. “What about Uncle Emmett and the boys?”

  “They’re no longer a concern.”

  Shannon and Lily stared at Zoe. They understood what she meant.

  Zoe put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I told you we’d make sure they never hurt you again, Lily,” she said. “You’re safe now. The FBI are on their way. They’ll need a place to set down. It’s almost pitch-black out here. If the phone dies, they’ll lose our signal and might fly right over us. We’ll wait in the clearing between the house and the woods and wave them down with our flashlights.”

  The girl’s clothes stuck to skin. Her teeth chattered. “You have clean clothes in the house?” Shannon asked.

  Lily nodded quickly.

  “Good,” Shannon said. She rubbed Lily’s arms, tried to warm her. “Let’s get you into something dry. Sound good?”

  “Uh-huh,” Lily said.

  “Cover her eyes,” Zoe told Shannon as they approached the driveway. “Lily doesn’t need to see this.”

  They walked around the old Chevy past Basil’s headless corpse, Ben’s bullet riddled body and Uncle Emmett, who was missing the middle of his chest. Shannon forced down the rising gorge in her throat.

  “Better them than us,” Zoe said.

  “I know,” Shannon
replied.

  They reached the back of the house. “Take genius girl inside to change,” Zoe said. “I’ll wait out here and listen for the chopper.”

  Shannon turned to her sister. “You okay, Z?”

  Zoe forced a smile. “Never better.”

  Shannon hugged her. “I love you. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Zoe replied. There was a catch in her voice. Even in the driving rain Shannon saw a glisten in her eyes. Her smartass attitude returned. “Stop wasting time. You’re gonna make us late for our own damn rescue.”

  Lily changed quickly. She didn’t want to spend a minute longer in the house than she had to. Shannon waited in the doorway. Although the immediate threat to their safety had been resolved, she couldn’t help but feel they were still in danger. Rain hammered the roof. A flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by a peal of thunder. The ceiling fixture above her shook. To Shannon, it felt as if the storm was feeding on the dark energy of the house. She could tell Lily felt it too.

  “Hurry,” Shannon said.

  “I’m ready,” Lily replied. She had changed into jeans, a T-shirt, white sneakers, and a bright yellow jacket. She held her wet backpack in her hand.

  “All right,” Shannon said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Lily followed. “Wait!” she yelled. She turned and ran back into the room.

  “What is it?”

  Lily dropped to her knees in front of her dresser, rummaged through the bottom drawer, and removed a framed picture of her parents. She looked up at Shannon. “It’s all I have left.”

  Shannon nodded and held out her hand. “Come on, sweetheart.”

  The lights in the house flickered. The power went out. The house fell into darkness.

  Shannon removed the flashlight from her backpack. Lily did the same.

  “Follow me,” Shannon said.

  Zoe jumped when the door opened behind her. Residual tension. Shannon and Lily joined her on the porch.

  “Everything okay?” Shannon asked.

  “Yeah,” Zoe replied. “The place just creeps me out.”