Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
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ABOUT GARY WINSTON BROWN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
COPYRIGHT & AUTHOR’S NOTE
THE SIN KEEPER
JORDAN QUEST SERIES,
BOOK 2
_________________
Gary Winston Brown
“Men heap together the mistakes of their lives,
and create a monster they call destiny.”
John Hobbes
CHAPTER 1
JORDAN QUEST walked through the ornately styled double doors and into the grand foyer of the Rosenfeld mansion. Of the two handcrafted Swarovski crystal inlays, one remained intact within its frame. The shattered fragments of its counterpart lay strewn across the expansive marble floor and twinkled like precious gems. The air felt thick, heavy, pungent, metallic, yet oddly aromatic; stale blood mixed with the smell of fresh cut roses. The flowers covered the main floor. Shadows darted into corners and escaped under tables, chased into hiding by the effusion of predawn light cascading down through the skylight of the domed cathedral ceiling. Jordan picked up one of the roses. The flower felt fresh, its petals velvet to the touch, stem firm. Jordan walked around the unusual flower arrangement. She stood on the landing at the foot of the grand staircase and ran her fingers along the brass handrail, reading the latent psychic energy signature of the house:
One intruder... male... cat-quick from the entrance to the master bedroom. Two victims; one male, one female, middle-aged. No time to react. Confusion in the acknowledgment of the intrusion, then sheer terror. He feels empowered, amped up, fueled from having achieved complete and total domination over them. She was an obstacle, her execution matter-of-fact, a single shot to the head, left temporal region. The male was the intended target. With him he took his time, fed on his total subjugation and incapacitating fear which the man confirmed with the sudden release of his bladder. Horror now, reflected in the man’s eyes as he tries to rationalize the reality of his wife’s instantaneous death. He advances quickly on the target, weapon pointed straight ahead, a pull of the trigger with every step. Thwup - one muffled gunshot to the left leg… thwup - one to the right shoulder… thwup - a third round, center mass… thwup - a fourth and final to the middle of the forehead. At the dead man’s bedside now... not finished... not yet... not even close. Make the bastard suffer even more whether he can feel it or not. Take more, more, more. He draws a blade deep across his neck, ear to ear... near decapitation. So much blood. Quiet now... the silence is deafening.
There was something about the dead man’s mouth...
Releasing her fingers from the railing, Jordan climbed the stairs. Special Agent Chris Hanover followed close behind.
“The place has been cleared,” Hanover informed his partner. “Forensics was told to hold off until you completed your walk-through. Jesus, Jordan, you ever seen anything like this before? And what’s with all the flowers?”
Jordan halted, raised her hand, made a fist. Hanover removed his sidearm from its holster. He placed his hand on his partner’s shoulder and tapped it gently: a signal that he would follow her lead. An orange-red glow flickered at the top of the staircase past where the light from the grand dome could not penetrate, animating the hallway in a serpentine dance of shadow and light. Beyond the balcony the entrance to the west wing remained dark.
Jordan and Chris climbed the stairs. The hall, constructed of Sensacell glass, illuminated under the pressure of each step and lit the way ahead. In the downstairs foyer the sunrise brought to life the floor-to-ceiling murals which graced the semi-circular walls of the grand entrance.
Movement in the corridor ahead… the rise and fall of a shadow, interrupted by the ebb and flow of dancing candlelight. The shape twisted and turned, then retreated quickly down the corridor.
Jordan drew her weapon and spoke quietly to her partner. “I thought you were told the place had been cleared.”
“I was,” Hanover replied.
“Apparently not. You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Go.”
The agents rushed along the balcony to the adjoining stone-floor corridor and cleared the corner, moving fast, staying quiet. Dozens of votives lined the long hallway. The light from their unsteady flames shuddered and blinked with the brush of air created by the passing agents. Ahead, the doors to the bedroom stood open. Jordan gestured to Chris to cover the right side of the hall as they approached the entrance. Together they breached the room.
The large waiting area of the master bedroom was a veritable showroom of fine art and antiquities. Matching Eileen Gray reading chairs flanked a beautiful handmade Chippendale desk. Ruby-red droplets glistened on the gleaming white surface of a diamond-accented Plume Blanche sofa and trailed evenly across the floor through the main entrance into the master bedroom. In the far corner of the room a glass display case featured priceless artifacts from the Ming dynasty, brilliantly adorned with natural pearl, sapphire and turquoise gemstones. Two focal pieces were positioned prominently on a feature wall. The first was “Pont Neuf,” an oil painting by the famed French artist, Renoir. The second was a page from Leonardo Da Vinci's manuscript of scientific writings, “Codex Leicester,” mounted in a vacuum glass frame. Laser beam mounts installed in both the floor and ceiling indicated the artifacts were protected by a high-tech security system. Jordan recognized the pieces from FBI Criminal Investigation Field Alerts as artifacts suspected of being stolen by a fine art and collectibles theft-to-order ring. If the pieces in this room were real, and not excellent reproductions, their value would be in the hundreds of millions of dollars. Their presence here might also shed light on the motive for the murders.
