“Hey!” Zoe said. “Nobody likes a smartass. Especially when she’s a genius smartass. But point taken just the same.”
Lily smiled.
“And the cameras?” Shannon asked.
“There are four of them,” Lily replied. “Installed in the treetops. All infrared, so we can see in the dark. If you didn’t know where they were you’d never see them from the ground. They’re camouflaged, too. Together they cover a thousand-foot perimeter so that outside conditions can be monitored.”
Lily turned on the camera’s display monitor. The screen was divided into four sections. Each gray image captured a different section of the forest. The bottom right corner of the screen glowed bright white.
Zoe pointed to the picture. “How come this one’s not working?”
“It’s working just fine,” Lily said. “Give it a second.”
The bright glow disappeared. The picture flickered into view as the ATV drove under the camera. “The lights from the ATV hit the camera lens head on,” Lily explained. “That’s why it whited out.” She tapped the screen with her finger. “That’s Ben,” she said. “He’s the one who killed my parents.”
“Which direction is this camera pointing?” Zoe asked.
“This is camera number four,” Lily replied. “It covers the west perimeter of the forest. It points toward us.”
“Which means he’s driving toward the camera and away from us.”
Lily nodded. “That would be correct.”
“And the others?” Shannon asked. “Where’s Basil and your Uncle Emmett?”
Camera’s one, two, and three captured no movement. The forest was quiet.
“I don’t see them,” Lily said.
“But if they were still in the forest you would, right?”
“As long as they’re within camera view, yes,” Lily said. “It would display their image as clear as day.”
“Looks like they’ve given up trying to find us,” Shannon said. “We should get out of here while we can.”
“And go where, Shay?” Zoe said. “We don’t have wheels. And I’m pretty sure those three psychos wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave their car keys in the ignition.”
“We need to examine our options,” Shannon said. “As I see it, we have two choices. One, we stay here for as long as we need to and wait them out, or two, we figure out a way to steal their car and hightail it to the nearest police station.”
Zoe walked across the room and sat on the sofa. “There is a third option,” she said.
Shannon stared at her sister. “I’ve heard that tone before,” she said. “I already know I’m not going to like this.”
“We play their game,” Zoe finished. “But that’ll mean getting a little dirty.”
“What are you thinking?”
“About the promise we made to Lily.” She patted the sofa. “Come here, genius. Take a seat.”
Lily sat beside her.
Zoe put her arm around her. “We promised we’d keep you safe, that we’d never let them touch you again, and that we’d come back for your mom and dad. That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“How?” Lily asked.
Zoe directed her response to Shannon. She removed the gun from her waistband. “We’re going to take back your house.”
CHAPTER 37
SHUFFLING OUT of the front door of his burning home, Tim Crawford dropped the spent fire extinguisher on the veranda and helped Harrison Tasker down the front steps. Tim’s neighbor, Ron White, ran to their aid.
“You okay, Tim?” White asked.
“I’m fine, Mr. White,” Tim answered.
White helped Tim carry Tasker down the stairs. “You’re going to be okay, mister,” he said. “Fire departments on its way.” The old man saw the particles of glass, screws and nails embedded in Tasker’s face and body. “Sweet Mother of God!” he said. “We have to get you to a hospital.”
Tasker whispered in Tim’s ear. “That can’t happen. You need to get rid of this guy.”
“I know,” Tim replied quietly.
Tasker nodded at his Mustang GT parked down the street. “That’s my car.”
Ron White asked, “Is anyone else in the house?”
“No,” Tim said. “Just me.”
“Thank God. Where are your parents?”
“Police awards ceremony.”
“Have you called them yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay,” White said. “I have your dad’s cell number. I’ll take care of it. You two going to be okay if I leave you for a minute?”
“We’re good,” Tim said. “Thanks, Mr. White.”
“All right. I’ll be back.”
Tim watched his neighbor return to the crowd and place the call to his father.
He turned to Tasker. “Soon as my dad finds out what’s happening here, he’ll make a few calls of his own. When that happens you’ll never get out of here. The street will be crawling with LAPD before you know it.”
“Just get me to my car.”
“You’re in no shape to drive?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“No, you’re not. In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re pretty fucked up. No offense.”
“None taken. It’s all right. I’ve been hurt worse than this.”
The two shuffled across the street to Taskers car. “So, what are you really?” Tim asked. “Military or something?”
“Or something.”
“Delta Force?”
“The keys are in my pocket,” Tasker replied. “Open the door.”
“CIA?” Tim asked. He fished out the keys and opened the driver’s door.
Tasker moaned as the teen helped him into the driver’s seat. A wave of pain shot through his body. He gripped the steering wheel, steadied himself. “There’s a medical kit in the trunk. White box, red cross. Get it.”
Tim found the kit and handed it to Tasker. “You’re not Delta or Central Intelligence Agency,” Tim said. “That leaves NSA. You’re National Security Agency, right?”
“You forgot Homeland,” Tasker said.
“You’re Homeland Security?”
