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

by Gary Winston Brown

  “Six dead bodies on the property will do that to you. Any sign of the chopper?”

  “Not yet.”

  “We should move into the clearing. They’ll see us if we flash our beams.”

  “I have a better idea,” Zoe said. She opened her backpack and removed the kerosene lamp, spare bottle of fuel, and the lighter she had taken from the fallout shelter. “We’re gonna make damn sure they see us.”

  Zoe ran down the stairs to the stable and opened the main doors. The horses whinnied at the intrusion. She opened their stalls and yelled. Shannon and Lily watched as the animals trotted out of the building and ran into the open field.

  Zoe walked to the porch and poured a jagged line of kerosene over the deck and back wall of the ranch house. A dirty sweatshirt lay on the seat of a wicker deck chair. Zoe used it to wipe her fingerprints off the lamp.

  She asked Lily, “Was Uncle Emmett left or right-handed?”

  “Right.”

  “Wait here.” Zoe ran back down the stairs to Emmett’s corpse, wrapped his right hand around the lamp, then ran back.

  “We watched the bastard set fire to the house,” Zoe said. “Right?”

  “That’s what I saw,” Shannon replied.

  “Me too,” Lily said.

  “Good,” Zoe said. She lit the wick. “It’s best if you two go to the clearing. I don’t exactly have a ton of experience in the arson department.”

  Shannon took Lily by the hand and walked with her into the open field.

  Zoe wrapped her damp sleeve around the metal handle and stepped off the porch. When she was a safe distance away, she looked over her shoulder at Lily.

  The girl nodded, as if giving Zoe permission to burn her family’s home to the ground. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t her home anymore. It had stopped being her home the day Emmett and his boys had walked into her life, murdered her parents, and made her their slave.

  Zoe tossed the burning lamp. Its glass globe shattered against the wall of the house. Its flame found the trail of combustible fluid. Whoosh! A line of fire erupted across the porch.

  Zoe turned, walked into the clearing, held Lily’s hand. Shannon took hers.

  Above the noise of the torrential downpour the house crackled and popped. Fiery embers cast off from the structure and drifted upward like fireflies dancing in the rain. The wooden porch was the first to go. They watched the fire climb the walls, claim the roof, and seep into the home. Before long, the ranch house was fully involved. The crackling had become a roar. The flames grew stronger and reached high into the night sky. The brightness of the fire illuminated the property. From where they stood, they could feel the heat of the fire.

  Shannon turned to Zoe. “You hear that?” she said.

  Zoe recognized the blade-churning thrum of an approaching helicopter. She nodded. “Our ride’s here.”

  50

  RIGEL QUIETLY SET down the sniper rifle on the marble floor, removed the Glock 19 from his tactical vest, and peered around the corner.

  Clear.

  He brought the weapon to his eye, trained the front sight over the balcony railing, and looked down. Shards of glass from the blown-out window had been tracked inside the home. The twinkling path crossed a fine Persian rug, led into the Great Room, past the fireplace and out of sight. He had not been in that room. When he breached the house, he immediately followed the screams upstairs. If the family and their protective detail had made it unheard downstairs to the first floor, why wouldn’t they have just continued out the door? Something was wrong. Perhaps a third sentry had been patrolling the grounds. Had he missed him? Had he heard the shot and followed him into the house? Impossible. His surveillance had been thorough.

  He needed to know.

  The mansion was immense. Finding the family and their guardians was proving to be more of a challenge than he thought. But first he needed to investigate the glass trail, find out where it led and who had made it.

  Rigel kept his back to the wall, descended the staircase, stopped on each step, listened.

  Silence.

  He entered the Great Room, swept it with the Glock, and took cover behind a six-foot marble reproduction of the famed statue, Venus de Milo. No gunfire. Fragments of glass in the doorway led to an adjoining room. Rigel stepped out from behind the statue and moved towards the room, keeping the entranceway in his gunsight. A tray of candies sat on a side table beside a reading chair; Werther’s Creamy Toffee, his favorite. Rigel unwrapped one of the treats and popped it in his mouth. He pocketed the rest, reached the wall, and glanced around the corner.

