Taras set down his glass. “What are you talking about?”
“Long Beach campus is under siege. It’s happening right now.” He pointed at the screen. “Look.”
The KTLA news report was streaming live from behind the police barricade. In the corner of the screen, video footage shot earlier from the stations Skywatch helicopter played in a continuous loop. The buildings closest to the entrance of the campus had been demolished, utterly decimated. Flames licked at the ground. The powerful thrust of the chopper’s blades drew plumes of smoke up from the rubble and churned them high into the air. On the ground men and women ran for their lives. Others lay still.
Granger was at the campus!
Ashley Granger was an asset Taras couldn’t afford to lose. She had been brought into The Company personally by Marina Puzanova. Friends since childhood, Marina would surely want to meet with her during her visit. Though Taras believed he had surpassed Granger in terms of his importance to the organization, the services she provided were irreplaceable. For years she had managed to keep her double-life as an ultra-high-priced call girl and madam a secret from the University. Through an excruciatingly careful selection process, she had introduced some of the women on campus to The Company with promises of student loans paid off in months rather than years. Over time, Grangers network had grown into the hundreds. She now supplied the largest number of recruits to The Company in the western United States. Most of the women had chosen to leave their educational pursuits behind in favor of traveling the world and servicing the needs of The Company’s most discerning clientele.
It suddenly occurred to Taras why the Long Beach mathematics professor was late for their meeting. Could she have been caught up in the terror attack happening at the University? Or worse, be among the dead?
Taras tried to reach Ashley Granger on her cell phone.
Voicemail.
“When did this start?” Taras asked the barkeep.
“Half an hour ago. The details are still sketchy.”
Taras shifted uncomfortably on his bar stool. The semi-automatic pistol in his waistband pressed into his back and served to remind him of the gravity of his situation.
Marina Puzanova was inbound from Russia and probably intended to kill him.
The mysterious silver sedan that had been parked on the upper level of the parking garage across the street from his office had resumed its tail on the Ferrari as soon as Avel had driven it out of the building, confirming his suspicion that he was under surveillance. But by whom? He had assumed it was The Company. Could it have been the FBI? He remembered the earlier visit from the two agents who had tried to press him for details about his relationship with Rosenfeld. Were they building a case against him? Was it just a matter of time before they stormed his office and arrested him? Exactly how much did they know about his involvement with The Company and his relationship with Rosenfeld?
Taras suddenly felt like his entire world was about to collapse. The panic attack he experienced on the drive to the restaurant returned with a vengeance.
He made a decision. Leave now. Stay ahead of them all. The Company. The FBI. Marina Puzanova.
Eric Cantor cleaned and polished the bar as he watched the news, then returned to Gabby’s table.
Taras slid off the stool, picked up his briefcase, fished a twenty out of his wallet and slipped it under the glass. “Thanks for the drink.”
The bartender nodded.
Taras walked out of the bar and left the restaurant.
Screw Granger. Screw Puzanova. Screw them all. Let them fend for themselves.
A taxicab was parked in Caridad’s VIP parking area. Verenich opened the back door and jumped in.
“Take me to the private hangars at LAX,” he ordered the driver. “Elite Air.”
“That might take a while,” the cabbie answered. “Have you heard about…?”
“…the problem at the University,” Taras finished. “Who hasn’t?”
“It’s more than just a problem,” the cabbie said. “The whole place is…”
“Are we talking or driving?” Taras snapped.
The cabbie turned around. “Mister, as long as the meter keeps running, I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I’m just telling you traffic’s a mess.”
Taras pressed two one-hundred-dollar bills against the Plexiglas security window. “Get me there in half an hour and the money’s yours.”
The driver smiled. “Works for me.” The cab pulled away from the curb.
Taras opened his briefcase, removed his passport, and placed it in his jacket pocket.
Tonight, he would leave Taras Verenich behind in the United States. Taras Antipov would start a new life in Central America.
The anxiety he had felt in the bar began to ease, pent–up tension to leave his body.
Soon he would be in the air.
He felt pleased with himself. He had had the foresight to pay attention to his instincts and it had paid off.
On the radio, a talk show host blathered on about the situation at Cal State and ‘how I would handle these terrorist bastards if it were up to me.’
Taras tapped on the divider. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror.
“Does that thing play music?” Taras quipped.
The cabbie didn’t respond. He leaned forward and selected a soft rock music station.
Journey played ‘Don’t Stop Believin’.
Taras laid back, closed his eyes, and fantasized about better days ahead.
He could feel the warm Costa Rican sun on his face.
107
TERROR REIGNED ON the university campus as Merrick went in search of his target.
For months he had watched the youth, knew everything about him; his daily schedule, the buildings in which he attended class, local hangouts, extra-curricular activities. Ilya Puzanova attended Cal State University as a mathematics prodigy. He was also one of the most talented players on the Long Beach men’s basketball team, the 49ers. In the university sports complex, known as The Pyramid, a championship game was underway.