Movement fro
m inside the master bedroom now; a faint thump-thump-thump on the marble floor, followed by the sound of falling boxes. Jordan glanced at her partner. Chris had heard it too. He motioned with his weapon for them to move further into the bedroom.
The agents moved quickly through the open doors, Jordan covering the left side of the room, Hanover the right. On a blood-soaked California King bed lay the bodies of Itzhak Rosenfeld and his wife, Zahava. The woman lay across from her husband, her expression in death one of wide-eyed horror, accentuated by a bullet hole in the left side of her head. Her outstretched right hand, covered in rivers of dried blood, bone shards and fragments of brain matter, lay inches below the button to a panic alarm integrated into the headboard. Itzhak Rosenfeld had been attacked while reading. He sat slumped forward, mouth ajar, eyes open. Blood from a bullet hole in his forehead and a deep laceration to his neck ran down his left arm and pooled around a copy of Medical Patent Law which lay on the floor beside him. He had received three additional bullet wounds; one to his right shoulder, a second to his left leg, and a third to the middle of his chest, confirming Jordan’s psychic reading taken from the first-floor handrail.
To the right of the deceased, a mirrored hallway led to a walk-in closet and immense dressing room. Its white marble floor was streaked with blood as though the body of a third victim yet to be discovered had been dragged across it.
Hanover covered the right side of the corridor as the agents advanced toward the open room. Short of the threshold, motion sensors tripped the lighting system and brought the dressing room to life.
The luxuriously appointed room featured matching wardrobes, hers on the left, his on the right. Two Eames lounge chairs occupied the common area between them. Each respective wardrobe featured pull out racks for jackets and pants, an automated shoe carousel, numerous shelves and drawers to accommodate foldable clothing and accessories and bullet-resistant Armortex jewelry cases requiring key code access. The cabinet on Itzhak’s side of the room showcased an extensive collection of luxury watches which included Patek Phillipe, Jaeger-LeCoultre, Vacheron and Ulysse Nardin. The second case, Zahava’s, featured diamond bracelets, pendants, chokers and necklaces from Van Cleef & Arpels, Graff, Bulgari and Mikimoto.
On Itzhak’s side of the room four of five mirrored bifold doors were closed.
The bloody drag marks ended at the opening to the fifth.
Jordan trained her Glock on the door. Hanover threw it open.
The closet contained clothes as well as storage boxes. Two of the boxes lay toppled over, their contents scattered across the floor. Switching on his flashlight, Hanover rested his service weapon atop his wrist and panned the tight beam over the discarded envelopes and papers.
From behind the boxes came an unsettling cry. The two agents stepped back and trained their weapons into the small room.
Two red eyes peered out from behind the fallen containers. A Golden Retriever pup stepped out of the shadows and into the light, its blonde coat matted with dried blood. The dog sat at Jordan’s feet and whined pitifully, perhaps believing that it was about to meet the same terminal fate that had befallen its masters whom but a few short hours ago had been the center of its universe.
CHAPTER 2
THERE IS comfort in the darkness. Shadows reach out from the corners of the room in which he hides, shape-shifting allies that serve to camouflage him from those he knows will soon be coming, duty-bound to capture or kill him. His actions within the last seventy-two hours have been unequivocally unacceptable, yet he is unaware that they are entirely out of his control.
Commander Ben Egan unscrewed and pocketed the silencer from the barrel of his SIG P226 MK-25 sidearm. The sound suppressor jingled against the shell casings he had retrieved from the master bedroom of the mansion he had visited last night. He removed the spent rounds and wrapped them in a swath of discarded cloth, returned them to his pocket, ejected and inspected the clip, and replenished the weapon to full capacity.
In the abandoned furniture factory in which he has taken refuge dozens of broken yellow- and grey-stained windows hung precariously in rusted metal frames. Despite the passage of time, the odor of cleaning solvents, furniture polish and burnt machine oil from manufacturing equipment long since fallen into disrepair assaulted his senses. Spray-painted obscenities phosphoresced against the crumbling gray brick walls, cursing at him, then dripped down the wall, diluted by the pre-dawn light of a new day.
