Tasker changed out of the captain’s uniform into his own clothes, bagged the garments, handed them to Grease for destruction, fired up the Mustang, and followed the GPS tracking signal his New York handlers had provided him to locate and eliminate the contractor. Traveling from the club to downtown Los Angeles, he reached Angel of Mercy Hospital, slowed the vehicle, and watched the flashing dot on the screen began to flicker, then turn solid blue, placing the contractor, James Rigel, his target, somewhere inside the medical facility. He pulled the car into a short-term parking lot across the street from the hospital, overfed the meter, crossed the street, and entered the building through the main lobby, at which point he was promptly stopped by hospital security.
The guard raised his hand as he walked through the automatic doors. “I’m sorry, sir. Visitor hours ended half an hour ago.”
Harrison Tasker checked his watch and removed his glasses. He squinted at the guard, fumbled for a cleaning cloth inside the breast pocket of his sport jacket and polished the lenses. Tall, black, powerfully built, with a broad chest, square jaw and tree-trunk neck, he could easily have been mistaken for a professional athlete. He had, in fact, in his early twenties, enjoyed a brief stint with the Oakland A’s baseball club until ending the career of the clubs in-development pitcher, Wayne Flynn. The A’s saw a stellar future for Flynn in the majors. But when an argument about the attention being paid to Tasker by the man’s wife concluded with Tasker clamping his hand around the arrogant SOB’s throat, pinning him against the dugout wall and smashing his pitching hand to jelly with a baseball bat, Oakland promptly fired him, Tasker kept the bat as a souvenir. Over the next two years he gained a reputation for knocking out more teeth in barroom brawls than he had ever hit baseballs out of ballparks. With his pro-sport career in the dust and his only resume an arrest record more impressive than his baseball stats had ever been, he soon came to the attention of New York. When offered him the opportunity to put his sociopathic proclivities to more professional use, Harrison Tasker soon transitioned from bone cruncher to full-time contract killer.
Tasker watched as an LAPD police car screeched to a halt outside the main entrance to the hospital, quickly followed by a second cruiser and undercover sedan. The LAPD officers stepped out of their vehicles and conferred. The plain-clothes officers exited their car and ordered the uniforms to take up positions elsewhere on the grounds. One of the black-and-whites blocked the main entrance to Angel of Mercy from the road while the second rounded the corner and headed for the rear exit to the building. The undercover cops walked into the hospital. Tasker heard them identify themselves as FBI agents and give the security guard explicit instructions. Under no circumstances was anyone to leave the facility until further notice. He watched the agents board the elevator. The lobby display panel indicated the cab stopped on the sixth floor.
Professional instinct told him why the police were there and why the place was in lockdown. On his way to the hospital, local radio stations frequently retold the story of the day– the horrific jet crash at LAX. Speculation about the reason for the crash ranged from being nothing more than a tragic accident to an act of domestic terrorism. Tasker recalled his assignment. He had followed his instructions to the letter and tampered with the aircraft exactly as specified. New York wanted the crash to look like an accident: a tire blowout during takeoff, the result of a mechanical oversight, missed in the pre-flight inspection. Tasker had found the log, altered the PSI number as correctly recorded by the mechanic, over-inflated the tires by thirty percent, placed several key tools on the floor of the hangar, and wiped down the tires with jet fuel. The prints on the tools and equipment belonged to the lead mechanic responsible for the aircraft’s final inspection. The balance of the assignment was watch and wait. Experts in New York had calculated the aircraft’s speed required for takeoff, time of day, outside temperature, the heat of the tarmac, and distance to the concrete marker located at the end of the runway. As predicted, when the tires blew the jet immediately dropped, clipped the berm, and struck the ground, assuring catastrophic consequences. But New York failed to take into consideration the near impossible… that someone might actually survive the crash. Evidently Rigel had heard the news and -disregarding all attempts by New York to contact him- taken it upon himself to find and terminate the survivors in order to fulfill the terms and conditions of his contract. He had no idea that his agreement with New York had already been rescinded, and that he had now become as much a target as the individuals which he sought to kill.
Tasker feigned surprise at the police activity. He placed his glasses on his face and adjusted the frames so that they sat more comfortably on the bridge of his nose. “What’s going on?” he asked the guard.
“An FBI agent was attacked tonight.”
“Here?” Tasker asked. “In the hospital?”
The guard nodded. “Not more than twenty minutes ago.”
Rigel, Tasker thought. Had to be. No other operative would be foolish enough to take on the FBI in a facility as secure as this.
“You been following the news?” the guard asked.
“Not really,” Tasker lied.
“You don’t know about the jet crash at LAX?”
Tasker shrugged.
“You know who Michael Farrow is, right?”
“Name sounds familiar.”
“The tech billionaire. It was his plane that crashed. Guy’s dead. So’s his family, except for his daughter. She’s upstairs. Got a few bumps and bruises from what I hear. Other than that, she’s all right.
“Holy shit.”
The guard nodded, then checked himself and shook his head. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”
Tasker returned the cleaning cloth to his pocket and brought his finger to his lips. “Mums the word.”
