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

by Gary Winston Brown

  Marina reached for the door handle. The electronic locks engaged.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  The agents walked to either side of the car and stood at the open windows. Each of the men wore latex gloves on their hands. From their jackets they retrieved their Company issued Tokarev pistols, each fitted with a sound suppressor, and unloaded their clips into the Russian madam. Marina’s body flailed in the back seat of the car as the bullets tore through her body. Having emptied the rounds from their weapons into their target, the assassin’s lowered their guns. One of the gunmen raised the windows, then shut off the engine and remote-locked the doors.

  Walking to the opposite end of the parking garage, one of the killers dropped the key fob to the death car down an open drainpipe, then opened the doors to the silver Mercedes. The two men got in the car and left the airport.

  Clear of the exit gate, the passenger placed a phone call.

  “Yes?”

  “Your package arrived, sir.”

  “When?”

  “Twenty minutes ago.”

  “What condition is it in?”

  “Damaged.”

  “How bad?”

  “Irreparably.”

  “And the second package?”

  “We’re tracking it now.”

  “Let me know when you’ve got it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “The Los Angeles office is to be closed. Please inform the staff.”

  “Understood.”

  The call disconnected.

  The driver accelerated and headed for the freeway.

  Traffic into downtown Los Angeles was lighter than usual.

  121

  THE TWO MEN entered the office of Verenich Law and presented their identification to the receptionist. Elena greeted them.

  “FBI,” the first man said. “Taras Verenich, please.”

  Elena smiled. “Two visits from the FBI in as many days,” Elena said. “I hope no one here is in trouble!”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Just kidding,” Elena said. “Two of your colleagues dropped by yesterday.”

  “When was this?”

  “Late afternoon.”

  “What time?”

  “4:00 P.M., I think.”

  “Who did they ask for?”

  “Mr. Verenich.”

  “Did he meet with them?”

  “Briefly, yes.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  Elena shifted uncomfortably in her chair at the odd question. “Why would Mr. Verenich share that information with me?”

  The second man spoke. “Who were they? What were their names?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t recall.”

  “You keep track of visitors, right?” the second man said. “Show me your log.”

  The tone of the conversation had changed, become interrogative. Elena was accustomed to dealing with the occasional upset client and had been instructed never to tolerate rude behavior for a second.

  “Perhaps you could tell me the purpose of your visit,” she said.

  “Where’s Verenich?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your boss,” the first man pressed. “Where is he?”

  Elena nervously arranged the file folders on her desk. “I’m afraid Mr. Verenich is not in the office today.”

  “When will he be back?” the man said.

  Elena felt her blood pressure start to rise. “It’s not my job to keep tabs on my boss,” she said.

  The man leaned over the counter and put his hand on top of the files. “Don’t get smart with me lady.”

  “With you?” Elena replied. “Trust me, if I were to get smart with you it would be an unfair contest.” She pushed the man’s hand aside. “Mr. Verenich left the office yesterday afternoon, right after talking with two of your associates. He said he would be out of the office today on personal business and that he would be unreachable. I have no idea when he will be returning.”

  “We’d like to see his office,” the second man said.

  “I’m sorry,” Elena said, “I can’t permit that.”

  The man smiled. “We’re not asking for your permission.”

  Elena leaned back in her chair. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “You’re very charming and all, and much better looking than your friend. But I’m sure you read the sign on the door on your way in. This is a law office. You may find this a little hard to believe, but around here we actually know a thing or two about the law. So unless you have a court order to search the premises, this counter is as far as you go.” Elena’s phone rang. “I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Verenich you stopped by.” She reached for the receiver.

  The second man leaned over the desk, placed his finger on the button and disconnected the call.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Elena snapped.

  The man picked up the receiver. “Call Verenich.”

  Elena crossed her arms. “Your visit is over gentlemen,” she said. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  “I won’t ask a third time.”

  “That’s it,” Elena said. She held out her hand. “Give me your credentials. I’m calling your office.”

  “No problem,” the man replied. He opened his jacket, removed his silencer-fitted pistol, and shot Elena twice; one bullet between her eyes, the second through her heart. Thwup… thwup.

  Elena’s head jerked back with the first shot, fell forward with the second. The shooter walked around the reception desk, lifted the dead woman’s body out of her chair, rolled it under the desk and slid the chair back into place. Cast-off blood and brain matter speckled the floor behind her.

  The assassins moved through the office quickly and efficiently.

  Seated at a conference table, Verenich’s support team became their first victims. Thwup! thwup! thwup! thwup! thwup! thwup! thwup! Less than five seconds. Seven staff members, all wiped out.

  In the supplies room, one of the clerks was busy making photocopies while a second filed the printed documents into white three-ring binders. They looked up as the strangers entered the room and fired their weapons. Both men fell dead.

  In the vault, Verenich’s admin staff were pulling files to be sent out for digital imaging. Two bullets ended their conversation and their lives.

