Intruders (A Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Book 1)

by Gary Winston Brown

  Shannon turned to Lily. “June was your mother?”

  Lily looked at the floor. She nodded.

  Shannon walked over to Lily and gave her a hug. “I’m sorry this had to happen to you. We’re going to make it right.”

  “How?” Lily asked.

  “I don’t know… yet. But we promised we would. And that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

  Zoe called out to her sister. “Shay, check this out.” In her hands she held several booklets. Shannon thumbed through the publications and read their titles aloud: “Planning Guide for Response to a Nuclear Detonation… Radiological Attack: Dirty Bombs and Other Devices… Nuclear Attack Fact Sheet… EPA Emergency Preparedness and Response… Nuclear War Survival Skills Civil Defense Manual.”

  To Lily, Zoe said, “A soundproof concrete vault twenty feet or more underground… medical supplies… enough emergency food and water to last six months, maybe longer. Your mother and father were survivalists, weren’t they?”

  Lily nodded.

  “This is an underground bunker,” Shannon said.

  “More than that,” Zoe corrected. “It’s a nuclear fallout shelter.”

  CHAPTER 28

  RIGEL’S MIND wandered as he strolled past the rows of townhouses that backed on to the parking lot behind Angel of Mercy Hospital. He enjoyed taking long walks in the rain and loved the smell of geosmin produced at these times. He learned that microbiological term, which referred to how oil compounds in plants combined with airborne bacteria during periods of rain to infuse the air with a musty smell, from Sandra May Edwards, whose acquaintance he had made between assignments while attending a free acting workshop, two years earlier in Burbank. Rigel found the effect of the geosmin and negative-ionized air to be refreshing and invigorating; the woman less so. Sandra May Edwards, who insisted on being addressed by her full name, had once been a Park Ranger in Death Valley National Park, which bordered California and Nevada. She left the U.S. National Park Service to pursue her call to acting after a chance meeting with Johnny Depp, the uber-talented actor, in the Stovepipe Wells Village General Store while hiking through Mosaic Canyon. Mr. Depp (now Johnny to her) had complimented her on her perfect teeth, high cheekbones, symmetrical face and positive energy, and asked if she’d ever thought about becoming an actress. She had not. But in time she came to believe Mr. Depp’s sharply honed thespian senses had seen a potential for stardom in her she had not seen in herself and concluded that by continuing to work for the State she was not living up to her full potential. Two months after their meeting, she submitted her resignation to the Parks Service and moved to Los Angeles to fulfill her destiny as a movie star. She made a point of telling Rigel it had to be the movies. “I was discovered by Johnny Depp, and Johnny Depp is a movie star,” she said. “If I was intended to be on television, I would have been discovered by a television star. It’s simple math, right?”

  After a few minutes of trying conversation, Rigel concluded that Sandra May Edwards was as dumb as a brick and felt hard pressed to not tell her so. He wanted to point out to her math had nothing to do with it, that Mr. Depp’s generous compliment to her was him simply being the consummate gentleman he was reputed to be, and that, in truth, she was about as attractive as corroded metal. But perhaps the greatest insult of all to Sandra May Edwards was that the woman couldn’t act to save her life. Rather than say what was really on his mind he opted to agree with her philosophy that ‘nothing in life is as important as following one’s true calling.’ Sandra May Edwards had been so enamored with Rigel and his acting ability she immediately promised him a co-starring role in her first movie. Believing they had a chemistry ‘so electric it transcended the screen,’ she suggested they meet at her place later that week to work on their class assignment and enjoy a drink or two. Rigel quickly took her up on the offer. Shortly into the evening (and after handling as much of her pompous attitude and pathetic acting ability as he could take) he suggested they conduct an exercise of his own creation. Their homework assignment had been to better understand the intimacy of the craft by connecting with a past negative experience and exploring the range of emotions it incited. When he offered Sandra May Edwards the opportunity to go first, she drew a blank, and supposedly could not recount a single such event in her life, not even the last time she had cried. She attributed this shortcoming to her eternally optimistic attitude towards life. If ever before she had experienced any of the feelings of anger, fear and panic they were being asked to explore in this exercise she had buried them so deep that any memory of them was foreign to her. Rigel’s counsel was to impress upon her the three acting rules a coach had once taught him: first, that acting never acting; second, that real acting is doing; and third, that great actors never fake it. They practice and perfect every skill. He offered a suggestion. If she would put her trust in him he would help her break through this mental barrier, and by the end of the evening become a markedly better actor for having gone through the experience.

  So overcome with gratitude she was practically on the verge of tears, Sandra May Edwards emphatically accepted.

  Rigel walked her into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and instructed her to sit quietly for a few minutes, eyes closed, while he made a few necessary preparations. Sandra May Edwards teetered with excitement, eager for the session to begin. Rigel instructed her to take deep breaths while he massaged her shoulders, congratulated her for being willing to step outside her comfort zone, assured her that only good things would come from the exercise, and reminded her how proud Johnny would be of her if he were there now.

  He rummaged through her kitchen drawers and cabinets, found the items he was looking for, then returned to the woman, his hands wrapped in dish towels.