  The Music room was decorated with guitars and signed photographs of the artists who had played them. Some instruments stood inside locked display cases. Others hung from neck rests anchored to the walls. Rigel recalled reading an article on the Huffington Post website a few months ago in which Michael Farrow had mentioned his appreciation for the instrument. He had reached out to some of the greatest guitar players in the world and gained their endorsement for the establishment of the Farrow Center for the Performing Arts. The artists had signed their instruments, and Sotheby’s had facilitated the auction. In just one evening, he and the world’s musical elite had raised fifty million dollars. The project now funded, Farrow matched the donation dollar-for-dollar. Five hundred musically gifted but financially underprivileged children were admitted into the exclusive music education program. The guitars in this room were not for sale. This was his private collection. Which is why, had he still been alive, Farrow would have been devastated to watch the first five of the priceless instruments splinter into pieces by the rounds fired from the Tec-9.

  Rigel dove for cover as the bullets shattered the display cases, felled instruments from their mounts, and cut through the wall above him. He scrambled behind a wooden display case in the middle of the floor. The sound was a machine pistol. He remembered the Mustang outside the kid’s house, the tear gas and Tec-9 foam cut-outs in the false compartment under the seat and the identification in the glove box: Harrison Tasker.

  The assassin had followed him here. But how? He had destroyed the SIM card in his phone and thoroughly inspected his car for GPS tracking hardware, found none. Yet here he was, in the Farrow home, trying once again to kill him.

  Rigel shook his head. Some guys just don’t know when to quit.

  He called out. “That you, Harrison?”

  No reply.

  A shiny metal pick guard from a splintered guitar lay on the floor beside him. Rigel picked it up and angled it around the corner of the case. Its mirrored surface reflected the room. He searched for Tasker.

  No luck.

  “Is this because I broke into your car?” Rigel taunted. “Don’t blame me. You left it unlocked.” He slid to the other side of the case, angled the pick guard once more. “I’ve got to give you credit, though. The compartment under the seat? Smart. Wish I’d thought of that.”

  Nothing.

  “I’m guessing you’re here ‘cause I pissed somebody off. Mind telling me who?”

  Silence.

  He’s injured... force him to shoot... make him waste his rounds… listen for the click… take him out before he can reload…

  “You must be feeling pretty messed up right now, Harrison,” Rigel continued. “Sorry about that. But you’ve got to admit the whole fire-and-nail-bomb thing was a brilliant move on my part. Then again, it worked out a hell of a lot better for me than it did for you. Can you even fire straight? Probably not.”

  There. Movement. Reflected in the pick guard. Around the corner at the entrance to the room.

  A spray of bullets cut into the floor beside Rigel. One round caught the pick guard. The plate flew out of his fingers. He drew his hand back quickly.

  Rigel laughed. “Whoa! Nice shot! Or was that just luck?”

  A second display case stood several few feet away. If he could make it there without being cut down by the Tec-9 he’d be out of the assassin’s direct line of fire. Tasker would be forced to relinq
uish his position in the room. Rigel removed the candies from his pocket.

  “I’m working a theory over here, Harrison,” Rigel yelled. “Want to know what it is? I think New York’s got you on their payroll and they sent you to kill me. Why, I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t care. But here’s the thing. You and I both know that’s not going to happen. You’re done, Harrison. Finished. But being the fellow pro that I am, not to mention an incredibly generous guy, I’m going to make you an offer. Screw New York. You don’t have to die today. I’ll let you walk out of here in one piece while you still can. I’ll even throw in an early retirement bonus. How does two million bucks sound? Go buy yourself a nice place in the Caribbean. Sip Pina Colada’s by the pool and live out the rest of your days in style. Sound good?”

  “Not in a million years,” Tasker replied.

  “You sure about that?” Rigel said.

  “Positive.”

  “That’s a shame.” Rigel replied. He threw a handful of candies across the room.

  Tasker reacted. He fired in the direction of the sound.