  A male voice called out from the office on the opposite end of the floor. “Elena?”

  The men stopped, listened, and determined the man’s location.

  Corner office.

  Verenich?

  They raised their weapons and advanced down the corridor in the direction of the voice.

  The man called out again. “Elena, you there?”

  Footsteps coming toward them. The assassins waited.

  The man stepped out of the office, saw the strangers and their guns, and turned to run. Thwup! The first bullet ripped through his leg. Thwup! The second round found its mark in the small of his back. He fell across the threshold of Taras’ office, tried to crawl inside. The shooter walked up to him and pushed his foot into the bullet hole in his leg. The clerk screamed.

  The first man opened his cell phone, looked at the picture he had been emailed of their second target, showed it to his partner and shook his head. “It’s not him,” he said. The shooter pressed the hot muzzle of the silencer into the base of the fallen man’s neck.

  “Verenich. Where is he?”

  The man tried to move, couldn’t. The second bullet had left him paralyzed. He struggled to speak. “I don’t know!”

  “Who are you?”

  “Holt… J-James Holt. I’m just a clerk,” he said.

  “Bullshit. The burn box. Where is it?”

  “The what?” The shooter pressed the tip of the silencer against Holt’s temple. “I swear to God I don’t know anything about a burn box!” Holt cried. “All I know is Mr. Verenich has a safe.”

  “Where?”

  The man tried to po
int. “On the wall. Behind the picture.”

  “What’s the code?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Thwup! A third bullet tore through Holt’s shoulder. He screamed. The gunman pressed the silencer against the back of his head. “You sure about that?” he said.

  “4-9-2-8!”

  To his partner, the gunman indicated the Rockwell painting mounted on the wall behind Taras’ desk. “Try it.”

  The man walked into the office, ripped the painting off its wall track and exposed the safe. Verenich’s burn box, the repository in which he was required to keep all files about Company matters, would be locked safely inside it.

  His partner entered the code. The door clicked open. The burn box sat on the bottom shelf.

  “Got it.”

  “Get the files.”

  The man pulled out the box, opened it. Empty. “No joy,” he said.

  “Verenich, you prick,” the shooter said. He stood up, pulled the trigger, and blew a hole in the back of Holt’s skull. He stepped over the dead man’s body, inspected the empty box, then threw it across the room.

  “Shit,” he said, “He’s not going to like this.” He took out his cell phone and placed a call.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, the Los Angeles office has been closed as requested.”

  “And the second package?”

  “Not on the premises.”

  “Need I remind you how important it is that it be found?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Get back to me when you have it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The caller hung up.

  The two men walked to the reception area, rummaged through Elena’s purse, found her keys to the office, turned off the lights, locked the door and took the elevator to the main lobby.

  Holt’s killer dropped the office key into a garbage container outside the entrance to the building.

  They walked across the street, took the elevator to the upper deck of the parking garage and resumed their surveillance.

  Yesterday they had lost the Ferrari when it sped through the lights ahead of them.

  They would continue to watch the building.

  Sooner or later Verenich would return to his office.

  When he did, they would kill him.

  122

  “LONG BEACH IS going to remember last night for a very long time,” Ann Ridgeway said.

  The Assistant Director had requested the agent’s presence in the boardroom. Their discussion centered on the bizarre and unusual events that had occurred over the past week. Jordan and Chris sat at the front of the room. Agent Hawkins presented his findings to the team.

  “I spent the better part of yesterday with my team digging through the Rosenfeld’s computers,” Hawkins said. “We concluded that all the murders, to one degree or another, are related to this man.”

  Behind him, Jason Merrick’s picture filled the wall monitor.

  “Hallier’s target,” Ann Ridgeway said. “Dr. Jason Merrick.”

  “Correct,” Hawkins replied. “Dr. Merrick - or more specifically what happened to him - has been the key to this case. And we might not have made the connection if DARPA hadn’t asked for our help.”

  The picture on the screen changed. It showed an evidence photo taken of the flash drive found at the Rosenfeld crime scene.

  “It came together for us with the flash drive you retrieved from Dr. Rosenfeld’s mouth,” Hawkins said. “At first we thought the ‘AWP’ file contents were strings of code. Turns out they are account numbers; one for each victim. You may recall the first letter refers to the victim’s surname, the second letter to their given name. In other words, “DA” represents Dowd, Aaron, RI for Rosenfeld, Itzhak. GA is Granger, Ashley, HJ is Harper, Julie. The remaining two files, VT and PM, stand for Verenich, Taras, and Puzanova, Marina.”

  “Chris and I met with Verenich yesterday,” Jordan said.

  “You believe he’s a target too?” Chris asked.

  “I’d bet on it,” Hawkins replied. “And after what happened yesterday there’s a chance he’s already dead.”

  Ann Ridgeway interjected. “For now, let’s proceed on the basis that he’s still alive. As soon as we locate Mr. Verenich, we’ll offer him protective custody until we can determine the degree of danger he’s in.”

