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

by Gary Winston Brown

  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 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.

  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.

  65

  THE FRIGHTENED, BLOOD covered pup rolled on 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!

  Hanover shone his flashlight on a red button flush-mounted into the back wall of the dead woman’s closet.

  “Panic room button?” Jordan asked.

  Hanover nodded. “Probably. Homes like these usually have an escape room for use in the event of an emergency or home invasion. Considering the size of this place I’d bet there are more than one.”

  Chris pressed the button. With a whirring sound, the back wall of the closet clicked open, revealing a vault-like entrance door. Hanover spun the small wheel in the center of the door, heard the deadbolts release, then pushed it open and stepped inside. To his left, an orange keypad glowed. The room lights came on. Adjacent to the keypad a red plunger button with the words EMERGENCY: PRESS TO SEAL blinked rapidly.

  “Hitting that button will close the door and put the room into lockdown,” he said. “Nobody gets in after that.”

  “Too bad they never got the chance to use it,” Jordan said. She stepped over the threshold and followed her partner into the room. Lucy’s tail thumped softly against her leather jacket. The dog sniffed the air.

  In keeping with the Rosenfeld’s penchant for all things luxurious the panic room too was well appointed. A glass panel integrated into the wall provided an unobstructed view of the master bedroom.

  “Two-way mirror,” Jordan said. “Probably bullet- and fireproof. They’d be able to see everything that was going on in the bedroom from in here.”

  “And know when it was safe to leave,” Hanover said. He pointed to an impressive bank of wall-mounted computer monitors. “They’ve got cameras covering every square inch of this place, inside and out. There’s probably a hard drive we can access. We need to get a tech team in here asap. Our guy’s probably on camera.”

  The safe room featured a king size bed, en suite bath with tub and shower, kitchenette, a well-stocked pantry and liquor cabinet, dozens of hardcover books, computer station and laptop, floor safe, four fully charged cellular phones and a satellite phone. A home defense arsenal consisting of two Desert Eagle 50 AE’s, four Glock 19 semi-automatic handguns and four Mossberg 590 short barrel shotguns was mounted on the wall to the right of the mirror. Boxes of ammunition sat on shelves below the guns. Two bulletproof Kevlar vests and shoulder holsters hung on the wall beside the weapons.

  “They could have spent weeks in here if they needed to,” Jordan said.

  Hanover removed one of the Desert Eagles from the display rack and examined it. “The Rosenfeld’s knew their weapons,” he said. “This baby could punch a hole through a bad guy and take part of the wall with it.”

  Jordan inspected the shotguns. “Fully-loaded,” she said. “Personally, I’d pass on the handguns and go straight for the Moss.”

  “Yeah,” Chris agreed. “Folks have a tendency to get outright pissed off at you when you open up on them with a Mossberg.”

  Jordan returned the weapon to the rack. “Why the hell would anyone see the need to have this kind of firepower on hand?”

  “Beats me,” Chris replied. “We should have a look in the pantry. Maybe we’ll find a couple of sur
face-to-air missiles between the Skippy and the Folgers.”

  Lucy looked up and whined.

  Hanover massaged the dog behind her ears. The anxious pup settled down, closed her eyes, and began to fall asleep in Jordan’s arms.

  “Looks like someone’s found a new friend,” he said.

  Lucy began to snore softly. “Poor thing must be exhausted,” Jordan said. She smoothed the matted fur out of the pup’s eyes. The dog cradled deeper into Jordan’s embrace, hid her head under her arm, let out a muffled sigh.

  “We should make arrangements for the SPCA to pick her up after Forensics has processed her for trace evidence.”

  Jordan shook her head. “Lucy’s been through enough for one day,” she said. “The last thing she needs is to be left alone again. She can stay with me and the kids until we determine if a family member can take her.”

  “Fine by me,” Hanover agreed.

  “Let’s get Lucy squared away, then try to figure out just what the hell happened here.”

  “Agreed.”

