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

by Gary Winston Brown

  Merrick stared into the contractor’s eyes and noted the sudden physiological changes taking place within his body, in particular the rapid dilation and contraction of his pupils, coupled with his desire to speak yet being unable to utter a single word. Merrick let up on the strange energy force flooding throughout the man’s body.

  “Please… no more,” Dan the Contractor said. His teeth chattered with such intensity Merrick thought he might actually grind them to dust as he spoke. “I… have… a family.”

  “So did I,” Merrick replied. “Unfortunately, I really need your truck.”

  Merrick intensified the energy stream. The man’s skin turned color, from pink to pale blue, then to ashen gray, and finally snow white. If the eyes were truly the window to the soul, Dan the Contractor’s stare suggested that his life force had abandoned him. Merrick gripped his hand tighter and increased the cold energy, testing the limits of Project Channeler, then watched his body shatter into a thousand tiny fragments as easily as might a boulder that had been dipped in a vat of liquid nitrogen and struck with a sledgehammer.

  Before closing the lift gate, Merrick removed from the truck a second roll of the grotesque carpet the contractor had not yet disposed of, unrolled it, kicked the man’s frozen remains into it, then re-rolled the rug and tossed it into the Dumpster, along with the man’s work boots and clothes. He pulled the magnetic business signs off the doors of the Suburban. After switching the license plates with those of his Porsche he left the mall and drove off in the direction of Laguna Beach.

  Merrick checked his wristwatch. 10:50 A.M. His colleagues would soon be arriving at the lab. They had worked all day yesterday and into the early hours of the morning at his request. He recommended they take advantage of a few extra hours of well-earned sleep to recharge their batteries and suggested they roll in around eleven instead of their usual eight o’clock start.

  He, however, had arrived early. He opened the lab as usual, then coated the focus adjustment dials of the microscopes with a mother tincture of poison hemlock. Soon after his co-workers touched the equipment the poison would be absorbed through their skin and begin to circulate through their bloodstream. One by one they would start to exhibit symptoms of an unknown etiology: vomiting, convulsions, wheezing, delirium, lack of motor control, paralysis. Eventually they would collapse. Working in a top-secret military lab and unsure of what was happening to them Merrick knew their first instinct would be to suspect the lab had been compromised and that they had become the target of a chemical attack; terrorism perhaps. Panic would quickly ensue. One of them would hit a workstation alarm, immediately initiating Red Door protocol, after which no one would be permitted to enter or leave Dynamic Life Sciences or any of its labs until all emergency procedures had been followed. No action would be taken to help the men trapped in the lab – not even if they appeared to be dying - until the full extent of the threat had been determined. Only then would the lockdown be lifted, and the scientists permitted to receive medical attention… if they were still alive.

  Whatever.

  Merrick was confident he wouldn’t be missed for the next couple of hours. Even if he had arrived for work, he wouldn’t have been permitted access to the facility due to the lockdown.

  He walked past the Winnebago and noted his reflection in the side window of the RV. Too much time spent working in labs over the years combined with too little time committed to exercise had left him overweight. He checked his profile in the tinted window, turning first to his left, then his right. Twenty pounds would have to go. Okay, maybe thirty. He promised himself that when his mission was complete, he would make a concerted effort to get back into shape. Such promises hadn’t worked for him in the past. Perhaps this time would be different. The RV windows parabolic design and bronze tint did little to enhance the pallor of his skin. Rather than providing the illusion of a tanned and healthy glow his reflection still looked pale. Acne scars pock-marked his face like tiny craters, and his pudgy cheeks seemed even pudgier. His oversized head, about which he had been teased all his life, appeared chinless, and dissolved into a short, wide neck. To better observe his appearance Merrick pushed his horn-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose and smoothed his thinning hair into place. A lifetime of being short and rotund guaranteed he would forever remain the farthest thing from a chick magnet any woman could imagine. Before his late wife, Alma, the women who had been drawn to him were mostly Ph.D. candidates, attracted to him for his superior intellect. Merrick had established a name for himself in the field of synthetic biology. He was considered a scientific rock star and trailblazer due to his unparalleled advancements in the field of artificial neural networking and brain-computer interface communications known as neurocybernetics: merging the mind of man with biologically hosted computer technology. He had spent the last ten years working at Dynamic Life Sciences as a civilian military contractor. He had been provided with unlimited funding from the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency to continue his breakthrough research into neuro-command telepathy, telekinesis, transmutation, and mind control. Human trials were now underway. Early results had shown Project Channeler to be an unprecedented success. Once weaponized, the technology would be of incalculable value to DARPA and he would be contractually obligated to surrender it to them. But that was something he had never intended to do.

