Being given an order by someone she had never spoken to before and who had no direct authority over her whatsoever did not sit well with Ann Ridgeway. “Colonel…”
Hallier didn’t give her an opportunity to speak. He continued. “I also need you to call LAPD and enlist their help in an observe-and-report capacity only. Give me your email address. I’ll send you the targets file now.”
Target? The Assistant Director took a few seconds to cool off before complying with Hallier’s request.
“Thank you,” the Colonel said. “The file is on its way. I’m coming to your office right now. Clear your schedule. Be ready for me when I arrive. Give me thirty minutes.”
“Will anyone else be joining us, Colonel?” Director Ridgeway asked, perturbed by the demanding tone of the conversation. “CIA? NSA? The President?”
Hallier’s reply brought with it a measure of honesty and foreboding that disturbed her. “For everyone’s sake, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
En route to the FBI Field Office, Hallier placed a call to DARPA. “This is Colonel Quentin Hallier. I need an emergency security approval.”
“Level?” the voice asked
“Two.”
“Contact?”
“Ridgeway, Ann. Assistant Director in Charge, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles Field Office.”
“Full or restricted permissions?”
“Restricted.”
“Stand by.”
After a few seconds, the caller spoke. “Your request has been approved, Colonel.”
Hallier ended the call. The general’s words played in his mind: “This was your project. You had oversight on this, Quentin.”
Over the span of his military career, Hallier had witnessed more than his share of the atrocities that man was capable of dispensing against his fellow man. But that was war, soldier against soldier, controlled circumstances for the most part.
This was different.
Though the why of it remained a mystery, Jason Merrick had given every indication that he was about to take the Channeler and LEEDA projects to a whole new level. Was it possible that the most technologically advanced military weapons in the world were now in the hands of a madman? If that was true, the consequences were unfathomable.
There were only two possible outcomes. The first, take Merrick and Egan into custody. The second was to kill them both. The safe recovery of Channeler and LEEDA was paramount. The lives of the two men would be a small sacrifice to pay to ensure the safety of the American people.
Hallier looked out his window as he traveled along the freeway. In the car beside him a young family laughed and carried on, living their lives as they should, free of worry and fear.
A little girl smiled and waved at him from the back seat of the car.
Hallier smiled, waved back.
If only they knew of the incredible danger in their midst.
The office of the FBI was less than twenty minutes away.
Perhaps in rallying their support this whole ugly mess could be put to rest within the next twenty-four hours.
Hallier slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
The government town car lurched ahead and rocketed along the interstate.
74
THE RUSSIAN MADAM was quiet. The unknown caller had gained access to her private line. Considering how frequently she changed her number this was not an easy task. Marina Puzanova listened. Wealthy and powerful men had been sharing their secrets with her all her life, usually after sex. From that she had learned three valuable lessons: say little, listen more, and make notes of the most intimate and pertinent details of the conversation. The latter could be used to extort vast fortunes from them, in exchange for her silence, at a later point in time, should the need arise. There was tension and hostility in his voice, which told her he was nervous, therefore not a professional. But why shouldn’t he be nervous? Surely, he knew that in dealing with her he was dealing with The Company. Only a fool would be bold enough to reach out to her like this. Any man pitiful enough to attempt to entrap her in a telephone conversation, much less accuse her of murder, was indeed enjoying his last breath. He simply did not know it yet.
Marina opened a telephone conversation recording app on her phone. She would extract as much information as she could from the caller. Later, she would share what she had learned with her superiors. The caller would be found and dealt with in the appropriate manner.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Marina said. “It seems you know me. But I have no idea who you are.”
“Who I am is unimportant.”
“Perhaps not to you.”
“Yes, I know who you are,” the caller said. “More accurately, I know what you are and what you did.”
Fear of loss, Marina thought. Press him. Force him to get to the point.
“I’m sorry,” Marina said. “I’m not prepared to pursue this discussion any further. Goodbye.”
“Ten years ago!” the caller yelled. His voice had started strong but quickly weakened to a whisper. It broke with the final word.
It worked. It always did. Marina waited for the caller to speak. His breathing was heavy. In the background waves crashed, seagulls cried.
Get him talking.
“Why are you calling me?” Marina asked. “I’ve made it clear that I don’t know you.”
The caller’s words were poison dipped. “You will come to know me very soon,” the man said. “I’m going to take everything and everyone away from you, starting with your business.”
Marina was not easily rattled, but the pain and conviction in his voice managed to silence her.
“Your operation is over. Done.”
“Operation?” Marina said. “What you are talking about? I don’t have an oper--.”
“I know about the girls, the transfer points in Los Angeles, Miami, Moscow, Riga, Minsk, Tokyo, Abu Dhabi. Your connection to Russian organized crime. The Company. All of it.”
Marina turned off the recording app. She had heard enough. She settled back in her seat, made herself comfortable, sipped her latte.
“You know,” Marina said, “in certain cultures there are lines a person is best advised never to cross. To do so is to upset the natural order of things. Russia is one such country. You must know the information
you just shared with me has now placed you well over that line.”