Here, in the farthest corner of the building, he has heaped together a rat’s nest of a bed comprised of the discarded end-cuts of sofa fabric and industrial cotton batting. A sackcloth bag stuffed with cleaning rags and Styrofoam chips serves as a pillow, a tattered shipping blanket for covers. Two stacks of wooden shipping pallets jut out from the wall in front of him, his hiding place, further framed by the north and west factory walls. This buttress does not serve to keep out would-be trespassers but rather provides the tactical advantage of a slat wall through which he can see yet remain hidden from view when they arrive in search of him, compromise his hideaway, and force him to stand his ground.
He found this place in the early hours of the morning after stealing an unlocked floral supply van in Thousand Oaks and leaving the Rosenfeld’s with the gift of death in their lavish Hollywood Hills home. He doesn't know the reason why their death was deemed to be necessary, nor does he care. All he knows is that he was under orders to terminate them and that it was impossible for him to have disregard the directive.
Filament-fastened to the projecting shelf of reality, Commander Egan closed his eyes and descended the silicon escarpment and complex micro-passageways of his computer-enhanced mind, reviewing the target termination requirements downloaded to his brain. All in order. Still, he is unable to shake the feeling that these kills were overtly personal. Impossible.
His body is suddenly racked by an unfamiliar sensation: pain. He tries to convince himself that the feeling isn’t real, merely an anomaly of his augmented central nervous system, but he cannot. The sensation is palpable, tactile. He is acutely aware that his mind is being accessed. He knows this because he has reached out in this same manner countless times in the course of his training, slipping undetected into the mind of his targets, both foreign and domestic: fanatical militants, corrupt government attaches, traitorous politicians, questionable business leaders… anyone his government believes could constitute even the slightest threat to national security... and extracts from them their most deeply guarded secrets, doing so without the need for psychoactive, sedative, narcoanalytic drug interrogation or torture, but rather by opening their mind to his. He then examines its contents as easily as one would retrieve a folder from an unlocked filing cabinet and records their secrets: identities of deep cover assets, high-value assassination targets, and classified field activity. Strategic support data and EYES ONLY intelligence reports flip through his mind like memory-testing flashcards. He records it all. When he is finished his target will be completely unaware that such an infiltration had ever taken place and will never have known their vulnerability. To them, they were simply recalling a memory.
Deep within his brain, psychological anti-tampering protocols have been established which he has been trained to initiate in the unlikely event of capture, though the bioaugmentation scientists at the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency argued that such action would never become necessary. He recognizes the pain, another test, and struggles to recall his brain neural interface key; the lock-down code with which he has been provided, but he is incapable of accessing the word. He can sense the presence of the tester as he probes his mind. This one has been the deepest yet. It is evident to him the tester wants to tear him down, to break him. His head feels like it is on fire. If it were possible for him to feel pain in his brain this would be the equivalent of a psychological autopsy.
Never before has he experienced a test of such magnitude.
Once again, he struggles to recall the lock-down code and regain control of his faculties. His
body has become incapacitated, feels as heavy as lead, and he knows he has no choice but to succumb to the test. He wonders if this is the end. They had warned him: failure equals death.
Should he die here and now, he knows his very existence will be disavowed. The specifics of the project for which he has been selected and in which he will play a pivotal role are known only to his handlers and the president of the United States. For these reasons he is viewed by his government as both a top-secret asset and an expendable risk to national security.
He always assumed that his death would come in the form of close quarter combat behind enemy lines. Never like this.
For the first time in his life he is aware of a complex and unsettling emotion: fear.
Finally, he recalls the code, GENESIS, and initiates the neural lockdown protocol. With the sudden cessation of the pain comes an incredible feeling of lightness and release.
He stared at the thin bracelet secured to his wrist. At the commencement of his training his handlers had informed him of its tremendous potential and that the extent of its powers would soon be revealed to him.
His ability to successfully defend against the intrusion into his mind signified the passing of the first phase of field testing.
Project Channeler was a go.
CHAPTER 3
THE FRIGHTENED, blood covered pup rolled onto its back and pawed at Jordan’s shoes.
Jordan ignored the dog and kept her gun trained on the open closet. Hanover swept his weapon and flashlight side to side and overhead in search of a suspect. Satisfied they were safe he holstered his gun.
“We’re good,” Chris said, “but look at this.” He parted the clothes in Zahava’s middle closet.
Jordan holstered her Glock and picked up the nervous puppy. The gold-embossed letters of her name, LUCY, were barely recognizable against the dog’s blood-stained leather collar. Cradled in Jordan’s arms, Lucy licked her face with her warm wet tongue. The pup let out a prolonged yawn, followed by arooop!
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