“Thanks, man,” the guard said. “Sorry, but with the place in lockdown I can’t let you in. Can I relay a message? Did you come to visit someone?”
“No.”
The guard looked puzzled.
“Lost my wallet this afternoon,” Tasker lied. “Could have been here, maybe someplace else, I don’t know. I thought I’d retrace my steps, ask around, see if maybe somebody found it and turned it in. You hear of anything?”
“Not to my knowledge,” the guard replied. “Best thing would be to check with Lost and Found in the morning.”
“I suppose,” Tasker agreed.
The men watched a third LAPD unit roll to a stop at the front entrance. “Tell you what,” the guard said. “Give me a sec. I’ll put it over the radio and ask around. But I better talk to these guys first, let ‘em know the FBI’s here.”
“Do your thing,” Tasker said. He pointed to a bench outside the gift shop. “Mind if I wait over there?”
“Not at all,” the guard said. He looked Tasker up and down. “Man, you are one big dude,” he said. “Ever play football?”
“Nah,” Tasker replied. “Never really been much into sports. I’m more of a bookworm.”
“What a waste,” the guard said, shaking his head. “You could have broken a few bones out on the field.”
Tasker smiled. “Yeah, and with my luck they’d be mine.”
The guard laughed. “Sit tight, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Tasker nodded. He watched the guard walk to the front entrance to greet the arriving officers. He waited until he was alone in the empty lobby, then headed down the corridor, found an exit door, left the hospital, returned to his car, and checked Rigel’s GPS coordinates.
No signal flashed on the screen.
The ghost app New York had covertly installed on the contractor’s cellphone had stopped transmitting his location. Rigel’s signal was gone.
Tasker slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “Sonofabitch!”
CHAPTER 24
RIGEL HURRIED through the narrow service space beneath the mechanical room floor, negotiating his way between pipes and around electrical cables. After his failed attempt to kill
both the FBI agent and Jordan Quest he needed to find a way out of the hospital as soon as possible. If the facility wasn't already crawling with local cops and federal agents, it soon would be.
No operation had ever gone so wrong, so fast.
He turned on his phone. Sandwiched between two concrete floors the device provided no cellular signal but offered a useful solution to his predicament. In the confined, dark space the bright screen illuminated the passageway. He could see well enough to find a suitable exit, preferably one that led back to the Laundry Services department where he had stashed his clothing and belongings behind the commercial clothes dryer.
Rigel followed a circuitous path through the service space, first turning left, then right, left again for another fifty feet, then right. Ahead, light seeped through the edges of a second-floor hatch, eclipsing the access point to the room in which it was located. The scent of clean clothes confirmed he had found the Laundry Services department. Rigel ascended the ladder, tried to lift the hatch cover, couldn’t. He tried again, pushing it up with greater force than his previous attempt. The hatch refused to open. Although free within the facility, here in the bowels of the hospital he was, for all intents and purposes, trapped.
He heard voices above, followed by footsteps, coming towards the hatch. Had his attempt to lift the hatch been seen and aroused the curiosity of the employees in the room? Worse yet, had he somehow been tracked? Post 9/11, most major institutions had become hyper-vigilant and tightened their security. Angel of Mercy was the largest hospital in downtown Los Angeles. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn the institution had installed security cameras throughout the facility, including this subterranean service passageway. Perhaps the authorities were waiting for him on the other side of the hatch, weapons drawn, prepared to take him into custody the second he raised the cover and poked his head up from beneath the floor. Rigel steadied himself. If he was about to come face to face with police in his attempt to escape, he would fight his way out. At the least he would take a few of them with him before he died.
More commotion from above, then the clack-clack of wheel locks being released. Wheels rolled over the access cover, first one set, then another. Rigel visualized the room, then understood why he could not lift the hatch: a service cart had been resting on top of it. Heavy with garments, the weight of the cart had made the cover impossible to lift. The wheels of the cart squeaked as it rolled away. Relieved of the pressure of the cart, the hatch’s metal hinges creaked. Rigel waited, then tried the hatch once again. It lifted with ease. He raised it high enough to permit him to see into the room and judge the timing of his ascent into Laundry Services. He couldn’t afford to be seen. There was no time to make up a viable story which would convince the staff of the reason for his sudden appearance. He needed to get to the dryer, change his clothes, and leave the hospital while he still could.
The time had come.
Rigel lifted the cover.
All clear.
He scrambled up the ladder and gently lowered the steel cover behind him.
On the opposite side of the room he saw the bank of commercial clothes dryers and identified the one behind which he had stashed his belongings. He ran to the unit, changed out of the scrubs, and back in to his street clothes. He picked up the plastic box that served as a prop for his charade and walked through the department, faking his inspection of the machines, affably engaging the staff in small talk, apologizing for the intrusion, assuring them all the machines were now operating exactly as they should, and made his way through the exit door into the hallway.
