“And you.”
Jordan looked at her phone, located the man. “He’s on the move,” she said. “Games Room, East wing. Straight ahead.”
They removed their weapons. Chris stepped ahead. “Stay behind me. I want him taken alive. We need to know who he is and who sent him.”
“That’s what fingerprints and DNA are for,” Jordan said.
Chris took her by the arm, stopped her. “Listen up, Jordan. No heroics. Got me?”
Jordan nodded. “Whatever you say.” She stepped past him, raised the Heckler and Koch, and proceeded down the hall. “Games Room,” she repeated.
56
RIGEL ENTERED THE games room.
The bespoke twelve-foot ash pool table, a work of art recognizable even in the dark room, sported purple speed cloth. Matching chalks sat on its rails. Aramith balls, precisely positioned, sat ready to break in their wooden triangle. An exquisite bank of Tiffany lamps hung above the table they served. A rack on the wall held eight pool cues.
Rigel removed one of the cues, placed its tip on the playing surface, pressed down on the shaft, and scored a tear down the cloth as he walked the length of the table. In the corner of the room a security camera whirred and panned, following his every step.
Rigel looked up at the camera. “I’m guessing you can see and hear me, Mrs. Quest.”
“I can,” the speakers replied.
“Kind of gives you an unfair advantage, doesn’t it? You able to see me, but me unable to see you.”
“Works for me,” Jordan said. They reached the main foyer. She muted the microphone and whispered to Chris. “Down the hall. Last room on the right.”
“Got it,” Chris replied.
Rigel laughed. “Smart lady.” He removed the triangle, tossed it across the room, placed the white ball behind the break line, readied the cue and sighted the shot, but stopped short of taking it. He removed a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket, showed it to the camera, then placed it under the ball.
“Care to make a little wager? A hundred bucks says I find you before the cops arrive.”
Rigel waited.
No reply.
He continued. “Not rich enough for you, huh?” He took out a second hundred and slid it under the first. “Better?” He waved the cue at the camera. “How many of those have you got in this place? Forty? Fifty? I’m guessing fifty, minimum.” Rigel leveled the Tec-9 at the camera and pulled the trigger. Brrrrrrrrrrrr. The camera blew to pieces. Hot brass casings bounced off the pool table and fell on the floor.
“Make that forty-nine,” Rigel called out. He sprayed the room again, fatally injuring the opposing players on a neighboring foosball table and decimating two vintage pinball machines: a Bally Eight Ball and R. Gottlieb Arabian Knights, then blew out the LCD displays of five classic video games: Pong, Frogger, Space Invaders, Pac-Man, and Star Wars. A final blitz of gun fire annihilated a classic Skeeball Alley Bowler.
Jordan and Chris advanced down the hallway towards the Games Room as the ejected casings tinkled on the hardwood floor. Jordan looked at Chris and pointed to her phone. She shook her head. One of the rounds had struck and severed the camera cable hidden behind the wall. The screen was black, the live visual feed from the room to her phone lost. They were proceeding blind now. Fifty feet of open hallway separated them from the shooter.
The next room, a guest bathroom, lay ten feet ahead. Twenty feet beyond it was the entrance to the art gallery. The doors to both rooms, normally kept closed, stood open. The intruder must have cleared them in his search for the family prior to investigating the Games Room.
Chris motioned to Jordan and pointed to the bathroom. The two moved quickly down the hall, slipped into the room and hid behind the door.
Footsteps in the hallway, outside the Games Room.
Rigel called out. “You never took me up on my wager.”
Closer, in front of the art gallery now.
Hanover placed the barrel of the Glock in the crack of the doorframe. He would wait for the man to pass, sight the back of his head, the ‘light switch’ as sharpshooters called it, take the shot, kill him instantly, and end the terror.
“Maybe I should have made it a thousand?” the man called out. His voice was loud, just a few feet from the doorway. It echoed off the walls of the long hallway. “Just how fast is the police response time in this neighborhood, anyway?”
