Intruders (A Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Book 1)

by Gary Winston Brown

  Critical. Life-threatening. But not dead. And the daughter was still alive. Rigel strategized the situation. He would fulfill the Farrow contract in stages if he had to. First kill the family, then Farrow himself.

  New York would be pleased. They would appreciate his ability to adapt so fluidly to such unusual and exceptional circumstances.

  He put the car in gear, turned on his signal light, sped up, and merged into the flow of traffic.

  He checked his watch: 8:30 P.M. Visiting hours at Angel of Mercy Hospital would be over soon.

  As always, his timing couldn't be better.

  CHAPTER 13

  DR. PAUL TREMAINE, MD, chief of Angel of Mercy Hospital’s Burn Center Unit, stood beside Jordan and her godfather. Keith lay unconscious before them in the Acute Zone, a room specifically designed to protect its occupants from exposure to bacterial particulate or micro-organisms which could be introduced by staff, thereby increasing the possibility of infection. The door to the room was fitted with a pressurized air-lock which provided a secondary barrier against the threat of airborne contaminants.

  The ward was quiet, the lights dim. Staff kept their movements around their patients to a minimum.

  Grant Carnevale helped his goddaughter out of her wheelchair. Jordan looked in at her husband through the glass walls of the visitor corridor. An involuntary gasp escaped her. Tremaine and Carnevale caught her as she collapsed, then helped her back into the wheelchair. She began to weep.

  Keith’s fire-ravaged body was unrecognizable.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Quest,” Dr. Tremaine said. “I can’t even imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

  Jordan stared at her husband. She offered no reply.

  “What is Keith’s status, doctor?” Carnevale asked.

  Respectful of the incomprehensible shock Jordan was experiencing at seeing her husband’s condition for the first time, Tremaine chose his words carefully. “We have a comprehensive team standing by to help Mr. Quest with everything he’ll need, from cardiology and wound care to microvascular and reconstructive surgery.”

  Jordan wiped the tears from her eyes. “You didn’t answer the question, doctor,” she said.

  Tremaine nodded. “You’re right, Mrs. Quest,” he said. “I meant no disrespect to you or Agent Carnevale. As I’m sure you can appreciate, situations like these differ from one patient to the next. In your husband’s case his injuries are most extreme.”

  “Tell me what I’m dealing with,” Jordan insisted. “I can handle it.”

  Tremaine gathered his thoughts. “Your husband’s situation is dire,” he replied. “Perhaps the worst I’ve seen in my twenty years treating burn victims. To be perfectly honest, it’s a miracle he’s even breathing. The trauma to his body from the crash is extensive: broken bones, multiple fractures, contusions, damage to his spinal cord, inhalation burns from prolonged exposure to burning jet fuel and smoke… I could go on.”

  “Will he recover?” Jordan asked.

  “It’s too soon to tell. His immune and respiratory systems have been severely compromised. Even the slightest infection could kill him. His prolonged exposure to the burning jet fuel damaged the air collection sacs in his lungs. The alveoli are barely functioning, which means his ability to expel carbon dioxide is impeded. Aside from the obvious external trauma, his wounds are so extensive we can’t use hyperbaric treatment to facilitate their closure. Our sole effort right now is keeping him alive, and that’s proving to be a challenge. There is one more area of concern you need to know about. Your husband received a penetration injury to his head.” Tremaine removed a plastic bottle from the pocket of his lab coat and handed it to Jordan. It contained a twisted metal object measuring an inch in length. “We think it’s part of the aircraft. Airborne debris, most likely. It was embedded in the left frontal region of his skull. If the left lobe has been damaged, which I suspect it has, the affect to his brain will be extensive. Motor control, speech, memory… all will be impacted. We don’t know if that’s the case yet, but it must be considered. My concern is for the cumulative and permanent effects of his injuries, both mental, physical and physiological.”