  The first punch to Sandra May Edwards face knocked her out.

  The second decimated her jaw.

  When she regained consciousness an hour later, Rigel was astonished at her emotional progress. Sandra May Edwards could emote feelings of sadness, rage, anger and hatred as convincingly as any Academy-Award winning actor.

  Honored to have made such a significant contribution to her development as an actor, Rigel was truly disappointed when Sandra May Edwards died in the chair. The training session had proved to be too much for her. Sad, he thought. The words of his former acting coach came to mind: ‘In order for one to create art, one must be willing to make great sacrifices, even of oneself.’

  He had once met a world-renowned acting coach in Miami who warned him against crossing the fine line between acting and overacting. Sandra May Edwards breakthrough had exceeded his expectations. Perhaps one day, after retiring from a successful acting career, he too would consider coaching. It didn’t come as a surprise to him that he had a natural talent for it. But for now, life as a highly sought-after contract killer paid the bills. Still, it was nice to think about it. And planning for the future was always prudent.

  He had taken the acting coach’s advice to heart. If he was to pursue his dream of one day establishing himself as one of Hollywood’s most celebrated actors, he would need to perfect his ability to become any role and take on the persona and idiosyncrasies of any character he would be asked to portray with uncanny accuracy. His current occupation permitted him the opportunity to do just that.

  After tossing her apartment to make her death appear as if she had been the victim of a home invasion, Rigel slit her throat.

  Though he continued to attend a few acting classes here and there to pass the time between assignments, Rigel soon began to feel he was no longer deriving any great benefit from them. After all, he was a natural. Finding work would be easy. He decided against attending ‘cattle-calls.’ That indignant process of sitting in a room for the better part of a day with dozens of less-qualified actors just to read for a two-bit part was a massive time suck attended only by hacks and wannabes. He would approach things differently. He would show up at the reading, walk into the room, introduce himself to the casting agent and director, and do his thing. If
they didn’t offer him the role on the spot (or worse, had the audacity to ask him about his past work… commercials he’d been in, movie roles he’d played) he had only to present them with his treasured souvenir box and share his stories of how each valuable trinket had been acquired. After that, if they weren’t impressed with his real-world skill to capture and captivate an audience, he wouldn’t give them another minute of his time. Any disinterest shown on their part would serve as proof they didn’t know what they were talking about and were not the supposed experts they presented themselves to be. The entertainment industry was full of scam artists. He believed his chances were extremely good that sooner or later his name would come up at a Hollywood ‘insiders’ party and that DiCaprio, Elba, DeNiro, Hopkins, Washington, Caine, or Stallone would pick up the phone and call him. He would have to decline their initial offer, of course. If they really wanted him for the role they would need to badger him until he accepted. In Hollywood, one should never appear too anxious. That would be unprofessional.

  Rigel took a deep breath, invigorated once more by the fragrant smell of geosmin in the night air, and reflected on how lucky he was to be master of his own destiny.

  He crossed the road from the townhouse complex, turned left at the end of the street, and headed north. His car was close by. The rain had begun to fall harder. Rigel pulled his collar tightly around his neck. He could feel the release of endorphins in his body. He felt on top of the world and had all but forgotten about killing the mechanical room engineer and his attempted murder of the FBI agent. His heart rate was normal, breathing calm. Walking in the rain made him feel completely connected to the world and stimulated him on many levels. His concentration markedly was improved, as too his ability to react quickly. Beyond its restorative powers the rain entertained him by bringing music to the night. Fat water droplets drummed steadily on the roofs of parked cars. Overflowing water rushed along concrete gutters and fell through sewer grates with a low tympanic roll. Wind chimes tinkled in harmony above the front door of a well-kept bungalow.

  Oil-dipped raindrops, strewn across the road like aqueous diamonds, sparkled in the headlights of a car that turned the corner behind him. Rigel looked over his shoulder. The vehicle slowed as it pulled over to the curb, killed its lights, idled. In a home across the street Rigel heard the thump-thump-thump of a heavy bass beat. Behind the doors a house party was in full swing. The car probably belonged to a pizza guy delivering a late-night order.

  He turned the corner and saw his car parked at the end of the road. In a few minutes he would be out of the rain. He would log into the hospital computer using his cellphone, enter the passcode he had retrieved from the Laundry Services managers office, and look up Jordan Quest’s patient information file. Taking her out at the hospital was no longer an option. She was now under the protection of the FBI. Alternate arrangements to terminate her would have to be made.

  Rigel glanced back at the car parked across from the party house. It occurred to him he hadn’t heard its door open or close. The driver had not left the vehicle.

  The car pulled away from the curb, turned on its headlights, then accelerated up the road toward him, gaining speed.

  As the black Mustang GT approached, Rigel saw a short metal cylinder resting on its sill. He recognized it as the barrel of a silencer.

  He darted across the lawn of the nearest house and shoulder-rolled to cover behind a Jeep Wagoneer parked in the driveway.

  Thwup, thwup, thwup, thwup, thwup, thwup, thwup, thwup, thwup, thwup…

  It was the sound of a suppressed machine pistol operating in full automatic mode.