LAPD had cordoned off all roads leading into and out of the campus. Beyond the police barricade, an emergency triage station had been set up. Teams of paramedics busily attended to the wounded. On the road a cue of ambulances idled, waiting to transport the seriously injured to hospital.
Merrick walked calmly through the panicked crowd in the direction of the Pyramid. On his wrist, Channeler glowed. He could feel the energy of the device pulsing through his body. Incredible, he thought, this feeling of invincibility. Never in his life had he felt so fueled by hatred and motivated by revenge. He hungered for vengeance. Ahead, a student watched him approach. The girl froze mid-step and stared at Merrick, her pupils wide with fear. As Merrick walked closer, she began to tremble. Terrified of the stranger who had come into her life and proven himself to be capable of committing the most heinous acts, she lost her grip on her leather knapsack. The satchel slipped out of her fingers and dropped to the ground. A stream of urine ran down her legs and pooled at her feet. Her pretty face was gray, expressionless. The young woman’s legs gave out from under her. She fell to her knees.
Merrick walked up to the coed and placed his hand against the side of her face. Through Channeler, he sensed her thoughts. Her mind was busy processing her circumstances, helping her to rationalize the inevitable and accept her fate. Merrick experienced the rush of her blood as it drew away from her extremities and pooled in the center of her body; a physiological process to protect her vital organs in preparation for death.
Merrick picked up the woman’s knapsack and placed it in her hand. “I’m not here for you,” he said. He took her by the elbow, helped her to her feet and held her until she regained her balance and could stand on her own without assistance. The light began to return to her eyes. She refocused, took a shallow breath. Her body shuddered. A second, deeper breath followed the first.
“Can you walk?” Merrick asked.
The woman said
nothing.
“Try.”
Merrick slowly released his grip on her arm. The student took a tentative first step, then a second.
“You’ll be fine,” Merrick said. “Go. Live your life.”
The woman watched in stunned silence as Merrick walked away.
The Pyramid.
Above Merrick, a LAPD helicopter approached. The pilot angled the craft toward him, then descended and drifted closer, narrowing the distance between them. A sharpshooter readied himself in the open doorway and settled into position. As the officer steadied his rifle to fire, Merrick responded. A stream of energy left Channeler and struck the aircraft, tossing it wildly in the air. From the ground Merrick heard the steady meep-meep-meep of its operational warning system announcing the malfunction. Its tail rotor began to turn out of sync with the main rotor. The helicopter began to spin wildly in the air. Merrick watched as the pilot struggled with the joystick, fighting unsuccessfully to regain control of the falling aircraft. The bird plummeted from the sky and crashed on State University Drive, its shattered blades slicing through the air and lodging into the walls of the surrounding buildings. Thick gray smoke poured from the wreckage as Merrick approached the downed chopper. Its unconscious occupants made no sounds or displayed signs of life. An eerie silence settled over the crash site.
News of the attack had not yet reached the ravenous basketball fans inside the Pyramid. Merrick crossed the grounds. Around him lay the remains of the structures which had been decimated by Channeler together with the bodies of the fallen and the dead. Inside the Pyramid, the boisterous crowd chanted Long Beach! Long Beach! Long Beach! as they counted down the last seconds of play.
“9!... 8!... 7!”
From behind Merrick came a massive boom as the doomed police helicopter exploded, its death cry sending a plume of fire high into the evening sky.
“6!... 5!... 4!”
Merrick engaged Channeler and pointed it at the ground. The ground beneath his feet began to rumble.
“3!... 2!... 1!”
The blare of the game-ending siren marginally drowned out the roaring crowd.
Inside the Pyramid, the concrete floor of the sports complex began to vibrate and shake. Ceiling lights flickered. The eighteen story angular aluminum walls buckled, then split.
The congratulatory fanfare ceased.
Elation gave way to confusion.
Had an earthquake struck the campus?
Fearing the worse, the anxious crowd made their way to the exits and began pouring out the doors.
Nothing could have prepared them for what they saw.
Before the game, their campus had looked pristine, perfect, proud. Now the grounds were now covered in rubble. The smell of death hung in the air, and they found themselves facing a phalanx of police and emergency vehicles.
Sometime between tip-off and dropping the game-winning basket, California State University at Long Beach had become a war zone with the Pyramid Ground Zero.
The response was immediate.
Confusion morphed into panic.
Panic escalated into hysteria.
Hysteria gave birth to chaos.
The students fled the Pyramid and ran for cover wherever they could find it.
Merrick forced his way through the screaming crowd into the building. The coaches had gathered both teams at center court.
One player stood away from the rest of the team. He was looking up, examining the crumpled metal walls of the structure. The nameplate on the back of his jersey read PUZANOVA.
Merrick walked across the hardwood floor and grabbed Ilya.
Ilya struggled to break free as his coach and teammates ran to his aid. Merrick responded with Channeler. With a sweep of his hand, he threw the men off the court and onto the sidelines.
Coach Wallerston yelled to his players, “Get out! Run!” The shaken athletes scrambled to their feet and bolted for the exits.
Ilya Puzanova fought to break free of Merrick.