  “What’s the connection between Merrick, Rosenfeld and the other vics?” Jordan asked.

  “That goes back ten years to the murder of Paige, Dr. Merrick’s daughter,” Hawkins said. “Her body was found in South America. Merrick and his wife thought she was still attending class at Cal State. Turns out she had left the University in favor of a new career as a high-priced escort. That’s where these three come in.”

  The photos of Ashley Granger, Taras Verenich and Marina Puzanova stared back from the screen.

  “Granger, on the left, was Paige’s mathematics professor at Cal State. The two were close, perhaps even pursuing more than a student/teacher relationship judging by their social media posts. But what the University didn’t know about Professor Granger was that she was leading a double life as an executive escort. The working theory is that Granger encouraged Paige to join her in the business. This is where Marina Puzanova comes in. These two go way back. Puzanova’s a key player in a Russian crime outfit that calls itself The Company. She controls the prostitution side of their business. Their center of operations is Moscow, but they conduct business globally, catering exclusively to the uber-wealthy, primarily providing women, luxury automobiles, fine art, illegal adoptions… even harvesting human organs for private surgery transplantation. We think Granger was being paid by Puzanova to recruit new girls into the operation.”

  “How do they acquire the children for adoption?” Chris asked.

  “Conception farms,” Hawkins replied. “Babies conceived specifically for the purpose of sale to the wealthy.”

  “Jesus,” Chris said. “And the body parts?”

  “Remember when I searched Rosenfeld’s laptop? We found a fake link at the bottom of the Verenich Law homepage. Clicking on that link opened a search box. The files labeled Account 1 and Account 2 contained the profiles of hundreds of girls. When we traced them, we found they all had two things in common. First, they were highly educated or academically gifted. Second, they all came from affluent families. The girls in Account 1, the younger group, were all high school seniors and honor students. Most of them had been offered scholarships to major universities. The women in Account 2 were either attending university or alumni.”

  Jordan said, “So the girls were targeted?”

  Hawkins nodded. “We think that was Granger’s job. We also believe she’s just one of many such recruiters working for Puzanova and The Company that have been placed in educational institutions around the world. But that’s only part of it. We think they were selected because of their genetic superiority. Professor Granger and operatives like her lured them in with the promise of big money, which they paid out handsomely. Later the girls were used to meet supply and demand on the other side of the business. If one of the girls met the genetic profile a particular client couple was looking for, she’d be “rewarded” by The Company with a fully-paid luxury vacation. What the girl didn’t know was that this was a one-way ticket to a Company conception farm where she would be impregnated with the client’s sperm. Girls sent to the farm served two final purposes for The Company. The first was to produce babies. When she was no longer considered valuable, she’d be killed, and her organs sold to Company red market brokers.”

  “The luxury vacation was a death sentence,” Jordan said.

  “Correct,” Hawkins replied.

  “What about Marina Puzanova?” Chris asked. “Any idea where she is?”

  Hawkins shook his head. “No. And even if she set foot on American soil tomorrow, we couldn’t detain her. We’ve got nothing substantial on her. She’s only one cog in the wheel of an organization whose influence stretches across continents. Taking down The
Company requires assembling a multi-agency operation on a global scale. We’ve reached out to the Russian government. As usual, their policy on matters like this is to handle them on their own. Interpol has agreed to assist, but without Russia’s direct cooperation it could take years.”

  Chris asked, “Why was Rosenfeld targeted in the first place?”

  “They found his Achilles heel,” Hawkins replied. “His weakness for fine art and antiquities. Which he found a way to get more of through Verenich. Dr. Rosenfeld was a good man, but he let greed get the better of him. He met Verenich at a FreeSurge fundraising auction to which Verenich had contributed a very expensive piece of French art, no doubt for the express purpose of getting his attention. He probably told the doctor he had unlimited access to such one-of-a-kind priceless pieces.”

  “Like the Codex Leicester and the Pont Neuf displayed in the anteroom outside the bedroom,” Jordan said.

  “Exactly. Both were stolen. Our forensic search of Rosenfeld’s computer proved he was laundering money through FreeSurge and several of his other enterprises for Verenich. We think he was doing this in exchange for acquiring new pieces for his private collection that no one else in the world would ever have access to. What he didn’t know was that the pieces he was receiving from Verenich were coming through Alexi Vasiliev and Vyachlov Usoyan – two high-placed leaders in the Solntsevskaya Bratva who report directly to the head of The Company, Anton Kastonov. The Russian mob has a nickname for Kastonov. They call him ‘Grekh Khranitel’ or ‘The Sin Keeper,’ so named because of his reputation for using his top girls to extract detailed and often secret information from highly-placed Company clients, then using that information to blackmail and extort huge sums of money from them later in exchange for his silence and protection.”

  “So Rosenfeld was in bed with the Russian mob and didn’t even know it,” Jordan said.