Tasker removed a blister pack containing six capsules from the box, pushed two of them through their foil backing, and swallowed them. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and waited for the heavy-duty pain killer to take effect. A few seconds later he answered the question. “No. None of the above.”
“Then who are you?”
Tasker looked at the teen. “I’m Death.”
It took a second for the answer to register with Tim before he understood what Tasker meant. “You’re a hitman?”
Tasker didn’t reply. The drug had started to work, the pain to abate.
“The guy that tried to kill me, the one you called Rigel. Is he a pro, too?”
“You shouldn’t be asking these questions,” Tasker said.
“You were after him, weren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you that. Let it go.”
“Let it go?” Tim said. He pointed to his home which was now fully involved. “Have you seen my fucking house?”
“It’s just brick and wood,” Tasker said. “I’m sure your parents are insured.”
“Oh, of course,” Tim scoffed. “Because every insurance company on the planet covers home invasions by machine-gun-toting-bomb-throwing-mad-ass-hitmen. I’m pretty sure that’s a separate policy. Probably cost my dad an extra ten bucks a month.”
“You’ll get a new house,” Tasker said. “Put it all into perspective. You’re still breathing, right?”
Tim paused. “Thanks to you.” He closed the car door.
“You’re going to be all right, kid. You’ll see.”
Tasker started the car. He looked in his rearview mirror. A fire engine raced around the corner on its way to the Crawford home followed by an ambulance and four LAPD squad cars.
“I’d call that one hell of an over-respon
se,” Tasker said.
“Yeah. Looks like dad called in the cavalry.”
“You better get back there. Your parents will be showing up any second.” Tasker dropped the car into gear. “Thanks for your help, kid. You saved my life tonight.”
“Don’t mention it,” Tim said.
Tim stepped away from the car. The rain, which had begun to fall harder since they had escaped the home, pinged off the roof of the Mustang. Orange rivers ran down the back window, reflecting the blaze. Tim watched his parent’s bedroom windows blow out with a boom! The crowd stepped back as emergency vehicles arrived on the scene and took up positions in front of the Crawford home. The quiet residential street was now the epicenter of an urban disaster.
“I’ll take that as my cue to leave,” Tasker said. “I’d say see ya around but… you know.”
Tim nodded. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“To work.”
“After Rigel?”
Tasker nodded.
“Good,” Tim said. “Do me a favor when you find him?”
“What’s that?”
“Set fire to the bastard.”
“I’ll add it to the list.”
Tim watched Tasker pull away from the curb, then joined the crowd in front of his house. Mr. White ushered him over to the paramedics even though he wasn’t in need of their assistance.
The Tec-9 hung inside Tasker’s jacket. He winced as the Mustang rounded the corner and the weight of the weapon pressed against the screws, nails and shards of glass embedded in his body. He should have removed the gun before getting into the car, but the sight of a stranger standing on the street beside Tim, strapped with a machine pistol, might not go over very well with the neighbors.
Light from an overhead streetlamp washed over the passenger seat and briefly illuminated the interior of the car. Tasker noticed the cover to the compartment in which he hid the Tec-9 and military grade ordinance was ajar. He pulled the car to a stop at the curb and lifted the cover.
The foam inserts that held the OC foggers were empty. The tear gas canisters were gone.
Rigel!
Tasker turned on his phone and opened the tracking app.
Rigel’s signal had disappeared. No locator blip appeared on the screen.
He had lost the target.
“Fuck!” Tasker yelled. He threw the phone on the passenger seat. He needed to think through the situation, to rely on his experience and intuition in the absence of technology. How could he find Rigel now? Where would he go?
Tasker slammed his foot on the gas pedal and raced down the street. He would return to Angel of Mercy Hospital, take out the protection detail, and assassinate Jordan Quest and her family quickly and professionally.
For now, Rigel would have to wait. He would eventually resurface. And when he did he would make sure his death was slow and exquisitely painful.
CHAPTER 38
JAMES RIGEL reached his car, slid the Smith and Wesson tactical rifle he’d stolen from the teens fathers into the footwell of the front passenger seat, then dropped to his knees and examined the underside of the vehicle for the presence of a tracking device. He checked inside the engine compartment, under the wheel wells, inspected the trunk, looked under the seats, opened the glove box, and discarded its contents onto the floor.
Nothing. As far as he could tell the car was clean. He could find no unusual devices of any kind.
He considered leaving the car on the street and stealing a new set of wheels, thereby being assured his new ride would be free of tracking devices. But that might bring with it a new problem. It was now ten o’clock in the evening. Although most individuals had retired for the night and no longer had an immediate use for their vehicles until morning, it was possible that the car he chose to steal could belong to a shift worker who, upon heading out the door for work and finding their car missing, would call the police right away. Rigel couldn’t take the chance of calling unwanted attention to himself. It was best to stay with the vehicle he was driving and hope it was bug free. He started the car and drove down the street. One block over, Angel of Mercy Hospital rose above the rooflines of the houses. Red and blue lights danced off the medical facilities concrete walls and mirrored glass windows. The police were still on site. Rigel removed the Glock from his waistband and placed it between the seats for quick access.