Hanover steadied his breathing, waited.
Rigel stopped within inches of the door. Strange… the camera at the end of the hallway failed to whir or pan. Was the security system no longer tracking him? Had the woman escaped?
No, she was here. He could sense her presence. But more than that, he could smell it. Jordan’s perfume. The same exhilarating blend he remembered from his visit with her in her hospital wafted in the hallway: Indian jasmine… Rosa centifolia… cardamom… carnation… benzoin… fruity citrus…
Rigel dropped low and shoulder-rolled past the entrance to the bathroom.
Hanover heard the man, saw him roll past the door, tried to reacquire the target, lost him. He pushed Jordan aside as a hail of bullets ripped through the bathroom door. All but one round hit high. The last bullet found its mark and caught him squarely in his shoulder.
Chris groaned and dropped to the ground. His Glock clattered across the polished marble floor.
Through the bullet holes in the splintered door he watched the assassin rise to his feet.
Jordan moved to the center of the bathroom, crouched down, closed her eyes, and listened. She knew how far the shooter was from the door: Six feet.
The hundreds of hours she had spent training with Rock Dionne came to her all at once: stay low… move fast… hit hard… never retreat.
Stay low, move fast, hit hard…
Jordan ran toward the doorway as fast as she could, threw herself on the floor and slid into the hallway, opening up on the intruder with the Heckler and Koch, squeezing off round after round. Each of the ten bullets found their target.
Rigel was unprepared for the counterattack. He was sure it was the woman who had been hit with multiple rounds from the Tec-9. The rest should have been easy, pure clean up. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe that she would willingly give up the location of her family within the great house. No matter. At the least his principal target would be dead. He would find the rest of the family before the police arrived, kill them and the FBI agents, and make good his escape. But now he found himself in uncharted territory, staggering backward as round after round from the woman’s weapon struck his body armor with brutal force. The last bullet blew his index finger off his shooting hand. Rigel screamed. He clutched his hand and dropped the Tec-9.
Never retreat…
Jordan jumped to her feet, drew a knife from its sheath, and threw it at the gunman. The weapon sailed through the air, caught Rigel in his throat and brought him to his knees.
Fingers wet with blood, Rigel clawed at his throat. Jordan walked toward him, pulled a second knife from its sheath, looked down on the gunman, drove her foot into his chest, pinned him down.
Hanover staggered out of the bathroom and into the hallway, weapon drawn, expecting a gunfight. Instead, he saw Jordan straddled atop the intruder, a knife lodged in the man’s throat, a second blade pressed against his neck.
“Put it down, Jordan,” Chris said.
“He tried to kill us,” Jordan replied coldly, her voice shaking. “He came into this house. He wanted to kill my family, my children.”
“But he didn’t,” Chris reminded her. “You stopped him.”
“Not good enough.”
Chris stood beside her. He placed his hand on her shoulder. “We have him, Jordan. It’s over.”
Jordan stared into Rigel’s eyes. “It’ll never be over. I have to live with this for the rest of my life.”
“I promise you you’ll get the answers you need.”
With her free hand, Jordan grabbed the handle of the knife embedded in the man’s throat. Rigel
gurgled.
Chris warned her. “Right now, it’s one-hundred percent self-defence, Jordan. I’ll swear to that in court. But the second you turn that blade everything changes.”
Jordan’s hand trembled on the handle. She wanted to drive the blade in deep, twist it, finish him.
“Think about Emma and Aiden,” Chris said.
The faces of her children flashed through her mind.
She had already endured enough tragedy.
No more.
She let go of the knives, threw her hands aside.
Chris helped her to her feet. Rigel stared up at her from the floor. His eyes were vacant, his breathing labored, unsteady. He coughed up blood.
“No matter,” Jordan said. “The blade nicked his carotid. He’s done.” She picked up the Tec-9, slung it over her shoulder and turned to Chris. “We need to get to the vault and let the others know we’re safe.”
