Intruders (A Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Book 1)

by Gary Winston Brown

  Zoe gasped, sucked in the air, coughed, waited for the lightheadedness to subside.

  The Clown turned his head from side-to-side, examining her with great interest, as though in her act of defiance he had discovered a new and rare species of human.

  Zoe whispered. “Closer...”

  The Clown hissed loudly, grabbed her neck once more. When Zoe again began to choke he relented and released his hand from her throat. Cat and mouse. Zoe coughed again. The Clown jumped up and down, laughing, denoting his approval of the game. He permitted her to raise her shackled hands to her neck and massage her damaged throat.

  Zoe spoke again, her words barely audible. “Come… closer.”

  The Clown hesitated, then brought his head to hers, turned his ear to her mouth, and listened.

  “Is my sister all right?”

  The Clown nodded slowly.

  “Thank you,” Zoe said. She lifted her head, forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry for what I said to you before. That was wrong.”

  The Clown dropped his head, nodded.

  “You don’t really want to hurt me, do you?”

  The Clown shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so,” Zoe replied. She lowered her voice. “I have a secret that no one else knows. Would it be okay if I told you?”

  The Clown stood back. He clapped his hands together, nodded.

  Zoe cleared her throat. “Hard to talk,” she said. “Lean in.”

  The Clown rested his head on her shoulder, put his ear to her mouth.

  “Much better. Ready?”

  The Clown nodded.

  “When I was a little girl,” Zoe said, “my father bought me a doll. It was a clown, just like you.” She forced a smile into her voice. “And you know what?”

  He shook his head.

  “I hated that fucking thing!”

  Before the Clown could react, Zoe wrapped her chain-bound wrists around his neck, jumped twice in the air, and delivered two brutal knee strikes to the Clown’s ribs. Her captor let out a cry and fell against her. Zoe spun around and pulled the chain link around his neck as tightly as she could. She listened to him gag, felt him struggle, strain, and kick out against her back as he tried unsuccessfully to fight back. She interlocked her wrists, gained even greater advantage over him, then pulled down with all her might.

  Snap.

  Zoe heard his cervical vertebrae break. The Clown’s body fell slack and slid to the ground behind her.

  The key.

  She turned, rummaged through his pockets, found the skeleton key, fiddled with the locks, removed the shackles from her wrists, and slipped her head out of the noose.

  Free at last.

  Zoe looked down at the man lying at her feet on the dusty floor. Even in death the hooded figure remained a menacing sight. She knelt down and pulled off the Clown’s mask.

  He was a youth, seventeen years old at the most, but physically a man by anyone’s definition. Zoe had no idea who he was, nor did she care that she had killed him. Instead she took consolation in the hope that his plans for them, whatever they might have been, likely died with him.

  Zoe patted down the Clown’s body and found the stun stick hidden in his boot. She pressed the trigger and held it against the metal shackles laying on the floor. Sparks danced on the surface of the chain.

  She kept the weapon. Perhaps it would prove useful to them in their escape.

  Across the hall, Shannon moaned.

  CHAPTER 16

  ARRIVING IN downtown Los Angeles, James Rigel parked on a side street half a block from Angel of Mercy Hospital, opened the trunk of his car, unclipped the emergency road safety kit from its mounting brackets, dumped the contents of the plastic case on the floor of the car, returned the flashlight and flares to the case, opened his overnight bag, removed a lightweight windbreaker embroidered with the name ‘Walter,’ slipped it on, and slammed the trunk shut.

  At nine o’clock in the evening, the back entrance to the hospital was as quiet as he expected it would be at this relatively late hour. He held open the door for a pretty young nurse as she left the building. She smelled of bergamot. Rigel breathed in the sweet essence as she walked past. He couldn’t help but wonder what trophies lay hidden beneath her clothes. Were it not so late he would have taken her to a secluded area at the back of the parking lot where they could become better acquainted, enjoy a little time with her, introduce her to Zippy, and add another treasure to his collection. But there was important work to be done, and he took his work seriously. He suppressed the urge to ravage her. Instead, he bid her a good night and entered the building.