  Channeler would remain his and his alone.

  He had already deployed it against them.

  They just didn’t know it yet.

  This was how it had to be. There was no other way. Besides Alma, there had been only one other love in his life Merrick had treasured; his daughter, Paige, who had been ripped from their lives in the cruelest way a daughter could be wrenched away from two loving parents.

  With Alma and Paige dead, Merrick was utterly alone at a time in his life when he should have been celebrating his personal and professional success surrounded by the family he so loved. Instead, he had become emotionally obliterated. Nothing mattered anymore, not even his esteemed reputation or his Top-Secret clearance. There were no rules left worth abiding by. No achievements worth a damn. No allegiances worth honoring.

  All that remained was an unquenchable desire to find and destroy whoever had managed to pump the vitality out of him and leave in its place untenable bitterness and racking pain.

  The white cotton Tommy Bahama shirt gaily flowered with pale yellow hibiscus and red ohia had proven to be an ideal choice to wear on this sunny Southern California day. The fit was comfortable and loose and nicely concealed the Beretta pistol he had taken from dead Dan’s glove box between his waistband and the small of his back. The store clerk had paired the shirt with stylish white slacks and a canvas belt, tan leather Rockport’s, and a palm braid Fedora. All had been excellent choices. The cushioned soles of the shoes silenced Merrick’s footfall as he walked past the RV. He’d left the Fedora on the front seat of the truck. The thought of burning the top of his head under the hot sun was preferable to the embarrassment of having to huff and puff his way along the beach chasing after the hat should a sudden gust of wind blow it off his head. He liked his new look so much that he wore the clothes out of the store. He bundled his stodgy old apparel into the shopping bag and tossed them in the trunk of the Suburban.

  Merrick examined himself once more in the window of the RV. He had always been a physically weak man, preferring the development of his mind to that of his body. But strength (or even the Beretta for that matter) would not be required for him to find peace. He possessed two far deadlier assets, both of which he could bank on to obtain the justice he sought: the genius of his mind, and Project Channeler.

  He trailed his fingers alongside the RV. The dusty vehicle shuddered under the energy of his touch. The mountain bikes shook and clattered against one another in the rack.

  In the short time since he had arrived at Laguna Beach the parking lot had already reached its full capacity. The main entrance had been closed. Latecomers were being redirected to ov
erflow lots across the street and down the road. Along the beach, volleyballs were being served high and spiked hard into the soft sand by well-tanned, rambunctious teens. Melanoma-conscious seniors lounged under blue canvas canopies, protected from the wrinkle-inducing UV rays of the sun. Some talked while others read or listened to music. Seagulls glided inches above the gently rolling Pacific in search of food that ventured fatally close to the surface of the water.

  It seemed to Merrick that the police presence was unusually high for this relatively early hour of the day. Officers strolled along the beach and engaged the public in polite conversation. Down the beach from the volleyball game a well–muscled cop with movie-star good looks straddled his bicycle and leaned over the handlebars, chatting up three beautiful young women. The cop laughed and shifted his weight from side to side, impressively flexing his powerfully defined arms and legs. Merrick recognized the girls as the travelers in the atmosphere-defiling Winnebago.

  Purchasing an ice cream cone from a vendor, Merrick walked along the beach and sat on a bench situated near the water’s edge. From the shore to the horizon the glittering rays of the sun sparkled on the ocean like the camera flashes of celebrity–obsessed paparazzi.

  Finishing the tasty treat, Merrick touched the metal band on his wrist. The energy field became visible. The band began to change color, first to blue, then yellow, finally rose-red. Activating the brain-neural interface supercharged his body. He submitted to its power, closed his eyes, and watched the blackness in front of them melt away. His mind no longer a blind and barren landscape, he observed with clarity the multidimensional images Channeler provided to him.

