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

by Gary Winston Brown

  “Go ahead, Agents,” Hallier said. “Chief Jenkins and I will sort this out.”

  Jordan and Chris walked around the numbered evidence location markers. One of Jenkins officers was busy photographing the scene from different angles.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Chris said. “Go do your thing.”

  Hanover identified himself to the officer and began questioning him about the day’s events.

  Jordan walked to the Dumpster and ran her fingers along its chipped surface.

  Two men… one older, the other much younger… anger mixed with calm… immense energy. Jordan felt her body begin to tremble, come alive. Massive extremes of expansion and contraction, alternating one second to the next… as if the molecular bonds that held her body together no longer complied with the immutable laws of science. The sensation was as if every nerve ending had suddenly short-circuited, the life-maintaining synapse-to-synapse electrical conduction made impossible. Death followed darkness.

  Drawn by a pungent smell not coming from inside the container, Jordan drew her hand away from the garbage bin. A large tarp, surrounded by numbered yellow tent markers, covered an area of the crime scene. Jordan knelt and placed her hand above it. The area smelled like rotting flesh. Her gift revealed that human remains had been rolled up into a section of carpet and thrown into the bin. The evidence under the tarp offered the same psychic reading as that from within the Dumpster. The victim had been transferred from there to here. The latent energy signature was male.

  The reading, however, was confusing. Several energy forces fought for dominance over her psychic senses. The victim’s signature was clear. But two additional signatures were also present and appeared to be layered, one atop the another. But this was impossible. Dead or alive, two energy signatures could not occupy the same body at the same time. However, this was the world-between-worlds where the laws of man did not apply. Jordan concentrated harder and drew a weak match to one of the two signatures. The sensation was close but not identical to the energy signature of the killer which she had felt in the Rosenfeld’s bedroom. Similar, but not the same. Whoever murdered this victim shared a profound energetic connection to the Rosenfeld’s killer. Jordan toyed with the hypothesis that there might be two killers, twins perhaps, identical, or fraternal, then quickly dismissed that theory. She had assisted the police with cases involving twin serial killers in the past. She knew what genetically shared psychic signatures felt like. That was not the case here.

  The Assistant Director called out and motioned for her and Chris to join her as Chief Jenkins stepped outside the barrier. Chris thanked the officer for his time and joined his partner.

  “Anything?” Ridgeway asked.

  “I felt the presence of the Rosenfeld’s killer here,” Jordan said. “But he didn’t kill Chief Jenkins victim. Someone else did. The energy signature of Jenkins UNSUB is very close, but not the same. There’s a connection between them. But I don’t know what it is.”

  Chris added. “Also, the manner of death is entirely different. Our guy shot the Rosenfeld’s - very precise, very professional. Plus, he made a big deal about setting up the crime scene, from leaving flowers everywhere to concealing a flash drive in Rosenfeld’s mouth.” He pointed to the officer standing behind him. Ridgeway watched the man lift a corner of the tarp and examine the ground beneath it. “That cop says the remains of their guy looked like it’d been put through a juicer. All that was left were bits and pieces.”

  Jordan, Chris, and Ridgeway exited the crime scene and walked into the parking lot. Jenkins and Hallier stood beside the black Porsche. They continued to argue.

  “Looks like Jenkins isn’t taking the news about having to hand over his investigation to the Department of Defense very well,” Ridgeway said. “I’ll inform Colonel Hallier about what you read at the scene. This is his show now. There are unusual circumstances surrounding this case that you’ll both need to be read in on. But they’re matters of national security. And that information has to come from Colonel Hallier, not me.”

  “Understood, ma’am,” Jordan said.

  “Good.”

  Ridgeway looked at the two men. The confrontation between Chief Jenkins and Colonel Hallier was getting heated. “Someone needs to send those two to their respective corners before we end up with another homicide on our hands. Better give me a minute.”

  Chief Jenkins was irate. He walked away from the Colonel, stormed past Jordan, Chris, and Ridgeway, said nothing, barked something into his radio about ‘standing down until scientists from the Department of Defense arrive’ and marched around the barrier into the crime scene.

  Hallier joined the agents.

  “Everything all right?” ADC Ridgeway asked the Colonel.

  Hallier rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about the Chief. He’ll be fine. He’s just trying to see how high up the tree he can piss.” He changed the subject. “The Assistant Director informs me you have a very unique talent, Agent Quest.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jordan replied.

  Hallier pointed to the Porsche. “See that car? It belongs to one of the men we’re looking for, Dr. Jason Merrick. I think he may be responsible for killing Jenkins’ victim. I need to find Merrick and another man who may be with him, Commander Ben Egan. Think you can help me with that?”

  “Of course, Colonel.”

  “All right, then. Let’s get to it.”

  98

  HOW HAD THE FBI connected him to Rosenfeld?

  Taras Verenich’ efforts to subdue his rising panic was proving to be an exercise in futility. His palms were soaked with sweat. His heart pounded with such ferocity he feared he might go into cardiac arrest at any second.