  The corridor had been freshly sanitized and positively reeked of cheap citrus-smelling floor cleaner. Disgusted, Rigel covered his nose. How could any place tasked with the responsibility of prolonging the lives of its patients expose them to such olfactory filth? Senses offended but undaunted, he pressed on. At the end of the hallway he saw the sign he was looking for: LAUNDRY SERVICES. He entered the room.

  The fresh, clean smells within this room were much more appealing. Dozens of pairs of medical scrubs were stacked neatly on metal racks, ordered by size. Rigel helped himself to a pair, opened his plastic case, rubbed a safety flare against the garment, re-locked the case, and wandered into the main area of the facility.

  A voice from behind him. “Can I help you?”

  Rigel turned and smiled. An elderly woman stood a few feet away. He held up his case. “Facilities Management, ma’am,” he replied. “Which one’s causing the problem?”

  “Problem?” the woman asked. “What problem?”

  Rigel held up the garment he had just purposely soiled and pointed to the red mark on the pants. “This is the third complaint we’ve had tonight,” he said. “Which machine is acting up?”

  The woman looked baffled. “I hadn’t received any complaints.”

  “Which is why they call me and not you, my dear. You run the machines, I fix them.” Rigel looked at her name tag. “Who’s in charge here, Agnes?”

  “I am,” Agnes replied. “Have been for ten years.”

  “And you’re telling me you weren’t aware your scrubs were leaving here looking like… this?” Rigel feigned disgust. He held up the pants with two fingers.

  “Absolutely not!” Agnes said. “I run a spotless shop. My staff and I would never allow a garment to leave here with even the smallest mark on it. We inspect every one of them before they’re shelved. I’ve no idea how this happened.” The woman looked mortified at the thought that such an oversight could have occurred in her department.

  “Don’t worry, Agnes,” Rigel said. “I’ll find out what the problem is.” He winked. “No one needs to know about this besides us.”

  “Thank you,” Agnes said. The woman looked like she was on the verge of having a heart attack. “You scared the life out of me.”

  “Let me take care of it,” Rigel said. “I’ll slip in behind the machines and take a look. I’m sure it’s nothing major. Likely a simple fluid leak. If it’s a machine problem, I’ll find the culprit, lickety-split.”

  “Do you want me to wait?”

  “No, my dear. Not at all,” Rigel said. He checked his watch. “It’s after nine. When does your shift end?”

  “It was over a few minutes ago.”

  “What? Oh, that’s just not right. I’m sure you’ve had a very long day, Agnes. Go home, put your feet up, and make yourself a nice cup of Earl Grey. Leave this with me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Is the Queen British?”

  Agnes laughed.

  Rigel smiled. “Now scoot. When you come in tomorrow morning everything will be good as new. You’ll see.”

  “Thank you,” Agnes said.

  “My pleasure, dear.”

  Agnes gathered her belongings. Rigel walked her to the door. “Have a pleasant evening,” he said.

  The old woman smiled. She looked at the name on his jacket. “You as well, Walter.”

&n
bsp; Rigel closed the door behind her. He walked behind the commercial washing machine, removed his street clothes, folded them neatly, put on the scrubs, removed the flare from the case, shoved it in his waistband, and hid the case and his clothes under the machine.

  After locating Agnes office, he turned on her computer, accessed the patient registry, and soon found the information he was looking for: QUEST, JORDAN. EAST WING. Room 604, Bed 2.

  Rigel left the department, walked down the hallway, rode the service elevator to the sixth floor. The lobby ahead was busy. He turned left, kept his back to the crowd, and walked over to a portable blood-pressure machine standing in the hallway. He fiddled with the device, listening intently as a doctor addressed the group.

  “I wanted to check in and see how everyone is doing,” Dr. Tremaine said. “Once again, please accept my deepest condolences for your loss.”

  Andrew Dunn spoke. “How is Jordan doing, doctor?”