“I’m going to take it all apart in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.”
Marina laughed. “I really don’t think so.”
“I’ll start with your company…”
“Bold threats for one man.”
“…and end with you.”
“How entertaining.”
The caller paused. “Tell me, is Ilya enjoying his studies at Cal State? He has a girlfriend now. Did you know that? Pretty little thing. They spend a lot of time together. Mostly in Marina del Ray and Santa Monica.”
The smoothness of the latte did nothing to alleviate the dryness Marina suddenly felt in her throat. She wanted to speak but couldn’t. Her son. How did he know about Ilya?
“I don’t hear you laughing anymore.”
“Poshel na khui!” Marina yelled. “Fuck you!”
The line went dead.
Marina stared at the phone.
75
THE “BIG THREE” had arrived at the murder house. CNN, FOX NEWS and MSNBC mobile broadcast satellite trucks lumbered into position and stopped outside the iron gates of the Rosenfeld mansion.
Jordan and Chris stepped out of the FBI Mobile Command Unit. A reporter from FOX called out from behind the barricade. Her cameraman focused his camera squarely on Chris.
“Agent,” the woman yelled. “What progress has been made in the investigation so far? Do you have a suspect yet? How bad is the crime scene?”
Chris started to walk toward the reporter. Jordan grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t,” she said. “She’s not worth it. None of them are.”
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sp; Agent Janet Lynch stepped in front of the two agents. She smiled and addressed the journalists, “I’ll be happy to give you a statement,” she said, then turned and warned Chris. “Don’t even think about talking to the press, Agent Hanover.”
“Maybe we should escort her inside,” Chris said to Jordan as they walked away. “Show her what a murder scene looks like up close and personal. Give her the full backstage pass. But first I’m going to set the timer on my phone. Because once we get upstairs and she meets the Rosenfeld’s I’ll bet it won’t be more than five seconds before she pukes her guts up.”
“Rein it in, Chris,” Jordan said. “We’ve got more important things to worry about right now than her.”
“The flash drive and the computer.”
“Precisely.”
Chris and Jordan found Agent Hawkins sitting behind the Chippendale desk in the waiting room outside the entrance to the master bedroom.
“What have you got for us, genius?” Jordan asked.
Hawkins motioned for them to take a chair on either side of the desk and settle in beside him.
“Lots,” he replied. “I’ve been trying to wrap my head around this for the last hour. But now I think I know what we have here. Let me start with the flash drive.”
Hawkins plugged the drive into the computer. The file labeled “AWP” flashed onto the screen.
“I still don’t know what AWP stands for yet,” Hawkins continued, “but that’s not important right now. This is what’s important.”
He opened the file. Five alphanumeric lines, the entire contents of the file, appeared on the screen.
“Look at first line: DM 14PFnFlenmalGdqFNkdGkajnsDh6JnrFks. It starts with two letters, then a space, and is followed by an alphanumeric code. It was those first two letters that kept throwing me off.”
“How’s that?” Jordan asked.
“I thought they were part of the code. They’re not. I believe they’re identifiers for that particular string of code.”
“Meaning? Chris asked.
“Each of the identifiers is separate from the rest of the code. Like this one, starting with ‘DM.’ Each varies in length. The shortest is twenty-four characters long, the longest thirty-four.
“And that tells you what?” Jordan asked.
“My guess? These are Bitcoin keys.”
“Bit-what?” Chris said.
“Bitcoin keys are account numbers generally used to facilitate financial transactions on the Internet between electronic wallets,” Hawkins explained. “Bitcoin is money, just like regular currency. It’s a popular means of transferring funds from one account to another between criminal organizations on the Dark Web. Each of these character codes meets the criteria for a Bitcoin address. A second key is required to withdraw the money from the account. All Bitcoin transactions are encrypted.”
“Can we open these accounts and see what’s in them?” Chris asked.
“Not without knowing the private keys,” Hawkins replied. “I think these are just the public account keys. My guess is that the identifier signifies who the account belongs to. But truthfully, VT, RI, GA, PM and HJ could mean just about anything.”
“So, the question remains,” Jordan said. “What reason would the killer have to put this drive in Dr. Rosenfeld’s mouth?”
“Because he wants us to open those accounts,” Chris suggested. “Maybe there’s something going on in the good doctor’s life that he didn’t want the world to know about.”
“Probably,” Hawkins said. He removed the flash drive from the laptop, opened the main drive containing two files labeled Account 1 and Account 2, and resized them so that they appeared side-by-side on the computer screen.
“There are pictures of hundreds of girls in these files,” he continued. “No names, just pictures and corresponding codes. I think I know what this might be.”
“Me too,” Chris said.
“A shopping list,” Jordan said.
76
BEN EGAN WATCHED the silhouettes enter through the receiving door at the back of the factory.
The group yelled, screamed, and tested the factory walls for echo.
“I told you guys this place was cool!” one of the men yelled as he ran into the plant. He picked up an object from the floor and threw it. One of the windows shattered.