  He was under fire. And unarmed.

  The weapon spat out a steady stream of bullets, ripped holes in the vehicle, and blew chunks of brick and mortar off the wall of the house. A hall light came on inside the residence, followed by the porch light. The front door opened.

  The Mustang screeched to a halt several houses down. A second volley of bullets blistered the house. The rounds missed Rigel completely.

  Behind him, a wooden gate led into the back yard. Rigel pulled the lid from a metal garbage can, scrambled to the other side of the Jeep and launched it into the air, sending it rolling across the neighboring lawn. The diversion worked. Gunfire followed. Rigel took advantage of the opportunity.

  He ran around the car, raced up the walkway, tackled the teenager standing in the open doorway, knocked him back inside the house and held him down. A third spray of bullets serrated the front hallway, blew pictures off the wall, and shattered a glass vase filled with fresh flowers.

  Rigel pressed the kids face against the floor. “Who’s home?” he yelled.

  The teens eyes were wide with panic. Rigel pressed down harder.

  “J-just me,” the kid said.

  “You keep guns in this house?”

  The kid nodded.

  “Where?”

  “Safe… downstairs.”

  Rigel closed the door. “Get up,” he said. He forced the teen to his feet, shoved him down the hall. “You know the combination?”

  “I think so.”

  “You have five seconds to open it or we’re both dead. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Move!”

  CHAPTER 29

  ANDREW DUNN slid a guest chair across the room and took a seat beside Jordan. “You think you know where Shannon and Zoe are?” he asked.

  Jordan nodded. “I got a flash off the necklace when the nurse handed it back to me. It was weak, but it might be something to go on.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A ranch house… white clapboard with green trim, adjoining stables.”

  The anticipation in the FBI Director’s voice quickly fell. “With all due respect Mrs. Quest, there are literally dozens of ranch homes, hobby farms, and horse stables outside Los Angeles.”

  “I know.”

  “What makes you believe the one you saw is where we’ll find my girls?”

  “It’s the only one with shackles hanging from the ceiling in the stables.”

  Dunn sat back in the chair. The thought of his daughters bound in chains and imprisoned sent a chill down his spine. “Go on.”

  “I saw something else. But I don’t know its relevance.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Is Shannon a fan of the circus?”

  “The circus?” Dunn asked. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Jordan held the necklace. “I keep seeing a circus... a hooded face… costumes. Somehow that’s important. I just don’t know how.”

  “There are a few professional circuses that still follow a circuit through small towns from here through to Arizona and into New Mexico,” Dunn said. “Bands of grifters mostly. Do you think Shannon and Zoe could have been abducted by one of those groups?”

  “I don’t know,” Jordan replied. “But it’s worth investigating.”

  “I’ll run a search,” Dunn said.

  “One more thing, Director.”

  “Yes?”

  “The house. There’s a darkness about it. A very negative energy. Something terrible happened there. I’m sorry, Director. That’s all I’m getting for now.”

  Dunn stood. “Every little bit helps. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your assistance in finding my daughter. Especially under the personal circumstances you’re dealing with on today of all days. Thank you for trying.”

  “We will find them, Director.”

  Dunn nodded. “I just pray that when we do, we’re not too late.”

  A knock came to the door. “Come in,” Jordan said.

  Chris Hanover entered the room.

  “Anything?” Dunn asked.

  “No, sir. We been through the facility, top to bottom. There’s no sign of Mrs. Quest’s attacker. I don’t know how he slipped out of here, but he did. Security is checking CCTV footage. If the closed-circuit surveillance cams caught a picture of him, we’ll run a still through NCIC. If he’s in the system we’ll soon know who we’
re dealing with.”

  Dunn was angry. “Tell them to look harder. If they can’t find anything send the file to Quantico for analysis. The man’s not invisible, for God’s sake. It wasn’t a ghost that did that to your neck. One camera in this damn place must have caught a picture of him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Director turned to Jordan. “Under the circumstances I’ll have to insist we place your family in protective custody and move you to a Bureau safe house. This hospital isn’t safe. It’s clear someone wants to harm you and your family and I’m not about to let that happen.” To Agent Hanover, he said, “You and Agent Carnevale make the arrangements. I want a full tactical team at the location. Mrs. Quest and her family are to be escorted out of here within the hour. Understood?”

  “Copy that, sir.”

  Jordan sat up in her bed. “My family isn’t going to any FBI safe house, Director,” she said.

  Dunn was taken aback by the objection. “We’ve followed this protocol hundreds of times before, Mrs. Quest. I assure you that you and your family will be safe.”

  “I’m quite willing to accept your offer of protection, Director,” Jordan said. “But I’m not going to lock my family away in some hotel until the FBI figures out what’s going on. We’ll stay at my father’s mansion, Farrow Estate. The place is a fortress. Its security system is state-of-the-art. Most importantly, my children are comfortable there. I don’t want them to be any more upset than they already are. The same goes for my mother- and father-in-law, and Marissa. That is where we’ll be the safest. And you’re welcome to bring as many tactical teams as you like.”