  Rigel dashed to the safety of the second display case. He watched the foil-wrapped sweets skip across the floor. Tasker’s rounds caught one of the candies and blew it apart; a terrible death for a Werther’s if ever there was one.

  Rigel kept moving. He slid along the floor to the wall, then rose to his feet. Tasker was twenty feet away. He trained the Glock straight ahead and waited. The assassin had inconvenienced him enough for one lifetime. The second the man entered the room he would kill him, then get back to the business of eliminating his targets and their protective detail.

  He waited.

  Ahead, glass crunched underfoot.

  51

  SHOOP-SHOOP-SHOOP-shoop-shoop-shoop…

  Zoe, Shannon, and Lily heard the heavy rotor churn of the FBI’s Tactical Helicopter Unit as it approached, its blades slicing through the driving rain. The Black Hawk circled the burning ranch house, hovered above them, then scanned the grounds with its powerful searchlight. The pilot engaged the air-to-ground communications system, his voice booming through the loudspeaker over the sound of the storm and the raging fire.

  “This is the FBI. Get on the ground! Place your hands behind your head. Do not move!”

  The two women and the girl complied. Zoe and Shannon tossed their weapons aside.

  Ropes fell from the open doors of the chopper. Agents from the Hostage Rescue Team fast-roped from the bird and zipped down to the ground, one hand on the wind-tossed rope, the other on their weapon. The first two agents were followed by two more. They approached the trio with caution, keeping them squarely in their gun sights.

  “Identify yourselves,” the lead agent demanded as he secured their handguns.

  “Zoe Dunn,” Zoe said. The wicked rain pelted her face as she looked up at the agent. “This is my sister, Shannon. The girl is Lily Maynard.”

  The agent spoke into his microphone. “This is Reed. We have the package.” To Zoe, he asked, “Everyone all right?”

  Zoe nodded. “Tell your men there are four dead. One in the barn, three by the car.”

  Reed motioned to the two agents. “Check it out,” he said. “Anything else we need to know?”

  Zoe shook her head. “No,” she replied.

  A second HRT agent, a woman, spoke to her. “Who killed them?” she asked.

  Zoe looked up. “I did.”

  “Hands behind your back,” the agent said.

  “She didn’t do anything wrong,” Shannon protested. “It was self-defence. She saved our lives!”

  “If that’s the case she’s got nothing to worry about,” the agent replied.

  “It’s all right, Shay,” Zoe said. The agent zip cuffed her hands and brought her to her feet. “They’re just doing their job.”

  “We want to speak to our father, right now,” Shannon insisted.

  The Black Hawk touched town. Four more agents deployed from the chopper. The team headed toward the burning building.

  Reed listened to a status report in his earbud from his agents: “Confirmed. Four down. Vital signs absent.”

  “Copy that,” Reed replied. The two women and the girl were soaked to the skin. Lily shivered. Shannon wrapped her arms around her, pulled her close, rubbed her arms.

  “Come on,” Reed said. “Let’s get you out of the rain.”

  Seated in the helicopter, shivering under a warm blanket, Lily spoke. “Agent Reed, my parents are buried in the barn. The first stall on the right.”

  “Your parents?” Reed asked.

  Zoe interjected. “They were murdered by the guys I killed.”

  “Just what the hell happened here?” Reed asked.

  Zoe stared at the agent. “Payback,” she said.

  “I don’t know why, but for some reason I believe you,” Reed replied. He handed Shannon a headset. “What do you say we call your father?”

  “Thank you,” Shannon said. She slipped on the earphones and adjusted the microphone.

  Reed tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Open a channel. Put her through to Director Dunn.”

  52

  THE AGENTS FOLLOWED the children and the family through the secret labyrinth hidden between the walls of the estate. Hanover heard the muted sound of gunshots and breaking glass.

  He stopped, drew his weapon, turned, tried to determine the specific location of the gunfire, couldn’t. The sound seemed to be coming at him from all angles.

  “It’s the acoustics,” Jordan said. “The passageways interconnect, so they form one giant echo chamber. I used to play in these corridors all the time when I was a kid, just like my kids do now. I could hear my father playing his guitar or listening to music on the opposite site of the estate. My guess is its coming from the Music room.”