The artwork on the hallway wall trembled, the floor vibrated. They heard the drone of a helicopter rotor. The craft was hovering above the house.
“Hostage Rescue Team,” Chris said. “They’ll be inside any second.”
Jordan looked down at Rigel. His good hand, fingers intact, lay across his chest. “What about him?”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Chris said. “Let HRT take out the trash. Let’s go.”
Jordan and Chris walked down the hallway. “How’s the shoulder,” she asked.
“Hurts like a sonofabitch.”
“You pushed me out of the way back there,” Jordan said.
“I know.”
“You saved my life.”
“I was just doing my --”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The gunshots came from behind. Two of the bullets glanced off the wall. The third narrowly missed Chris’ head. Jordan spun around. The attacker lay on his side, a pistol in his outstretched hand. He was firing wildly. Jordan leveled the Tec-9 at the man she mistakenly thought she’d mortally wounded and pulled the trigger. She held it down as she walked towards him, watching his body dance on the floor as round after round tore through his head, torso, arms, and legs. Jordan didn’t stop firing until every last round in the machine pistol had been spent. Gray smoke poured out of the silencer.
Chris pried the Glock out of the dead man’s hand. “He must have had it hidden in his vest,” he said. “My focus was on the Tec. I never thought to clear him. Jesus, Jordan. I’m sorry.”
Jordan pulled the knife out of Rigel’s throat, wiped clean the blade on his slug-riddled body armor, then returned the weapon to its sheath.
“I’m not,” she replied. “Not one damn bit.”
57
“FOLLOW MY LEAD,” Chris told Jordan. They stood in the front entrance of the grand home, watching the agents deploy from the FBI Black Hawk helicopter as it set down on the front lawn of Farrow Estate. “Let’s go inside. HRT will secure the scene. Which means they’re going to treat you as a hostile until they know what’s going on. Drop your weapons on the floor and stand beside me.”
The Hostage Rescue Team stormed the home. Chris displayed his Bureau credentials, identified himself first. “This is Jordan Quest,” he told the tactical force commander. “This is her family’s home. We have two hostiles down, one in the east wing, the other the west. Director Dunn and Special Agent Grant Carnevale are guarding the family in a locked room on the premises. There are two agents outside. Both may be down. Tell your men to sweep the grounds.”
“Copy that,” the Commander said. He motioned to his men. The agents dispersed. “You two okay?”
“Never better,” Jordan replied.
Jordan called to her godfather from outside the vault. “Uncle Grant, it’s me. I’m unlocking the door. Agent Hanover is with me.”
Jordan entered the code. The heavy metal door to the Collectables vault clicked open. The two agents stood in the middle of the room, their weapons trained on the door as it swung open.
“Step inside, slowly,” Director Dunn said.
“What’s going on?” Jordan asked.
“It’s all right, Jordan,” Chris said. “Just do as he says.”
The two entered the room.
“Walk past us,” Carnevale said.
Chris and Jordan complied.
Dunn and Carnevale advanced past them, cleared the hallway, re-entered the room and holstered their weapons. “Sorry,” the Director said. “We needed to be sure you weren’t being forced to open the door at gunpoint.”
“I understand,” Jordan said.
The family emerged from behind a large wooden shipping crate in the corner of the room. Emma and Aiden heard their mothers voice and ran to her. “Mom!”
Jordan dropped to her knees, capturing the children in her arms. “Hi, babies,” she said. “Are you guys all right?”
“Yeah,” Aiden replied. He pointed to the remains of a shattered ceramic bowl on the floor. “Emma broke one of Grandpa’s antiques.”
“Me?” Emma exclaimed. “You’re the one who took it out of the box.”
“You’re the one who dropped it!”
“Which wouldn’t have happened if you’d left it on the shelf where it belonged!”
Aiden raised his hand, dismissed his sister. “Whatever,” he replied. “No big deal. There’s a whole pile of them in the box. No one’s going to miss one stupid bowl.”