  After handing the puppy over to Forensics, Jordan and Chris returned to the master bedroom. The flames from the votives that lined the staircase and hallway had burned out. The scent of melted candle wax hung heavy in the air. The Forensics team were busy photographing the room from every angle: the hand-painted murals, grand entrance and vestibule, and the glittering shards of crystal from the broken door pane which lay on the floor. One member of the team dusted the flower petals for prints. Another bagged and processed the items.

  Jordan walked back along the glass hallway and looked over the balcony at the floral arrangement in the grand entrance below.

  She suddenly called out to the agents below. “Stop!”

  The forensics team stood up and stepped away from the scene they were in the midst of processing.

  Hanover met Jordan at the handrail. “What the hell, Jordan?”

  “Chris, look down,” Jordan said. “Tell me what you see.”

  Hanover stared at the flowers spread out over the massive foyer. “I see roses. Lots and lots of friggin’ roses.” He raised his hands as if to say and your point is?

  Jordan called down. “How many roses have you guys bagged and tagged?”

  Forensics Specialist Steve Reynolds replied. “Ten so far. Why?”

  “Do you remember exactly where you found them, Steve?”

  “Sure.”

  “Put them back.”

  “Say what?”

  “Every last one of them. Exactly where you found them.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sorry. It might be nothing, or it could be important.”

  “You’re in charge, Jordan,” Agent Reynolds replied. “Whatever you say.”

  Reynolds and his team returned the flowers to their previous locations on the marble floor. When he was finished, he gave Jordan the thumbs up.

  “There,” Jordan said to Chris. She pointed out the pattern on the floor. “Now do you see it?”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “They form a pattern, a number: 24.”

  “That can’t be a coincidence,” Chris said.

  “Not a chance,” Jordan replied. She called down to Agent Reynolds. “Steve, have one of your guys come up here and photograph this.”

  “On it,” Reynolds replied.

  The full light of morning now illuminated the master bedroom and the anteroom in which the Rosenfeld’s displayed their collection of priceless antiquities and works of art. Lucy’s bloody paw prints mapped the panicked course she had charted as she ran from room to room following the murder of her guardians. A blood trail smeared the floor from the coagulated puddle under which Itzhak’s book lay to the walk-in closet where Lucy had been found.

  Jordan stooped beside Itzhak’s body and examined the blood pool with her flashlight. “Lucy lay down here,” she said. “That’s how she ended up covered in blood. At some point she got up and went into the closet.”

  “She must have caught our scent or heard us coming up the stairs, got spooked, then hid in the closet.”

  “You know what I don’t get?” Jordan questioned. “If you’re going to kill Mom and Dad, why not shoot the dog, too?”

  “Maybe our killer’s a pet lover,” Chris replied. “People, no problem. Take ‘em out like targets in a shooting gallery. But dogs, cats, dwarf bunnies… not happening.”

  “One thing’s for certain,” Jordan said. “This guy was a pro.” She examined the headboard and the position of the dead woman’s body. “The wife received a single shot a split second after she turned her head. The approximate angle of entry and exit places the shooter a good twenty feet away. Not an easy shot to make from that distance, especially in the dark. Maybe he used a laser sight or goggles.”

  “Or he consumes Vitamin A, bilberry, zinc and grape seed extract by the bucket,” Chris said. “Great for improving night vision.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Dr. Oz. I never miss a show. The man totally rocks.”

  Jordan smiled.

  “What about the handrail?” Chris asked. “Did you get a solid reading when you touched it?”

  Jordan nodded. “Mr. Rosenfeld was the intended target. This was personal. The UNSUB wanted it messy. Look at the kill: three body shots to incapacitate, a fourth to the head, then a knife to the throat.”

  “Mob hit maybe?” Hanover speculated.

  “Could be. Whatever business the Rosenfeld’s were into it’s pretty evident they made a lot of money doing it.”

  “Maybe they owed more than they made… to the wrong kind of people.”

  “That’s always a possibility.”

  Jordan took a pair of medical examination gloves out of her jacket pocket, snapped them on, removed her flashlight, then leaned over the corpse. She lifted the dead man’s head. Rosenfeld’s jaw fell slack.

  She remembered her earlier vision: something about the dead man’s mouth.