Merrick wheeled the frightened teen around, grabbed him by his throat and lifted him off the ground. Ilya gasped, choked, tried to kick and strike back, couldn’t. Merrick tightened his grip. The fight soon left him. The teen’s body relaxed.
Merrick dropped him. Ilya fell to his knees, grabbed his throat.
“Who are you,” Ilya gasped. “What do you want?”
“What I’ve wanted for years,” Merrick replied. “For your slut mother to watch you die.”
108
BEN EGAN STOOD on the front steps of the Molecular and Life Sciences Center and watched as the police helicopter spun out of control, fell from the sky, and crashed to the ground.
Students and faculty broke through the doors of MLSC and streamed past him, flooding the campus, screaming, and fleeing at the sight of the carnage.
Granger was here. Egan reviewed the download of the objective in his mind, saw the woman clearly, then turned and entered the building.
The halls were filled with faint whispers and hushed cries. Doors slammed around him as those too frightened to venture outside barricaded themselves inside classrooms, labs, offices, and meeting rooms.
Egan tested several door handles. All locked.
Wall signs provided direction to the Department of Mathematics and Statistics. At the end of the hall a reader plate read ‘Prof. Ashley Granger, Director.’
Egan turned the handle. The door opened freely.
The office was dark. Egan flipped the wall switch. Fluorescent ceiling lights flickered to life.
He stopped and listened. All quiet.
A mug of coffee sat on Granger’s secretary’s desk, still warm to the touch.
A second office door ahead: Granger’s private office.
Egan called out. “Dr. Granger?”
No reply.
He tried the door. Locked.
Egan stepped back. “I know you’re in there, Dr. Granger,” he said. “Please come out.”
Inside the room something fell to the floor, followed by the sound of scattering papers. A woman gasped.
“My colleague would like a word with you, Doctor.”
Egan tried the door handle again.
A woman’s voice called out. “Go away!”
The target Granger was inside.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Egan replied.
“I have a gun!” Ashley Granger yelled. Her voice shook. Fear challenged rage.
“And I’m sure you’ll use it,” Egan said. “But for your sake I’d prefer you didn’t.”
The bullet tore through the door and missed Egan’s head by inches.
Channeler glowed. Egan placed his palm against the door.
“I wanted to make this easy for you,” Egan said. “I guess that’s not going to be possible.”
The steel door to the professor’s office blew out from its frame. Egan stepped into the room. From beneath the safe cover of her desk Ashley Granger screamed, then sprang to her feet, leveled the weapon at Egan and pulled the trigger.
The gun failed to fire.
She pulled the trigger again and again and again yet was unable to execute a single shot. Finally, she stood frozen in fear, hands shaking, her body wholly incapacitated.
Egan walked up to the terrified woman, pried the weapon out of her hands and took her by the arm. “Come with me.”
Ashley Granger tried to resist. “I never wanted any part of this,” she said. She began to cry.
“Let’s go,” Egan said.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Be quiet.”
“I have money,” Granger pleaded, “Plenty of money. You can have it all. Just let me go. Please!”
“Not my concern.”
“Wait. Wait!” the mathematics professor begged. “I know things. Important things. About important people.”
“I’m just the courier lady,” Egan replied. He pulled the professor down the hallway.
“They call themselves ‘The Company!’”
“Stop.”
“I can take them down.”
“Quiet!” Egan said. He clasped his hand over her mouth.
A parabolic mirror, mounted on the wall at the end of the corridor, revealed the approach of a
six-man assault team. LAPD SWAT had begun a floor-by-floor sweep of the building.
Textbook, Egan thought.
The police officers rounded the corner, moving slowly, weapons at the ready.
Ashley Granger looked up, saw the advancing heavily armed tactical team.
She pulled away from Egan and used the only weapon available to her.
She screamed.
109
ILYA PUZANOVA SAT on the basketball court massaging his bruised throat. He looked up at Merrick. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said.
“Your whore mother murdered my daughter.”
“My mother… a murderer?” The teen scrambled to his feet. “You’re out of your damn mind, mister. My mother is a real estate broker.” Ilya leaned over, caught his breath. “The only thing she’s ever killed is a bottle of wine.”
“Ten years ago,” Merrick said.
Ilya regained his composure. He looked past Merrick. The Pyramid’s emergency exit doors were open. Clouds of dust billowed into the entranceway from outside the building. Loudspeakers announced unintelligible commands to the fleeing crowd.
“Ten years ago… what?”
“Her name was Paige,” Merrick said. “She was a student here. She’d just started to live her life.”
“Here?” Ilya said, “At Cal State?”
Merrick didn’t reply.
Shadows ran past the emergency doors, silhouetted against the streaming sunlight.
“She was beautiful,” Merrick continued, “just like her mother. She had the most incredible eyes. Blue as sapphires. No one could say no to Paige. She could have been a fashion model. But she wanted more. She was a gifted mathematician, just like you. Which brought her here. To Cal State. She wanted to study under Granger.”
“Dr. Granger?”
“The bitch Ashley Granger. She recruited Paige and introduced her to your mother.”
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 43