  Jordan sat quietly, deep in thought, her mind processing the gut-wrenching information Tremaine had just shared with her. She looked up at the two men. “I’d like to be alone with my husband,” she said.

  “Of course,” Dr. Tremaine said. Carnevale leaned down and hugged her. “Take all the time you need, honey. We’ll be down the hall.” The men walked to the visitor’s lounge.

  Not since her experience as a child lying lifeless at the bottom of her parent’s pool had Jordan so felt Death’s imminent presence. The man lying in the hospital bed in front of her, her wonderful, sweet, incapable-of-harming-a-soul Keith, adoring husband and loving father to their two beautiful children, was slipping away right before her eyes. She had always been a strong woman, capable of taking on whatever punches life threw at her and striking back twice as hard. Yet now she felt utterly destroyed, lost, without hope, mentality and emotionally crushed. She knew in her heart it was only a matter of time before her husband succumbed to his injuries. No one could survive such terrific physical devastation, not even her soulmate, her rock, the one she always referred to as the better part of me; her Keith.

  Jordan called out. “Dr. Tremaine?”

  Tremaine and Carnevale stood in the doorway of the lounge. “Yes, Mrs. Quest?” Tremaine replied.

  “What are my husband’s chances for survival over the long term?”

  “Are you asking if he’ll ever return to his former quality of life?” the physician asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The odds aren’t in his favor. Keith has fourth degree burns to ninety-five percent of his body. He’s looking at perhaps two hundred skin grafts to repair the damage, plus numerous related surgeries. I suspect there is brain damage. If his lungs do manage to repair themselves, he’ll be on oxygen for the rest of his life. That’s just a cursory evaluation. There are additional health challenges going on inside his body we haven’t yet been able to diagnose. The next seventy-two hours are critical.”

  “And if there’s no improvement by then?”

  “A decision will have to be made.”

  “Meaning?”

  “For patients with catastrophic injuries like your husband’s we may advocate for the withdrawal of life support. But that discussion would only take place if we believe his chances for survival have significantly diminished.”

  The words slashed at her. The reality of the truth behind them cut deeply. It was all too much. Unable to take anymore, Jordan broke down. “I don’t know what to do,” she cried.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Quest,” Tremaine said. “Trust me when I tell you we’re doing everything in our power to help your husband. But right now, his life is in God’s hands, not ours.”

  From a monitor in Keith’s room an alarm sounded. The nursing staff rushed to the air lock.

  Dr. Tremaine excused himself. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Quest. I have to leave.”

  Carnevale steadied Jordan as she tried to stand. “What’s happening?” she said. “What’s wrong with Keith?”

  Tremaine hurried out of the visitor’s sub-zone. He called back as he entered the airlock leading to Keith’s room. “Your husband is going into cardiac arrest.”

  Jordan held on to her godfather, afraid that if she let go she would most certainly collapse.

  Carnevale heard the door to the visitor lounge open behind him and watched Agent Hanover enter the room. He stopped, intuitively aware of the gravity of the situation.

  “Agent Carnevale,” he said uncomfortably, “Mr. Quest’s parents have arrived. They’re asking to see their son.”

  CHAPTER 14

  ANDREW DUNN was standing in the corridor speaking with Keith’s parents, David and Paula Quest, when Chris Hanover returned to Jordan’s hospital room. The FBI Director was attempting to answer their questions and bring them up to speed on what few detai
ls he knew about the plane crash. The Farrow’s housekeeper, Marissa DeSola, had also arrived. She had been charged with caring for the Quest’s seven-year-old twins, Emma and Aiden, while they traveled. The children stood by her side.

  “We’re still putting the pieces together,” Andrew Dunn said. “All we know for certain is that Mr. Farrow’s jet encountered a problem during takeoff and crashed. The Director of the National Transportation and Safety Board is a friend of mine. I’ve already spoken to him. He’s agreed to prioritize the investigation. My agents will be talking to their people as well as investigators from the Federal Aeronautics and Aviation Administration. A hangar has been secured at LAX for NTSB and FAA personnel to piece together the remains of the aircraft and commence their investigation. We should learn the specific cause of the crash very soon.”