  A plastic object had been inserted into his mouth. Jordan removed a pen from her lapel pocket and fished out the object. It fell into his lap. She glanced at Chris.

  “Flash drive,” he said.

  66

  DR. JASON MERRICK pulled off Pacific Coast Highway 1 at Aliso Creek behind a late model Winnebago which judging by the plume of smoke pouring from its exhaust pipe could clearly benefit from a forensic examination by a local mechanic. The vehicle, so laden with mountain bikes that its rear sports rack sagged perilously close to the ground, chugged its way into the designated area of the rest stop reserved for recreational vehicles. The multitude of stickers wallpapering its rear bumper eluded that some if not all of its occupants had ‘Toured the Hoover Dam’ in Nevada, ‘Conquered Pikes Peak’ in Colorado, and discovered that in Nebraska ‘The best girls are from Omaha.’ Here in California, the bumper sticker advised that ‘98% of Californians say, ‘Oh shit!’ before driving off the cliff into the Pacific, while the other 2% say ‘hold my beer and watch this!’

  The door to the Winnebago opened. A group of twentysomethings exited the fifth wheel; three guys, three girls, college students he assumed, and walked across the parking lot in the direction of the restroom facilities. Merrick debated whether he should follow them and bring to their attention the abysmal state of the pollution-generating monstrosity. They would benefit from hearing his invaluable advice about the negative impact the machines acrid expulsion was having on the environment, and that their blatant disregard for global warming would probably catch up to and kill them one day in the form of a too-late diagnosis of stage-four squamous cell carcinoma which, perhaps, would be a fitting end for those demonstrating such total disregard for regularly scheduled engine maintenance and oft-neglected oil changes.

  Merrick stepped out of the Chevy Suburban and inhaled the refreshing ocean air. The perfect blueness of the sky and the warmth of the sun on his face promised a perfect day.

  West of the rest area, rising swells of the crystal blue Pacific were locked in fierc
e competition. The rolling waves gained momentum, crested, then raced up the bank of the shoreline, only to fall back and be absorbed by the sandy beach.

  Merrick found himself overwhelmed with gratitude for the sun-kissed day and this his second chance at life. He even entertained a brief feeling of indebtedness to the venerable scientific minds who had come before him, although they had failed in their experiments where he had more than succeeded in his.

  It felt good to be free of the lab. He felt relaxed, much more than he thought he would, and far better than he had for as long as he could remember. He attributed this emotional liberation to having finally reached the summit of his profession and now being unquestionably without peer. Training this mind to suppress his desire for revenge had proven to be a worthwhile discipline after all.

  After leaving Dynamic Life Sciences, his first order of business had been to ditch his Porsche 911 in the parking lot of a local shopping mall. It was at the back of the mall where he had acquired the Suburban from a young home renovator. Despite the massive decal plastered on the side of the steel bin which read NO COMMERCIAL WASTE, Dan of Dan’s Home Improvements had parked behind the Dumpster and was engaged in the illegal disposal of broken plasterboard, used paint cans, old light fixtures, a cracked yellow sink and matching Formica countertop, and the threadbare remains of a truly hideous orange and brown carpet.

  Merrick had merely wished to voice his displeasure at the poor judgment the young contractor was exhibiting by improperly combining recyclables with corrosives and toxins (a threat to both the environment and human health in general) when the contractor, having taken offense to Merrick’s intrusion, threatened to punch his lights out for sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong, then encouraged him to be on his way by using the most impolite language. Merrick apologized profusely, agreed that he preferred his nose exactly where it was, then touched the metal band on his wrist and extended his hand. Taken aback, expecting further confrontation from the stranger and not receiving it, the contractor quickly cooled off and accepted Merrick’s offer of contrition. He took Merrick’s hand, and in doing so felt every nerve in his body come to life. First came the heat, as though his central nervous system was a furnace that had been cranked up as high as it could possibly go. He felt as if he was being fried alive, from the inside out. Just as quickly, his body temperature plummeted, as though he had been scooped out of a cauldron of boiling water and plunged deep into icy water.