The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1

by Gary Winston Brown

  The terms and conditions of his latest contract were crystal clear. The entire family was to be eliminated. There were to be no survivors. Michael Farrow, the principal target, and his wife, Mary, were already dead. The plane crash had seen to that. Only Farrow’s daughter, Jordan Quest, and her two children remained. Killing the daughter would be easy, the children not so much.

  Tasker dropped the Mustang GT into gear and pulled away from the curb.

  The light mist that earlier had swept in and covered the moonlit ground in a pearlescent dew had now turned to rain. Fat droplets splattered on the windshield. Tasker checked Rigel’s GPS signal once more, then glanced out the windshield at the low clouds. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the car’s interior.

  A storm was coming to Los Angeles.

  27

  BEHIND SHANNON, ZOE, AND LILY the searchlights of the all-terrain vehicles swept through the forest, casting silver shadows over its dew-laden floor, startling its nocturnal inhabitants. A doe and its fawn raised their heads and sniffed the air, then bolted, the doe following closely behind its mother, their fight-or-flight instinct aroused by the snapping of twigs breaking under heavy footfalls.

  Lily called back to her new friends. “Quit stomping,” she said. “If your roll your foot from heel to toe the sound won’t carry.”

  “Excuse me, Pocahontas,” Zoe replied. “Next time I’ll wear moccasins.”

  “Or Sketchers,” Shannon added.

  “A much better suggestion,” Zoe agreed. “Note to self: Make Sketchers footwear of choice for late-night run through woods.”

  Lily disregarded the verbal jab. “We’ll be getting off the trail soon. Stick close. Blend into the shadows. Listen to the forest. Be one with the night.”

  “One with the night?” Zoe said. “Please tell me you’re not going to go all kung-fu Zen-master on us.”

  “Quiet!” Lily hushed. “There, up ahead.”

  “I don’t see a damn thing,” Zoe said.

  “Me neither,” Shannon added.

  “That’s the whole idea,” Lily said. “Follow me and don’t ask questions. We need to move fast.”

  Lily directed them off the path. The racing engines of the ATV’s echoed through the forest. Uncle Emmett and his sons were closing in.

  Lily pointed to a tree with a massive trunk. Its gnarly root structure snaked across the surface of the ground. “There,” she said. “Behind that tree.”

  The girl ran ahead, slid to the ground, and began digging at the soft soil with her fingers. Shannon and Zoe stared down at her.

  Lily looked up. “Well don’t just stand there,” she said. “Dig!”

  The women dropped to their knees. “What are we looking for?” Shannon said.

  “The edge.”

  “Of what?”

  “A door.”

  “A door?”

  “Just do it already!”

  Shannon and Zoe followed the girl’s instructions and explored the ground beneath their fingers until they felt the edges of the door.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Zoe said.

  “Clear the dirt,” Lily demanded.

  They dug a channel around the perimeter of the flat two-foot by three-foot metal door.

  Lily located the recessed handle and pulled. The door creaked but wouldn’t budge. Time and exposure to the elements had rusted its hinge.

  “I don’t suppose anyone thought to bury a can of metal lubricant here too,” Zoe said.

  “Grab the handle and pull,” Lily said.

  “Move aside,” Zoe said. She tugged hard on the handle. With a heavy creak the stubborn hinge gave way. Zoe raised the door. A surge of air wafted up from within the structure. A steel ladder anchored to a concrete wall led down into darkness.

  “Get in!” Lily said.

  Shannon and Zoe exchanged tentative glances.

  “You’re wasting time. Hurry!”

  “You first,” Zoe said.

  “I can’t,” Lily said. “I have to go last.”

  “Why?” Shannon asked.

  “I have to execute the countermeasures.”

  “Countermeasures?” Zoe repeated. “Who the hell was your dad, Lily? James Bond?”

  The ATV’s were fast approaching, the beams from their lighting system illuminating the forest canopy and surrounding trees. The smell of gasoline and burning motor oil carried on the fog. A light rain began to fall.

  They could hear voices now above the roar of the machines, instructions being issued. The ATV’s split off in different directions. The sound of one of the four-wheelers faded while the second machine, heading toward them, grew louder.

  “Go!” Lily yelled.

  Shannon and Zoe descended the ladder. Lily followed close behind. Once inside the structure the girl pulled down the lever-lock on the underside of the door and flicked on the lights, casting the underground chamber in a pale-yellow glow. A thin wire pull-cord ran down the side of the concrete wall. Lily pulled down on its metal handle. Shannon and Zoe heard a muffled twang sound from above the hatch door. The wire fell slack against the wall.

  Zoe looked at Lily. “Countermeasures?”

  Lily nodded. “There’s a huge net of pinecones, needles and leaves suspended between the trees. Dad camouflaged it so that you could walk right under it and not see it. I released it. Everything fell to the ground. The hatch is covered now.”

  “Where are we?” Shannon asked.

  “Dad’s secret place.” Lily looked up. “Don’t worry. We’re safe now. It’s soundproof. They won’t be able to hear us, much less find us.”

  Storage cupboards ran along the walls of the main corridor, each labeled according to its contents. Zoe opened the doors and peeked inside. In one she found a dozen cans of instant coffee and whitener, boxes of tea, a tall plastic container full of single-serve sugar packets, cartons of dehydrated ready-to-eat foods, canned beans and chili, powdered milk, dry pasta, shrink-wrapped cases of bottled water, soda, packaged nuts, dried fruit and more.

  The shelving units on the other side of the hallway were stocked with a variety of items: porcelain mugs, dinner plates, plastic cups, paper towels, toilet paper, soap, shampoo, a medical supply kit, kitchen cutlery, knives in self-sharpening cases, books, board games, walkie-talkies, flashlights, batteries, topographical maps of the region, safety lighters, striking matches, boxes of beeswax candles, kerosene lamps, bottles of fuel, a portable stove, cans of Sterno camping fuel, two compasses, a hand-crank radio, and eight cans of bear spray. One section of the wall was outfitted with rock climbing gear. Miscellaneous camping items hung on hooks. Three large plastic storage containers sat on the floor. The first, labeled DAD, was full of clothes, a pair of hiking boots, several pairs of leather gloves and a rain poncho. The label on the second tub read JUNE. The third, LILY.

  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.”

 
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 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 that 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 not to tell her so. He wanted to point out that math had nothing to do with it, that Mr. Depp’s generous compliment to her was him simply being the consummate gentleman which 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 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. She had buried her feelings of anger, fear, and panic 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 have become a markedly better actor for going through the experience.

  So overcome with gratitude that 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 with her 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 were he 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 had 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.’ He considered 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 to be 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 such as commercials he’d been in or 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 le
ft at the end of the street, then 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, his breathing calm. Walking in the rain made him feel completely connected to the world and stimulated him on many levels. His concentration was markedly 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.