  “Thank you, Director Dunn,” David Quest said. “Where are my son- and daughter-in-law now?”

  Hanover answered. “Fourth floor, sir. I’ll take you there as soon as you’re ready.”

  “I’ll stay with the children,” Marissa said.

  “Go,” Dunn said. “Be with your family. I’ll let you know the minute we hear anything of importance.”

  Jordan and her godfather watched the flurry of activity taking place in the confines of the air-locked room. Under Dr. Tremaine’s direction the nursing staff worked as one, performing the same emergency procedures on Keith as they had dozens of times before on patients in need of their lifesaving skills.

  The elevator door opened. The Quests saw Jordan, crying in the arms of her godfather. They rushed to her side.

  The activity in Keith’s room suddenly stopped. Dr. Tremaine conversed for a few seconds with his team before leaving the room through the primary air-lock and exiting the secondary air-lock into the visitor corridor. He walked toward Jordan and lowered his surgical mask. The look on his face telegraphed the words Jordan was afraid to hear.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Tremaine said, addressing the family. “The trauma was simply too much for him. Keith’s heart couldn’t take it. There was nothing more we could do.”

  Jordan collapsed. Carnevale eased her into the wheelchair.

  Paula Quest fell to her knees. “No, no, no…” David Quest held his emotions in check.

  “Your husband tried to hold on, Mrs. Quest,” Tremaine said. “He put up one hell of a fight. But his injuries were far too great. You have my sympathy. I know how difficult this must be for you. My staff will help you with anything you need.” The doctor excused himself and left the family to grieve.

  Jordan's tears turned to anger. “Someone was in the hangar, Uncle Grant,” she said. “They tampered with the jet. I saw it.”

  Carnevale tried to calm her. “No, Jordan. This was just an accident. A terrible, tragic accident.”

  Jordan shook her head. “This was no accident. I tried to stop the jet from taking off, to warn them, but no one would listen. This is all my fault.”

  Carnevale knelt beside his goddaughter and looked into her eyes. “Now listen to me, Jordan. None of this was your fault. You hear me? You had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “I know what I saw, Uncle Grant. I’ll going to find out who was responsible for this. And when I do, I’m going to kill him.”

  “There will be an investigation into the crash, Jordan. We’ll learn the truth soon enough. If it turns out there’s more to this than meets the eye, I assure you we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “I won’t need the Bureau’s help. I’ll take care of it myself.”

  Considering Jordan’s raw emotional state Carnevale tempered his response. “I know how much pain you're in right now, honey. So are Paula and David. And me. Your father was my best friend, so I’m going to talk for him right now. Before you set off on some wild path of revenge, keep in mind you have two small children who will need their mother now more than ever. I know right now it seems like you won’t, but eventually you will get through this. Grieve for as long as you need to, then move on. Because as deeply as you loved Keith, Emma and Aiden loved their father just as much. And their world just imploded.”

  Returning to her room, Grant Carnevale lifted the children into his arms and carried them down the hall to the waiting room while Jordan broke the news of the deaths of her husband and parents to their housekeeper, Marissa DeSola. Jordan had never known a woman as caring and loving as Marissa; the same woman who two decades earlier had dove into the pool, pulled her to safety, and saved her life as a child. Marissa had practically raised her in her parent’s absence when the demands of her father’s position as Chairman of Farrow Industries required him to travel the world, and her mother, a celebrated sculptor, put in long hours in her studio to meet the deadline for her latest commission. Marissa fell into Jordan’s arms and sobbed. Jordan wrapped her arms around her friend, held her tight.

  “The children…” Marissa said.

  Jordan brushed Marissa’s tears from her face. “I know,” she said.

  “Do you want me to be with you when you tell them?”

  Jordan shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

  Marissa nodded. “I’m here if you need me.”