He was careful to avoid parking in the same lot he had used on his previous trip to the hospital. Instead, he turned into the parking lot of a nearby apartment complex and viewed the activity taking place at the front entrance from an inconspicuous distance.
Two black Chevy Suburban’s, unmarked FBI S.W.A.T. vehicles, were pulling out. Rigel watched the men assigned to the third and last vehicle converse with an FBI agent dressed in full tactical gear. The neck of one of the men was wrapped in white medical gauze. Rigel recognized him as the agent who had pursued him into the mechanical room earlier in the evening after his attempt to kill Jordan Quest had failed and with whom he had struggled until the ill-timed intervention of the maintenance engineer. Zippy must have done an effective job after all. Too bad he hadn’t had another few minutes. He could have saved the hospital the cost of a few feet of sterilized dressing. The fed would be in the morgue. One less cop in the world to worry about.
The agent stepped into the vehicle. The Suburban’s brake lights glared. This must be the detail assigned to protect his target. They were moving her.
Change of plan. There would be no need to try to kill her in the hospital. He would follow the motorcade from a safe distance, watch where they took her, plan his next attack carefully, then strike when they least expected it, hard and fast, and take out the woman and her family.
As the third SUV rolled down the ramp, an unmarked LAPD sedan took its place at the rear of the motorcade. Rigel waited until the vehicles had traveled a dozen car lengths past him before pulling out of the apartment complex and merging into the traffic flow.
He fell back and followed the motorcade.
CHAPTER 39
HARRISON TASKER slowed as he approached Angel of Mercy Hospital. The black and white LAPD units which had earlier been inspecting vehicles at the staff parking exit in search of the assailant had since left the hospital and returned to patrol. A convoy of three black SUV’s, escorted front and back by two unmarked LAPD sedans, pulled out of the main entrance. He had seen these same vehicles earlier in the evening when he had come to the hospital in search of Rigel and Jordan Quest and been informed by security about the attack on the FBI agent. He suspected Rigel had been the attacker. The guard told him Jordan was upstairs being treated for her injuries. Miraculously, she had survived the horrific jet crash of which he’d been the architect. But any opportunity for him to kill the woman and her surviving family members had been rendered impossible by the sheer police presence. It was in his best interest to leave the hospital before being detained and questioned by authorities.
Once again Tasker opened the GPS tracking software and waited for Rigel’s location to appear on the screen. Perhaps a simple technical glitch had been responsible for the previous loss of signal. No luck. The bastard had figured out he was being tracked and either disposed of his phone or found a way to jam the signal.
Sitting behind the wheel of the Mustang, every part of Tasker’s body felt as though it was on fire. The glass shards and metal debris embedded in his hands and body from the shrapnel bombs were a part of him now. They poked out at jagged angles beneath the surface of his fire-ravaged skin, the result of his direct exposure to the inferno in the hallway and were now impossible to remove by any means other than surgery. Pain ravaged him. Tasker desperately wanted to pull the car over, rip open the medical kit, down another dose of pain killers, and rest. But his priority now was to not lose visual on the motorcade. Jordan Quest was in one of the cars. He had a contract to fulfill, which he now figured would likely be his last. The damage to his body from the makeshift bombs and the fire was irreparable and severely res
tricted his mobility. He was having difficulty maintaining a grip on the steering wheel. It slipped in his hands as he changed lanes. The damage to the nerves in his body was severe. His left hand felt heavy, cold, and numb. He tried to lift the Tec-9 with his right hand but instead fumbled with the weapon. His melted skin had congealed around the shrapnel, and with even the slightest amount of exertion, pulled against the bits and pieces of embedded foreign matter. The accompanying grating action felt as though a thousand razor blades were slicing away at his body from beneath his skin. He would not be able to lift the weapon while driving much less fire it. The pain from the kickback alone would result in a loss of control over the gun and trying to aim it with any degree of precision would be damn near impossible. Bullets would spray everywhere but in the direction of their intended target and leave him vulnerable to taking return fire. Tasker remembered Tim’s last words when he’d left him standing in front of his burning home: When you find him, set fire to the bastard. He looked at his hands. He wanted to scream in anger. His career as a professional assassin was over and he knew it. He’d planned a long-suffering death for Rigel when at last he located him, partly to satisfy New York’s wishes, but also because he simply despised the man. But now in his depleted state, granting young Tim Crawford his wish seemed as satisfying a battle plan as any.
The motorcade sped up, opening the gap between them. Tasker maintained his speed and distance behind the vehicles so as not to arouse suspicion or give the police a reason to believe they were being followed. Only a few vehicles shared the road. Perhaps the city’s residents had been dissuaded from venturing outside by weather reports that warned of the severity of the storm that threatened to sweep across Los Angeles and bring with it heavy rain, thunder and lightning. The rain had begun. Flashes of lightning serrated the night, followed by the low rumble of thunder. Rigel groaned as he raised his hand and engaged the windshield wipers. The rubber blades swept back and forth intermittently.
Intruders (A Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Book 1) Page 16