“Yeah,” one of the others replied. “The Sons of Satan used this place as their clubhouse for a while.” He football-kicked an empty paint can. The container sailed through the air nearly the entire length of the factory, bounced along the floor, and spun to a stop in front of the pallets behind which Egan was hiding.
“Those guys used to do all kinds of weird shit in here,” still another called out. “Animal sacrifices, devil worship, all sorts of stuff. My uncle’s a cop. He talked about them all the time. Said every last one of those guys was bat-shit crazy.”
Not professionals, Egan thought. Teenagers. Local toughs. Wannabe thugs.
The burliest of the men and apparent leader of the group stepped out from the shadows and crossed the factory floor to where an old furniture inspection station stood.
He barked an order at one of the men. “Get over here. Grab an end. Move it over there.”
Together they slid the heavy wooden table aside. Remnants of old cloth and cotton batting covered the floor where the table had been situated. The leader kicked away the refuse. “This is what we came for,” he said.
A bright beam of sunlight poured in through a cluster of windows that somehow had remained relatively free of dirt and grime and placed a spotlight on the area where they stood. A five-point pentagram was etched into the concrete floor. A horned goat’s head stared up at the men from the middle of the satanic symbol. The words ‘ETERNALLY S.O.S’ surrounded the pentagram.
“Holy shit, Colin! You knew this was here?”
“Yeah. My brother rode with Sons of Satan ‘til he got sent upstate,” the leader replied. “He told me about it. He and the guys used to have what they called ‘coming of age’ parties here.” Colin talked about his brother’s experiences with the motorcycle gang as though they had been his own.
The smallest kid in the group spoke up. “What’s a coming-of-age party?”
Colin smirked at the kid then shook his head, as if to infer he was stupid for not understanding the term. “S.O.S would bring their new prospects here. They’d tell them there was going to be a huge party… strippers, booze, coke, weed…whatever they wanted. Everybody was gonna get laid and get wasted. Except that was never the plan. Instead, they’d get jumped in, right here, on this very spot.”
“Jumped in?” the same kid asked.
“They’d get the crap beat out of them. Fuck them up a little. Not so much that they couldn’t walk or talk... nothing that bad. They’d make them swear their allegiance to the club... called it ‘becoming eternally S.O.S.’ Then they’d make a blood bond. The new prospects had to do something that bound them to the club for life.”
“Like what?” the kid asked.
“They’d send out a full-patch member to pick up a hooker and bring her back here. The guys would take turns partying with her. Then sometime before daybreak…”
Colin walked over to the wooden fabrication station. He removed a black-handled knife from a leather scabbard that had been fastened to the underside of the table.
“…they’d have a blood sacrifice. They’d force the prospect to kill her with this dagger while the rest of them watched. A whole club full of witnesses… a blood bond.”
Colin opened the drawer of the table and removed a cloth bag. He opened it and took out its contents: five black candles, several books of matches, a silver bell, and a black leather-bound book. He laid the items out on the table.
“What are you doing?” the kid asked.
“Shut up, Kevin,” Colin said. He knelt, placed a candle on each point of the pentagram and lit the wicks.
Kevin protested. “I don’t like this, Colin.” The boy was scared. “Not one bit.”
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“I said shut up!” Colin yelled. He stood and motioned to the teen on his right. “Get the little shit out of my sight, Jacob.”
Jacob grabbed Kevin by the collar and held him tight. Kevin tried to struggle free, but it was no use. He was no match for the much stronger Jacob.
Colin picked up the silver bell and rang it once. The clear tone resonated throughout the factory. He turned it counterclockwise to signify the commencement of the ritual.
“It’s time,” Colin said.
The teens gathered around the pentagram. Jacob locked Kevin’s arm behind his back, held him tight.
“Where is she?” Colin asked.
“Waiting at the back door,” Jacob said. “She said the place creeps her out.”
Colin walked to the table, picked up the black book, slipped the dagger into his belt. He turned to Lenny, his second in command.
“Get her.”
Lenny nodded. He turned and headed toward the receiving area at the back of the factory.
“No!” Kevin struggled to break free of Jacob, couldn’t. Lenny clamped his hand tightly over his mouth, muffling his words as he tried to scream. “Rnnn, Laurrrnnn! Rnnnnn!”
From the back of the factory, Lauren thought she heard her brother’s muffled cry. She called out. “Kevin? You okay?”
Kevin bit down hard. Jacob screamed and pulled back his hand. Kevin shoved him aside and yelled. “Lauren! Get out of here now! Run Lauren… Run… RUN!”
Kevin heard his sister scream.
“Lenny, you asshole,” Lauren said. “Take your hands off me! Let… me… go!”
Lenny walked back toward the group, pulling Lauren by her hair, holding her at arm’s length. Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks.
Colin looked at him. “What’s wrong with you? Bring her over here!”
Lenny didn’t reply.
“Jesus, Lenny! I said…”
Lenny pointed past the group.
At the back of the factory a man stood in the shadows. He stepped into the light.
“Let the girl go,” he called out.
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 31