Chris leaned over and whispered in Jordan’s ear. “That wasn’t just any old bowl, was it?”
Jordan shook her head. “It was an Asian Ding bowl from the Chinese Northern Song Dynasty.”
“Expensive?”
“It was valued at four hundred thousand dollars.”
Chris gasped. “Four hundred grand? For a bowl?”
“It wasn’t just any bowl. It was a piece of history.”
Blown away by the value of the insignificant looking piece, Chris shook his head. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll replace it for you.”
Jordan chuckled. “You will, huh?”
“Piece of cake.”
“And exactly how do you plan to do that?”
Chris smiled. “Give me a lump of modeling clay and a little water. I’ll whip you up a new one in no time. Shouldn’t cost more than five bucks.”
Jordan laughed. “Remind me to never let you near this room again.”
Hearing voices in the vault, the Hostage Rescue Team rounded the corner and entered the room. Dunn and Carnevale identified themselves. Dunn instructed the team to lower their weapons and stand down.
“Are the premises secure?” Dunn asked.
“Yes, sir,” the Commander replied.
“Fatalities?”
“Four. Two of ours, two of theirs.”
Dunn nodded. “Have your men escort the family out of here. Take a route around the deceased. I don’t want the children seeing the bodies.”
“Copy that.”
On the grounds of the estate the night was alive with the flashing lights of emergency medical service units and FBI sedans. The EMS attendants provided blankets to the family and assessed them individually. Other than the emotional trauma of the ordeal, all were reported to be in good health.
Hanover sat in the back of an ambulance. A paramedic gingerly removed his jacket, opened his shirt, and inspected the bullet wound. After checking on her family, Jordan stepped into the back of the ambulance and sat beside him. She looked at the wound. “Ouch,” she said. “That looks nasty.”
“It’s not so bad.” He turned, showed Jordan his back. “Bullet came out the other side. Give me a week and I’ll be as good as new.”
“A week?”
“Okay, maybe a month. Give me a break. I’ve never been shot before. Can’t say I’m liking it very much, either.”
“How’s the neck?”
“It only hurts when I talk.”
“Too bad. Audrey will be disappointed when she finds out you’ll be out of commission for a while.”
“Audrey?”
“Nurse Lane?” Jorda
n reminded him. “Angel of Mercy Hospital? My nurse? The one with the hots for you?”
Chris smiled. “Oh, that Audrey. It’s my shoulder that needs rest. The rest of me works just fine.”
Jordan laughed. “I’m sure it does.” She watched as law enforcement personnel came and went from the mansion. A coroner’s van pulled up to the front entrance. Two attendants exited the vehicle. Taking their instructions from the HRT Commander, the men opened the rear doors of the van and removed two steel gurneys. The bodies of Carter and Lehman, the agents tasked with protecting the grounds, were placed in the van. Moments later, a second van pulled in behind the first. The black-bagged bodies of James Rigel and Harrison Tasker were removed from the home. Jordan stepped out of the ambulance and watched the vehicles drive down the winding driveway and leave the property.
Chris eased into his shirt and jacket and stood beside her. “Don’t focus on them, Jordan,” he said. “Focus on your family.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
“I know.”
“I need answers, Chris. I need to know why this happened.”
“You’ll get them.”
“This was a professional assassination attempt. Someone ordered this.”
“We’ll find them, Jordan. Count on it.”
“What if you don’t? What if this isn’t over?”
“Your family will be under FBI protection for as long as it takes, until we make an arrest.”
Jordan’s voice broke. “I’m scared, Chris. Not for me, but for my kids.”
Hanover couldn’t think of an appropriate response. Instead, he put his good arm around her and provided her with what she needed the most that moment: compassion.
Jordan leaned into him. For the first time since being told by Dr. Tremaine that Keith had died, she cried.
Andrew Dunn and Grant Carnevale walked to the ambulance.
“You okay, honey?” Carnevale asked.
Jordan wiped away her tears. “I’ll be fine, Uncle Grant.”
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 22