  He had to get out of Los Angeles, fast. He was suddenly on the radar of the FBI. Which meant something had gone terribly wrong. The agents had asked if he knew Itzhak Rosenfeld. If they were asking questions about his connection to the philanthropist what else did they know? Had The Company been compromised? Were preparations already underway to make changes in the American operation? Marina was on her way from Russia at this very moment. The purpose of her trip was two-fold: to meet with him, and to deal with the mysterious stranger who had threatened to harm both her and her son. But was her visit just a ruse? Perhaps she had been instructed to come to America for the express purpose of killing him and to tie up any loose ends which The Company had deemed to be necessary. Had he become a loose end?

  Taras pressed a button under his desk. A framed Norman Rockwell painting located above his credenza slid up the wall on a hidden track, exposing a wall safe. Verenich punched in the electronic combination. The door clicked open.

  Taras placed his briefcase on his desk, opened the latches, then turned his attention to the safe.

  He removed several passports, excellent quality fakes he had commissioned shortly after he joined The Company. He tossed them into the case along with a notebook labeled CONTINGENCY. The details of every meeting and telephone call he had ever had with Marina was recorded in the book. It was his book of secrets about The Company; an insurance policy he could sell to the highest bidder, if and when taking such action should become necessary. His every instinct was telling him now was the time to cash out. He grabbed several bundles of cash and a burner phone from the safe, threw the items in the briefcase, locked it, placed the case under his desk and pressed the button beneath his desk again. The painting returned to its home position on the wall.

  Taras picked up the phone and buzzed Avel.

  “Yes, Mr. Verenich?”

  “The package?” he said. “Do you have it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Bring it to my office.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Avel stepped into Taras’ office carrying a small box under his arm. He closed the office door and handed the parcel to the lawyer.

  “How much?” Taras asked.

  “A grand, plus another two-hundred for the extras.”

  Taras opened the box and inspected the
order: a fully loaded Colt semi-automatic 9mm handgun, four pre-loaded clips and six boxes of ammunition.

  “Satisfactory?” Avel asked.

  Taras nodded. He returned the items to the box. “One more thing.”

  “Of course.”

  “The Ferrari is parked in the underground. You know my detailer?”

  “Coventry’s?”

  “Yes. I’ll be out for a while. Run it over there. Tell them I want the works. Interior and exterior cleaning, vacuum, wet gloss polish. I’ll pick it up later.”

  “Certainly.”

  “And use the west exit when you leave the building, not the east.”

  Avel laughed. “What difference does it matter which exit I --?”

  Taras snapped at him. “The west exit, Avel.”

  Avel nodded. “Of course, sir. The west exit. My apologies.”

  Taras handed him the ignition fob to his Ferrari 488. “You better get moving. I’m already running late.”

  “Right away, sir,” Avel said. He left the room.

  Taras removed the gun from the box, slipped on his blazer, shoved the weapon into his waistband and placed a clip in each coat pocket. He walked across his office, stood out of sight beside the window, peered through the blinds at the street below, and waited.

  A minute later, Avel exited the underground parking lot from the west side of the building, as instructed. Taras listened to the whine of the Ferrari as Avel slowed at the exit, then heard it scream to life as he sped up the road, racing through the amber traffic light. Across the street, the surveillance team witnessed the Ferrari leave the building and speed up the road. The Mercedes squealed out of its parking space, raced down the ramp to the first level, tore out of the parking structure, then braked hard at the red light. When the traffic light turned green the sedan raced up the road in pursuit of the sports car.

  Taras waited until the car was out of sight. He walked to his desk, picked up the phone, and placed a call.

  “Elite Air.”

  “I need to book a jet.”

  “Your account number, please?”

  “TA-24-1667.”

  A pause, then, “Thank you, Mr. Antipov. When and where, sir?”

  Taras almost corrected the Elite Air service rep when he addressed him by his false surname, Antipov.

  “Tonight. Los Angeles to Costa Rica. Direct.”

  “Number in your party?”

  “Just me.”

  “Very good, sir. You’re confirmed for 9:00 P.M. departure. Would you like your ticket emailed to you?”

  “I’ll pick it up at the counter.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Antipov,” the rep said. “We’ll see you soon. Thank you for choosing Elite--”

  Verenich hung up the phone, reached under his desk, grabbed the briefcase.

  He would leave the country tonight following his meeting with Ashley Granger and get out before everything hit the fan. If Marina Puzanova was being sent from Russia to kill him he’d make sure she never got the chance. If the purpose of her visit was legitimate, to find and eliminate the threat to her son, then she would have to fend for herself. One way or the other, Taras was determined to stay one step ahead of The Company and the FBI. And stay alive.

  “I’m out for the evening, Elena,” Taras said as he walked past his receptionist and pressed the elevator call button.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The doors separated. Taras stepped inside.

  Elena called out. “When shall I say you’ll be back?”

  The doors rumbled closed. The elevator descended to the main floor.

  From behind the lobby window Taras surveyed the street

  No sign of the shadow team or the Mercedes.

  He stepped out of the building onto the sidewalk. A Yellow Cab was parked across the street. Verenich flagged the driver. The roof light turned on. The driver made a quick U-turn and pulled up to the curb. Verenich jumped in.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked.

  “Caridad’s,” Taras answered. “You know the place?”

