Intruders (A Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Book 1)

by Gary Winston Brown

Jordan smiled. “Thanks, Rock.”

  The pen lay on the seat beside her. Jordan returned it to her purse. She would read it again on the flight. Perhaps it could tell her more about the stranger and whether he posed a threat to her family.

  CHAPTER 6

  JAMES RIGEL was appalled by the smell. He had insisted the desk clerk in the small roadside motel check him into the most recently cleaned room and had paid extra for the request. When he opened the door, he expected to be met with a bouquet so fragrant and pleasing he would be quite content to spend the next hour sitting in the room, inhaling its exquisite aromas, and reflecting upon the exhilarating highlights of his road trip. Instead, his olfactory senses were assaulted by a wave of offensive odors: stale cigarette smoke, sickly sweet air freshener (that smelled nothing like any pine forest he ever walked through), lemon-scented furniture spray, the overpowering stench of ammonia-based bathroom cleaning compounds, and fabric softener. He considered marching back to the front desk, pulling the bastard over the counter, dragging him along the second-floor walkway back to his room, gagging the sonofabitch, and forcing him to sit in the stench that his cleaning staff had created. But the clerk would have to wait. He needed to tend to a matter of greater importance. Teaching the clerk a lesson would have to wait.

  Rigel covered his nose and hurried through the room to the bathroom. He pulled a towel off the metal wall rack, laid it over the scarred cigarette-burned desk, and opened the wooden cigar box in which he kept his most prized possessions. He removed each of the items from the box with great reverence and laid them out in front of him.

  The first was a bright-yellow tongue stud. It had belonged to a young lady he met a couple of days ago at a highway rest stop in Arkansas, west of Hot Springs. She told him her name was Cathy and that she was eighteen-years old. Likely no older than fifteen, she was physically developed beyond her years. Cathy took great pride in telling Rigel she was hitchhiking across the USA to California, that the better part of her last ride had been spent with her head buried in the lap of a long-haul trucker, and that she would be willing to make the next leg of his trip as pleasant for him as it had been for the trucker if he would give her a lift down the highway. Cathy said she preferred the road to home, that Hollywood was calling, and referred to herself as both a free-spirit and mistress of her own destiny. James was impressed by her natural beauty. He agreed that she had the looks to take the entertainment industry by storm. What most enthralled him most about the girl was the enticing smell of her body. The hint of shea butter on her copper skin, the faint honey-almond aroma of her hair, and the slight scent of citrus in her perfume. He accepted her invitation and enjoyed both her company and well-practiced talent for the next five-and-a-half hours from Hot Springs to Norman, Oklahoma. They finished lunch in a diner on the outskirts of town. When Cathy excused herself to the restroom, James agreed that a pee break was in order. He followed the girl downstairs, pushed her into the ladies’ room, snapped her neck, and ripped the stud out of her tongue. He opened the maintenance closet between the men’s and woman’s washrooms, removed the Closed for Maintenance sign, and hung it on the doorknob. Having left sufficient cash to cover the cost of the meal and provide a generous gratuity for their waitress under the salt shaker he left the restaurant, unnoticed, through a back door.

  It had been a wonderful start to the day.

  From Oklahoma he journeyed to Texas. This was his first time traveling through the American Southwest and James was anxious to see as much of the region as his busy schedule would permit. He exited the Interstate at Lubbock County, explored the city, then drove through town until be found himself in the quiet town of Slaton. The red brick roadway and wild west mural in the Town Square paid homage to its ranching and railway heritage. It was in Slaton where he met the beautiful teenager with the pink barrettes.

  His reason for stopping to talk to her seemed innocent enough–a lost traveler, having wandered off the Interstate, out of his way and in need of directions. The attraction was mutual and immediate. The girl rested her arms on the roof of his car, exposing the bottom of her breasts beneath her pink FCUK crop top. She asked him where he was from, where he was going, and if he would be interested in partying with her for a while before hitting the road. He lied in response to her first two questions but readily agreed to the third. She took a step back from the door, unfastened her belt, unbuttoned her jeans, pulled down her zipper and removed two joints from her G-string. She told him the pot was free. Partying would cost him two-hundred. He opened his wallet, pulled out four fifties, stuck them down his pants, and asked if she was ready to play. The girl’s eyes brightened. She introduced herself as Becky, promised him the time of his life, hopped into the front seat of his car, and directed him to what she called party central; an abandoned grain storage silo located on the outskirts of town. He kissed her when she sat beside him. Her skin smelled delicious- lavender and vanilla. He told her if she smelled as good downstairs as he thought she did he’d gladly double the two-hundred. She assured him he wouldn’t be disappointed. He insisted she go down on him hard. But when she did nothing more than tease him to the point of white-hot frustration, he dealt with her appropriately, nearly severing her head from her body with the retractable metal cord from the keychain he kept clipped to his belt. Professional assassination was his stock in trade. The device was one of his favorite weapons and had become his trademark. He had even given it a name: Zippy.

  When his rage had subsided, the girl slumped to the ground at his feet. He unwound the garrote from her neck and retracted its steel cable. The cord caught the pink barrettes in her hair, pulled them out. They fell to the ground. He pocketed the souvenirs.