  “To be honest, she’s one very strong lady. As you can imagine, in the last few hours she’s been through hell and back. I’m going to insist we keep her here for the night. It would be prudent to keep her under observation for a little while. She appears to be all right. But considering the circumstances I have my concerns.”

  “About?” Grant Carnevale asked.

  Tremaine hesitated. “Suicide.”

  Carnevale shook his head. “Not Jordan, doctor,” he replied. “No way. Not a chance.”

  “I know how irrational that might sound,” Tremaine replied. “But in the last few hours Mrs. Quest has lost her parents, her husband, and from my understanding of the accident several close friends. That totality of loss, experienced in such a short period of time, can be overwhelming.”

  “You don’t understand, doc,” Carnevale said. “Jordan lives for her kids. She would never think of leaving them without a mother. Especially after all of this.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Tremaine said. “Unfortunately, I’ve seen it happen. Some individuals simply aren’t strong enough to cope with the loss.”

  “Jordan is,” Carnevale snapped.

  Sensing he had struck a nerve with the man, Tremaine said nothing.

  Andrew Dunn put his hand on Carnevale’s shoulder. “The doctor’s right, Grant. Perhaps the best thing for Jordan right now is rest and time alone to process all that’s happened.”

  Carnevale reluctantly agreed.

  “I’ll arrange for her to receive a mild sedative,” Dr. Tremaine said. “Something to help her sleep.”

  Marissa DeSola spoke, “Mr. and Mrs. Quest can stay at the estate with me and the children. We can come back and see Jordan first thing in the morning.”

  Director Dunn nodded. “I’ll arrange for your transportation as soon as you’re ready to leave.”

  “You too,” Maria said, addressing Dunn, Carnevale, and Hanover. “Please stay with us. There’s plenty of room.”

  “Thank you,” the agents said, accepting her offer.

  Dr. Tremaine’s pager beeped. He looked at the display. “Sorry,” he said. “I have to go.”

  “You’ll let us know if there's any change in Jordan’s condition?” Marissa asked.

  “Of course,” Tremaine answered.

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  Tremaine nodded, walked to the nurse’s station, picked up the phone, and answered the page.

  Carnevale spoke to his colleagues. “I’ll bring the car around. Meet me at the main entrance.”

  “I’ll be along in a minute,” Chris Hanover replied. He watched the nurse enter Jordan’s room. She was carrying the sedative Dr. Tremaine had requested.

  Rigel glanced up from the monitor and watched as the nurse entered Jordan’s room. He too had heard the conversation.

  Soon his target would be fast asleep, alone, utterly defenseless.

  His timing couldn't have been better.

  He wondered what she would smell like.

  CHAPTER 17

  ZOE STEPPED over the body of the dead teenager, rushed across the hallway, and found Shannon laying in a puddle of soapy water in the corner of her stall. She was shivering, arms and legs drawn into the fetal position, rocking back and forth, talking to herself. “Want to go home… no more… leave now… promise to be good… promise… promise…”

  Zoe had experienced this behavior twice in her lifetime. The first time was when she had been found by the police in her home, gun in hand. The second time was in the courtroom after she had collapsed after hearing the jury foreman read aloud her verdict, finding in her favor, acquitting her of all charges in the State’s case against her pursuant to the murder of her birth father. Following the trial, she was sent to a halfway house which became her post-exoneration home. Sheltered under its roof were children like her, so troubled, lost, and without hope for the future that they sought peace in the only place they could trust: the confines of their mind. Zoe recognized the post-traumatic indicators of her sister’s impending mental breakdown. She had to pull Shannon back to reality to save her. If she failed, she would be gone forever.

  Zoe entered the stall, approached her sister slowly, called her by her nickname. “Shay?”

  Shannon continued to rock. She stopped talking.

  “It’s me, Shay. It’s Zoe.” She knelt, touched her lightly on her shoulder. “Can I sit with you?”

  Shannon stopped talking. She pulled away, pressing herself tightly into the corner of the stable.