  Jordan smiled. She held Marissa’s beautiful face in her hands. “I know you will. Just like you’ve been my whole life. There when I need you the most.”

  Marissa composed herself. “This is so hard,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Your parents and husband were three of the kindest people God ever put on this planet, Jordan. They will be missed.”

  “Thank you.”

  Marissa looked around. “Where are the children?”

  “Uncle Grant is watching them.”

  Carnevale sat with Emma and Aiden in the waiting room.

  “He was a good friend to your father,” Marissa said.

  Jordan nodded. “Dad said he was one of the few people in this world he could trust with his life.”

  “The children need to know what’s happened.”

  “I know.”

  Emma and Aiden hopped up on the bed as Jordan closed her hospital room door. She sat beside them, drew them close.

  Aiden pointed to the Immobilizer on his mother’s arm. “You okay, Mom?” Emma nestled in to her side.

  “Yes, honey, I’m fine.”

  “Why are we here?”

  How am I going to do this? Jordan thought. She took a deep breath, let it out.

  “Can we go home soon?” Emma added. Aiden said, “Uncle Grant said those other men are FBI agents just like him. Why are they here?”

  “To help us, honey.”

  “Why?” Emma said.

  God, this was so hard.

  “Something's happened to Dad, hasn't it?” Emma asked.

  Jordan pulled her children closer. “You know the plane ride we were supposed to take while you guys stayed with Marissa?”

  “Yeah,” Aiden said.

  “There was an accident.”

  Jordan could see the panic in her son’s eyes. “Mom, where’s Dad?”

  “Your father and your grandparents…”

  Aiden’s eyes welled. “They're dead, aren't they?”

  “Yes, babies,” Jordan replied. “I’m so sorry.”

  CHAPTER 15

  SHANNON SCREAMED. Zoe scrambled to her feet and banged her shackles against the metal gate of the stable. “You piece of shit!” she yelled. “Touch her again and I swear to God I’ll kill you!”

  The Clown turned slowly, hissed, stepped out of Shannon’s stall, walked across the common hallway, and stood outside her stable door.

  Zoe stepped back. She called out. “Shannon, you okay? Talk to me!”

  No reply.

  Zoe summoned her courage, walked back to the gate, challenged the Clown’s wicked stare, and shook the bars. “What did you do to her, asshole?”

  The Clown unfastened the latch, threw open the gate, clamped his hand around her throat, walked her backwards, slammed her head against the back wall of the sta
ll, and drew his face to hers. Zoe smelled the foulness of his breath as it escaped the mouth slit of the rubber prosthetic. He hissed again, louder this time. Part of her was terrified of him now, not knowing what he would do next. Was the man behind the mask truly as insane as he portrayed himself to be? Would he prove his dominance over her by ending her life, as he may already have done with Shannon?

  Zoe swallowed the rising fear, let it sink. She flashed back to the nightmare years of her youth and that fateful day when she emancipated herself from the living hell that was life with her birth father. The visits in the middle of the night when he would perform unspeakable acts on her… the beatings he would deliver daily, without warning or provocation… the damning mental and emotional abuse that should have left her forever unsalvageable, a damaged teenager, broken beyond repair, had it not been for her relentless determination and resilience.

  The stench of tobacco on the Clown’s breath –the same putrid stink that had once belonged to the man who called himself her father– triggered a psychological break in Zoe. This time however there was no nearby brass lamp to grab and slam against the side of his skull, no .44 Magnum handgun hidden under the sink to scamper to on hands and knees, racked with terror, retrieve, and fire! fire! fire! fire! fire! fire! until the last round had been expended into him, and all she could hear was the click-click-click of empty cylinders rotating with every additional pull of the trigger, long after she had liberated herself from him.

  Fight or flight.

  Life or death.

  Never again, she thought. Not in this fucking lifetime, and sure as shit not like this.

  Life.

  Zoe struggled against the Clown’s powerful grip and raised her head. Curious, he removed his hand from her neck.