  He left the dead girl lying on the dusty floor of the granary.

  In contrast to the perfumery of her lifeless body the surrounding air smelled of mold and mildew, and so grossly offended his senses he thought he might retch. He hurried out of the abandoned silo into the fresh air.

  Rigel placed the pink hair clips on the towel beside the yellow stud.

  From Lubbock he travelled to Roswell, New Mexico, and stayed at the Galaxy Motel Inn where he enjoyed a comfortable bed, a quiet room, and one of the most rejuvenating sleeps of his trip.

  That afternoon he gassed up in Benson, Arizona. While waiting to pay for fuel, a thirty-something blond with exceptional legs jumped the line in front of him. He tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the customers patiently waiting in line behind him. The blond flashed a perfect smile, explained she was running late for a meeting with her divorce attorney and thanked him for his understanding, but never once apologized for her inconsiderate behavior. She paid for her purchases, strutted out of the store, jumped into a Porsche Boxster and raced out of the gas station, nearly running down a patron as he crossed the lot. Rigel followed her home (so much for the bogus meeting with her attorney) and parked across the street. He watched her house until she drew the upstairs bedroom blinds then walked to her back door, removed a professional lock pick set from jacket pocket, worked the lock and deadbolt until they released, slipped in through the kitchen, heard the sound of running water, ascended the stairs, entered the bathroom, grabbed her hairbrush off the vanity, pulled back the shower curtain, and drove it down her throat before she could form a scream. Zippy enjoyed itself. Blood streamed down from beneath the steel cord as he pulled it tightly around her neck, its coppery aroma blending with her magnificent grapefruit- and lilac-soap covered body. He watched as the last glimmer of life left her eyes. The woman made up for her exceptional rudeness with a perfect body and excellent taste in body wash. The hot shower steam accentuated the decadent fruit and flowery smell and made their special moment together more intimate and seductive. Rigel carried her out of the bathroom into the master bedroom, threw her corpse on the bed, and raped her. It was the least she could do to make up for his lost travel time. He was glad they met.

  Two hours later, he found himself here: a guest of the not-so-accommodating Cactus Cou
rt Motor Inn in Gila Bend.

  Rigel placed the hairbrush beside the yellow tongue stud and pink barrettes and closed his eyes.

  Before long the polluted smell of the motel room faded. His mind was set adrift on an aromatic sea of strawberry, shea butter, honey-almond, grapefruit and lilac that lingered on the treasures that lay before him.

  Now late afternoon, Rigel debated whether he should stay the night in Gila Bend. He was only five hours from Los Angeles.

  His handlers in New York had negotiated the contract with the client. His ten-million-dollar fee had been accepted. Five million had already been deposited into his Cayman Islands account as a retainer. The balance would be transferred as soon as the conditions of the agreement was met.

  The entire family was to be taken out. There were to be no survivors.

  James Rigel had been chosen to carry out the Farrow hit for two specific reasons. First, he was unquestionably the best in the business. Second, eliminating high-profile targets was his specialty. And no target was higher profile than Michael Farrow.

  Rigel decided he couldn’t handle another minute in the stinkpot room, much less the entire night. He placed the precious items back into the wooden box together with the souvenirs he had collected from his previous road trips; an orange sarong taken from a university student enjoying summer break in Daytona Beach, Florida. White lace panties from a high school cheerleader in South Carolina. Cotton sweat bands from a tennis instructor in Virginia. Black silk pantyhose from a stockbroker in Virginia.

  He flicked on the lights, turned up the volume on the television (not too loud), locked the door to the abysmal room, and returned to his car.

  The door to the office was open, the lobby deserted. The motel clerk wasn’t at his desk.

  Rigel considered tracking him down and introducing him to Zippy. As appealing the thought, he passed on the idea.

  He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

  He would be in Los Angeles tonight. If all went according to plan - and it always did – he would be five million dollars richer tomorrow.

  Not that the money mattered. He was financially independent. A lifetime of conducting professional assassinations had seen to that.

  What James Rigel loved more than anything else about his job was the opportunity it provided him to expand on his collection of souvenirs.

  And the smell of fresh blood.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE MAN pulled into the reserved parking space marked EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY, stepped out of the maroon fire department sedan, removed an aluminum clipboard from the back seat, and adjusted his cap. The uniform he wore and the credentials he presented to the desk clerk were legitimate, having once belonged to the dead man in the trunk of the car.

  “Captain Mark Viegas,” the man said, introducing himself. “Aviation Emergency Response. I’m here to inspect the premises.”

  The clerk looked puzzled. “We were just inspected two weeks ago,” he said.

  “What can I say?” the fake fire captain said. “You’re on the list.” He opened the clipboard. “Name?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Name?” he repeated.

  “Pirelli,” the clerk replied. “Anthony Pirelli.”

  “As in Pirelli the tire company?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any relation?”

  “Seriously? You think I’d be working here if I was?”

  The man stared at the clerk, waiting for an answer to his question. Pirelli replied. “No relation.”

  He glanced at the aircraft hangars. “Are they all occupied?”