Two men in business suits walked in his direction; plain-clothes cops or federal agents judging by their body language. Rigel spotted a floor cleaning cart across the hallway. He walked to the trolley, removed a yellow A-frame sign labelled SLIPPERY WHEN WET, and placed it in the middle of the floor. He wrung out the wet mop, pulled it from its bucket, and began to clean the floor. “Watch your step,” he said. The cops walked past, too involved in their conversation to pay attention to him, and through the doors at the end of the corridor.
Rigel left the hospital through the same doors he entered less than an hour ago.
An LAPD patrol car blocked the exit from the rear parking lot to the road. Ten vehicles sat in cue waiting to leave the facility. The officers were inspecting each car and checking the identity of the occupants. The trunk of the lead vehicle was open. An officer was rummaging through its contents.
A light rain fell. The night air smelled sweet and intoxicating, a blend of night-blooming jasmine and eucalyptus. Rigel took a deep breath, savoring the invigorating floral aroma. He searched the parking lot for additional signs of police presence, saw none. No security teams roamed the grounds. The only attention being paid to the rear of the building was to the exiting vehicles.
Rigel removed his car keys from his pocket and sauntered across the parking lot. From the corner of his eye he saw he had caught the attention of one of the officers at the makeshift checkpoint. The cop turned his flashlight and pointed it in his direction. Rigel waved, shook his car keys, and pointed to the back of the lot. The cop gestured to the last car in the cue, as if instructing him to take his place at the end of the line. “No shit,” Rigel said. He smiled and gave the cop the thumbs up.
A low wall separated the rear parking lot from the common roadway shared by a community of low-rise townhouses. The cop followed him with the flashlight as he walked across the lot. Reaching the driver’s door of a nearby SUV, Rigel put the plastic case on the roof of the car along with his car keys and removed his service technician jacket. He took his time, deliberately drawing out the moment, until he achieved the desired result. Satisfied, the cop clicked off the flashlight and turned his attention back to the checkpoint. Rigel observed the officers. All were busy inspecting the vehicles. One employee, irate at having to wait so long to leave work, stepped out of his car and began shouting obscenities at the police. The entire inspection team turned their attention to him. The situation escalated to the point where the man was handcuffed and shoved into the backseat of a black and white.
The perfect diversion had presented itself.
Rigel collected his belongings from the roof of the car, turned the jacket inside out –now a solid black windbreaker– and hopped over the low back wall of the parking lot, away from the scrutiny of the authorities.
He had parked on a side street about a block from the hospital which he estimated to be a short walk from the townhouses. He planned to take his time, enjoy the stroll, and take in the sensorial gifts the night air offered.
He was passed by two late night joggers, both blonde, beautiful, typical of L.A. Models or actresses, he thought. Strippers, maybe. One woman wore her hair in a ponytail while her running partner preferred to let hers bounce freely. They smiled at Rigel as they ran past. He wanted to stop them and ask if they could recommend a good Hollywood agent, someone whom he could trust to put his yet undiscovered talent as an actor to work. Or he could just knock them both out with two well-delivered blows, drag them into the alley they had just passed, enjoy them for a while, kill them, and take a souvenir or two from each for his collection.
No, not tonight. He needed to stay focused and make sure he didn’t call any undue attention to himself.
Rigel watched them run around the corner. Pity. He could have shown them such a good time. But he had an assignment to complete. And he was a professional.
The women would wait. If the two runners were any example of what Los Angeles had to offer the city would prove to be an excellent hunting ground.
After receiving his final compensation for eliminating the Quest woman and fulfilling the terms of his contract, he might even consider making L.A. his permanent home. He could be happy in this town, pursuing both his acting career and passion for killing.
So many women, so little time.
He would need a few more souvenir boxes.
And an agent.
CHAPTER 25
&
nbsp; CHRIS HANOVER winced as Jordan’s nurse, Audrey Lane, dabbed a cotton ball against his neck wound; a visible reminder of his encounter with Jordan’s attacker in the mechanical room. The antibacterial astringent stung as it bubbled on the surface of his skin and crept into the crevices of the laceration.
Nurse Lane looked surprised. “That hurts?” she asked.
“It’s not that bad,” Hanover replied.
Nurse Lane applied more of the solution into the deeper areas of the wound. Chris groaned.
The nurse smiled. “And I thought all FBI agents were tough guys.”
Hanover looked at her. Nurse Lane was beautiful. Tall, blonde, with a slender build, high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes. Had she not chosen a career in nursing she could have been a fashion model in a heartbeat. She wore no wedding ring. Hanover wondered if she was married. “The guy tried to take my head off with a garotte and all I end up with is this scratch on my neck. That’s not tough enough for you?”
“You couldn’t just fight him off, huh?” Lane pursed her lips, tried to conceal a smile.
“The situation was a little more complicated than that.”
“I’m sure it was. But you’re trained in martial arts, right?”
“If you’re referring to close quarter hand-to-hand combat, then yes, I am.”
Nurse Lane smiled but said nothing.
“What does that mean?” Chris asked.
“What?”
“You’re smirking.”
“Am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Nurse Lane tried not to laugh.
Hanover was getting perturbed. “Okay, Bruce Lee, suppose you tell me exactly what you would have done in my position.”
Intruders (A Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Book 1) Page 10