  “Sure do.”

  The driver spun around. Taras watched the gleaming building disappear behind him. He knew he would probably never set eyes on it again.

  As he lifted the briefcase from the seat beside him it slipped out of his hands and fell hard on the floor of the cab. The cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror.

  “Sorry,” Taras said. “Butterfingers.”

  The cabbie returned his attention the road.

  Taras picked up the briefcase.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.

  99

  JORDAN’S PHONE RANG as she inspected the Porsche. Agent Hawkins was calling back.

  “Go ahead, Hawk,” Jordan said. “You’re on speaker with Chris.”

  “Cyber got back to me with more info on the flash drive,” Hawkins said. “The account numbers do, in fact, belong to Bitcoin accounts.”

  “The Internet-based currency you talked about,” Chris said.

  “Precisely,” Hawkins said. “We’ve expedited a warrant. These guys don’t exactly have a stellar reputation when it comes to cooperating with the authorities.”

  “So we have names?”

  “Yes,” Hawkins replied. “Remember how each of the account numbers was preceded by two letters? Those were identifiers; the first initial of the last name, followed by the first initial of the first name. One of the files belongs to Dr. Rosenfeld – ‘RI,’ aka Rosenfeld, Itzhak.”

  “And the others?” Jordan asked.

  “DM belongs to Dowd, Michael; ‘HJ’ to Harper, Julie…”

  She turned to Chris, “The victims in the El Segundo murders: Michael Dowd and Julie Harper. The strip club owner and his manager.

  “Somehow they’re all connected,” Chris said.

  “There are three more names,” Hawkins said. “Taras Verenich, who we already know has a relationship of some kind with Rosenfeld. The other accounts belong to Ashley Granger and Marina Puzanova for a total of six.”

  “But no account for Zahava Rosenfeld,” Chris said.

  “No,” Hawkins said. “Which means one of two things. Either she was collateral damage or she’s neck-deep in this with her husband.”

  “We need to find Verenich,” Jordan said. “He’s the only one on the list whom we know for sure is still alive.”

  “So far, anyway,” Chris said.

  “I’m willing to bet he knows who killed the Rosenfeld’s,” Jordan said. “Probably Dowd and Harper, too. What about the file name, Hawk? Any idea what ‘AWP’ means?”

  “Not yet.”

  “First Dowd and Harper, then Rosenfeld,” Chris said. “If Verenich has been targeted we need to find him and get him into protective custody right away.”

  “The other names, Granger and Puzanova,” Jordan asked. “What do we know about them?”

  “No record for either name came up in the NCIC database search,” Hawk replied. “There are half a million Ashley Granger’s living in the United States. Far fewer Puzanova’s. Cyber is also checking social media for any links to our victims.”

  “Besides Verenich, Granger and Puzanova, all the account holders listed on the drive are dead,” Jordan said. “And the jury’s still out as to whether or not Granger and Puzanova are still alive.”

  “Let’s hope neither of them catches a bullet before we find them,” Chris said.

  Jordan thought about the crime scene behind her and the liquefied remains of Jenkin’s victim.

  “Or worse,” she said.

  100

  TWO FIRE TRUCKS and an ambulance followed closely behind Laguna Beach police units as they arrived at the accident scene. On the beach, the driver of the first car to have lost control crawled out the window of his wrecked vehicle. Behind him, the engine compartment of the second car erupted into flames. Inside the vehicle, two small children screamed and beat their tiny fists against the passenger windows while their unconscious parents lay slumped in their seat
s, oblivious to the imminent danger facing their precious family.

  Although the arrival of the emergency services had successfully diverted police attention away from the Suburban, access to the vehicle remained impossible. Entry and exit from the parking lot was blocked by fire trucks. Merrick watched a team of firefighters deploy a water hose from their truck and run down the embankment to the burning car, dousing the flames, breaking out the windows and pulling the children to safety, then wrench open the car doors to allow paramedics access to the trapped parents. On the driver’s side of the vehicle the children’s father was being cautiously extricated from the car and eased onto a backboard, his neck and body immobilized for safe transport up the hill to the waiting ambulance. On the passenger side of the car, a paramedic squeezed her way into the crushed compartment and pressed her fingers against the woman’s neck, checked for a pulse, then moved her stethoscope across her chest, listening for a cardiac or respiratory response, found none. The paramedic looked at the police officers and firemen standing beside the car and shook her head.

  Ellie stood with her hand clasped over her mouth, then broke into tears. “Those poor, poor people,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Merrick replied. “Shame.”

  Long Beach.

  Merrick walked around the corner of the shop. A footpath paralleled the road below the view of oncoming traffic. Egan had received his instructions and would be on his way. He would meet him there. There was no time to waste.

  The police had found the contractor’s truck. Which meant they had probably also found his remains at the back of the shopping center in Corona. Merrick assumed that by now all hell had broken out at Dynamic Life Sciences. DARPA was looking for him, as too was probably every other police agency in the country.

  He picked up his pace, ran up the footpath to the sidewalk, rounded the bend, and crossed the road. The traffic behind him had come to a complete stop. Ahead, he heard the excited sound of children splashing in a pool.