  Pirelli shook his head. “Just A and C. It’s a slow day.”

  “Call them,” the man said. “Tell the mechanics to clear the floor. I’ll need thirty minutes per box.”

  “Thirty minutes?” the clerk said. “Are you frigging kidding me? You realize we have to pay these guys whether or not they’re working, right?”

  The man held up his phone. “It’s that,” he replied, “or I make a call and shut you down for the rest of the day. Your choice.”

  The clerk fired back. “I have a suggestion. Call your dispatch. I’m sure there’s a kitten up a tree somewhere that needs help. Tell them to send you there instead.”

  “Kitty jokes,” the man said. “Never heard those before.” He leaned over the counter. “Listen to me, son. I strongly suggest that you pick up the phone and clear those hangars right now, ‘cause you’re real close to getting your ass canned.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Pirelli made the calls, then hung up the phone. “There,” he said. “Happy now?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  “I’m putting you in my log.”

  “You do that.”

  “This is a straight up hassle, man.”

  “You’ll get over it. I’ll be out of here in an hour. I suggest you put that time to good use. Maybe call the tire company. Ask if they’re hiring.”

  “Funny.”

  “I don’t want to see a soul in those hangars when I get there,” the man warned. “We clear?”

  The clerk pointed to the two teams of aircraft maintenance workers strolling across the tarmac towards the employee lounge. “There you go, boss. All present and accounted for.”

  “Good. I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m working.”

  “I’ll tell the men to try to contain themselves.”

  “You do that.” The man walked through the sliding automatic doors leading out to the aircraft hangars. “And it’s Captain, not Chief.”

  “Whatever,” the clerk said. He returned to his paperwork.

  The fake fire captain entered Hanger A. A business jet, white with blue and red stripes, stood in the middle of the facility, the cowlings of its Pratt & Whitney engines removed for servicing, the engines exposed. He removed a sheet of paper from his pocket and checked the tail number noted in the bottom corner of the sketch: HN-3RN. This was not the aircraft he was looking for.

  No match.

  Pirelli had mentioned a C hangar was also occupied. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  Ahead of him stood the jet, tail number HN-3RN.

  Match.

  He locked the hangar door behind him. Sunlight poured into the room from the open bay doors facing the runway at the opposite end of the building. Outside, the absence of wind beneath an unlimited ceiling of bright blue sky offered a perfect day for flying.

  The man went straight to work. He read the encrypted text he had received on his phone two hours ago before killing the fire Captain and assuming his identity. The instructions provided by New York were specific. He referred to the sketch, located the tool chest standing against the wall of the hangar, removed the specified tools, walked over to the aircraft, and followed the instructions. He removed a sheet of plastic from within the aluminum clipboard case, handling it carefully so as not to damage the finger prints which had been transferred to its surface, and applied the prints to the specified tool. He placed the tool on the floor of the hangar several feet from the aircraft. The scene set, he took a picture and emailed it to New York.

  His phone chimed a second later. The text read, REVISIONS NECESSARY. CHECK IN.

  Strange.

  He called the number.

  “We have a problem,” the voice answered.

  “Not on my end,” the man replied. “We’re good here.”

  “There’s been a development. Your contract has been changed.”

  “You better not be talking about my fee.”

  “Relax, Tasker. The funds were transferred as soon as your photo was received.”

  “Good answer. What’s the issue?”

  “We have another contract. It was closed.”

  “Was?”

  “We’ve discovered a problem with the operator. One that could bring undue attention to us. We’ve decided to reopen the contract. But there’s a contingency.”

  “And that is?”

  “You’ll need to elimin
ate the contractor as well as the target. You interested?”

  “Who are we talking about?”

  The caller paused. “Check your phone.”

  Harrison Tasker downloaded the photo, recognized the man. “He’s good.”

  “We know.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “We don’t have a choice in the matter. You want the contract or not?”

  “How much?”

  “Same as the original offer. Five million on retainer, plus another five with proof of termination.”

  The hitman raised his voice. “Don’t fuck with me. We both know a contract of that amount covers the target alone. How much more is it worth to you to make your contractor problem go away?”

  The caller hesitated. “I’ll need approval.”

  “Then I suggest you put me on hold and make a call.”

  Tasker waited. The caller reconnected seconds later. “We can do another five,” he said.

  “Ten.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Then I guess he’s not as big a problem as you think he is.”

  “I’ve been authorized to go to six.”

  “Nine.”

  “Eight. Not a penny more.”

  Tasker said nothing.

  “You there?” the caller asked.

  “Yeah,” Tasker replied. “All right. Eight million, in advance, plus the original ten for the target as stipulated. And you re-close the contract. I’m not interested in dealing with competition on this. He’s not going to be easy to take down.”

  “Agreed. You’ll have exclusivity for seventy-two hours. If you can’t complete the job by then we go to the next name on the list and the eight million will be rescinded.”

  “Fair enough. What’s his location?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “I’m here now.”

  “We know. Stay put. The contractor is on his way to L.A. We’ll send you a code. You’ll be able to track his location on your phone. Questions?”

  “None.”

  “Remember, Tasker. Seventy-two hours.”