  “How far away?” Hanover asked. He kept his weapon trained down the corridor as if expecting the gunman to come around the corner at any second and open fire.

  “Ten thousand feet, maybe fifteen,” Jordan replied.

  “Did you say ten thousand feet?”

  “Give or take.”

  “Just how big is this place?”

  “The main house is forty thousand square feet. That doesn’t include the indoor pool, underground garage, wine cellar, or the Collectibles vault.”

  “You have no idea how small my condo feels right now,” Hanover said. He holstered his weapon. “The garage… can we get to it from here?”

  “Of course.”

  “What side of the estate is it on?”

  “The east.”

  “And the Music room?”

  “The west.”

  “Good. Then that’s where we’re going. We’ll drive out of here. S.W.A.T. can deal with the intruders.”

  The family reached the end of the corridor. Carnevale waited for Chris and Jordan to catch up. He was holding his weapon at his side. He too had heard the shots.

  Hanover informed him of the plan. “Sounds good,” Carnevale said. “We’ll take the Rolls Silver Shadow. Thing’s built like a tank. The more metal around us the better.”

  “In case the gunmen open fire on us?” Jordan asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “I won’t do that, Uncle Grant.”

  “Won’t do what?”

  Jordan stopped. “I won’t put my children in the line of fire. Not for a second. You need to call in S.W.A.T. Have them find whoever is in the house and put an end to this.”

  “S.W.A.T. can’t possibly get here in time, Jordan,” Carnevale replied. “We need to get you and your family out of here right away.”

  Chris added, “That sound you heard? That’s not just any gun. It’s a machine pistol. Whoever these guys are they came to play. And they brought the heavy artillery with them. We’re talking multiple rounds per second. We’re simply not equipped to go up against that kind of firepower.”

  “All the more reason to call S.W.A.T.,” Jordan insisted.

  Carnevale sighed. “Okay, Jordan. Here’s wha
t we’ll do. We’ll go to the Collectibles vault instead. It’s impenetrable. Everyone will be safe in there. Once we’re inside, we’ll call S.W.A.T. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Jordan agreed.

  “Does that work for you, Chris?” Carnevale asked.

  “You bet.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Outside the entrance to the Collectibles vault, Andrew Dunn’s phone vibrated. He took the call. “Shannon?” he said. “Are you all right? Thank God.” The Director leaned against the wall. Hanover and Jordan stood beside him, anxiously awaiting a status update on the safety of his daughters. Carnevale escorted the Quests, Marissa, and the children into the cavernous room. Hanover had expected the call would come soon. He hoped the outcome would be a favorable one. After speaking to his daughter, Dunn received a briefing on the situation at the ranch from Agent Reed. “Thank you,” Dunn said. “Extend my appreciation to your team. Tell them I’ll speak to them personally upon their return… Zoe said what? My God! Show her every courtesy. If she says it was self-defence, then I can assure you that’s exactly what it was. I’ll be in touch shortly.” Dunn ended the call.

  “All good, sir?” Hanover asked.

  The Director was quiet. He looked at his phone for a moment, then returned it to its case. He stared at Jordan. “Agent Reed just filled me in. The reading you took from Shannon’s necklace in the hospital room… the ranch house, the stables, the shackles hanging from the ceiling… all of it was accurate. You said you saw some kind of connection to the circus. They found a teenager in the stable dressed in a clown suit, dead. His neck had been broken. There was a young girl with Shannon and Zoe. Her name is Lily. You saw her, too. They had taken shelter underground. Lily took the team to the place they’d been hiding. Some sort of bunker. You were right about it all, Jordan. I don’t know how you saw what you did. I sure as hell can’t explain it and frankly, I don’t care. All I care is that my daughters are safe now, so too is the girl with them. I’ll never be able to repay you for that. All I can say is thank you.” The stress of the last week was evident in Dunn’s voice. He was close to losing his composure in front of his agents. He swallowed hard, reeled in his emotions.