  Zoe sat down. “It’s over, Shay. Time to go home. We’re getting out of here. You hear me?”

  Shannon looked up. “Home?”

  “Yes, sweetie.”

  “No,” Shannon replied. She turned away. The rocking resumed. “Promise to be good… good…”

  Zoe had to be firm with her sister. She was about to fall mind-first into a psychological abyss from which there would be no ascent. She had to snap her out of it. She took her by the hand. “Let’s go. On your feet.”

  Shannon leaned into her arms.

  “That’s my girl. Up we go.”

  Shannon stood. Zoe wiped strands of soapy wet hair from her face and eyes. “Look at you,” she said. “Beautiful as ever. No worse for wear.”

  Standing helped. Shannon began to regain the use of her faculties. Her speech became more coherent. “Zoe?” she said.

  “Well, would you look at that,” Zoe replied. “Sleeping Beauty awakens.”

  “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know, Shay. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that we're getting out of here. Right now. Can you walk?”

  Shannon took a tentative step. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Good,” Zoe teased, “because the thought of carrying you out of here wasn’t really working for me.”

  Shannon looked across into Zoe’s stall and saw the body of the Clown laying on the ground. “Is he…”

  “… dead?” Zoe answered. “He fucking-well better be.”

  “How did you…”

  “Don’t ask. I took care of it. That’s all that matters.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “He tried.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I couldn’t help you.” Tears welled in Shannon’s eyes.

  Zoe cupped her sisters face in her hands. “Forget about it. Now come on. We need to get our asses in gear before someone comes to check on him.”

  Horses whinnied at the far end of the stable.

  “Wait here,” Zoe said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To look around.”

  “Not without me you’re not!”

  “I’ll only be a second,” Zoe said. She handed Shannon the stun stick “Hang on to this. Don’t be afraid to use it. Not for a second.”

  A strange sound came from the end of the stables. “You hear that?” Shannon said.

  “You mean the horses? Yeah, Shay, I heard them. Horses… stable… one kind of goes with the other.”

  “No, not horses. Something
else.” Shannon stepped out of the stall and listened intently.

  Zoe examined the stalls as Shannon ventured down the central corridor in search of the sound.

  “Holy shit,” Zoe said.

  “What?”

  “Check this out.”

  “What?”

  “This.”

  Zoe stared at the wall of the stall adjoining the one in which had been kept prisoner. The left side was papered with dozens of black and white photographs taken of them on the Harvard campus. The right side featured grainy surveillance photos of their father, Andrew Dunn. Interspersed between the pictures were photos depicting the hellish carnage delivered by terrorist attacks in Madrid, Spain; London, England; Boston, Massachusetts; and New York City.

  “Jesus,” Zoe said. “You know what this means?”

  Shannon nodded. “Whoever took us wants Dad, too.”

  A whimpering sound came from the end of the stables, not equine. Human.

  Shannon whispered to Zoe. “You heard it too?”

  Zoe nodded. She took the stun stick from Shannon’s hand. “Stay with me,” she said. “Don’t leave my side.”

  The women walked to the end of the stable. Disturbed by their presence, the horses neighed.

  They inspected the stalls. All but one was empty.

  A tattered horse blanket lay on the ground in the last stall. It moved.

  Zoe gripped the stun stick tightly, then threw back the straw-covered blanket.

  A young girl sat on the ground. She tried unsuccessfully to grab the blanket back from Zoe, then curled into a ball, covered her head and began to sob. “Please don’t hurt me,” she cried. “I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good.”

  CHAPTER 18

  THE NURSE administered the sedative, lifted Jordan’s head, and adjusted her pillow. “There you go, dear,” she said. “Get some rest. Lord knows you need it.”

  “Thank you,” Jordan said. She soon began to feel the effect of the drug. Her body became light, as though she were floating above the bed, not laying in it, her mind a tsunami of thought, each image crashing into the last until finally, mentally and emotionally drained, the tumultuous dream-waters became calm. Jordan fell fast asleep.