  He paused before venturing further, testing the mindscape as a wild animal might call upon its trusted olfactory senses to reveal the presence of a hidden predator.

  Merrick telepathically sought out the neuro-signature of his trial subject and observed his location in his mind.

  A large building… a warehouse perhaps.

  Banks of broken windows…

  An obscenity-scarred wall...

  The rank smell of burnt machine oil.

  67

  CHRIS HANOVER PARTED the bedroom curtains and looked down upon the gathering crowd. Outside the iron perimeter fence of the Rosenfeld estate police struggled to keep news crews at bay. Reporters attempted to out-flank one another to acquire the perfect backdrop for their live-to-air report of the ongoing murder investigation.

  As the Forensics team photographed and videotaped the crime scene, Jordan showed them the secret panic room they had found hidden behind the bedroom wall.

  She removed the flash drive from her pocket and handed it to Forensics Specialist Steve Reynolds. “I need to know what’s on this right away,” Jordan said. “Meet you in Mobile Command in ten minutes?”

  “You got it J,” Reynolds replied. He took the device and left the room.

  “Judging by the number of flies buzzing around out there it looks like this has become a media shit storm,” Hanover remarked as he watched additional teams of reporters converge on the scene.

  A young agent named Hawkins handed him a report. “Sir, Command asked me to give you this. It’s a workup on the victims.”

  “Thanks,” Chris replied.

  Hanover paced as he read the report aloud. “Itzhak Rosenfeld. Seventy-four years old. Israeli by birth. Emigrated to California with his wife, Zahava, in ‘86. Physician. Practiced here for twenty-five years. It seems the good doctor is… make that was… one of the world’s preeminent plastic surgeons. His area of expertise was facial reconstruction and body defect surgery.”

  “I should have studied medicine instead of law,” Jordan said. “A nose job here, tummy tuck there. Cha-ching.”

  “According to this, Rosenfeld’s work as a surgeon represented only a fraction of how he earned his wealth.”

  “It gets better?” Jordan said. “Now you’re just teasing me.”

  “A lot better,” Chris replied. “It says here he was a prolific inventor of medical instruments and implants and pioneered many advanced surgical procedures. The man has over seven hundred patents to his name, plus copyrights and trademarks. Net worth is estimated at two billion.”

  “The book laying on the floor beside his bed deals with patent law.”

  “You think maybe he was killed out of professional jealousy?”

  “Can’t rule it out,” Jordan replied. “Maybe somebody had two billion reasons to want him dead.”

  Hanover nodded and flipped to the next page of the report. “It seems the Rosenfeld’s had established a number of non-profits, the most notable of which is FreeSurge, a humanitarian plastic and cosmetic surgery organization that performs operations on the poor, free of charge. Corrections to cleft palates and birth defects, repairs to the scars of war victims… that sort of thing. They’d raised millions over the years to fund the operational expenses of their charities.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Jordan said. “How could two people who had done so much for so many end up like this?” She pointed to the corpses on the bed. “And what’s with the arsenal in the safe room? I can see hiding a few handguns around the place, just in case. But all that weaponry? You and I don’t even need that. And we deal with bad guys every day. And I can absolutely guarantee you there’s no body armor hanging in my bedroom closet.”

  “Good thing,” Chris replied. “You’d have a hard time finding something in your color. Besides, it’s tough to match Kevlar with Vera Wang. You’d need a stylist.”

  “Seriously, Chris. That level of preparation is way over the top. The Rosenfeld’s were afraid of something. Or someone.”

  “I agree. It doesn’t add up.”

  “Anything in that report about Mrs. Rosenfeld?”

  Hanover flipped the page. “Actually, it’s Judge Zahava Rosenfeld, United States District Court for the Central District of California, Western Division, Los Angeles County. Very bright lady. Two degrees. The first an M.D. from Harvard, the second in law, from Yale. Judge Rosenfeld never practiced medicine, only law. Says here she was a fixture at charity fundraisers and Hollywood galas. You name it, the Rosenfeld’s supported it.”

  “Kids?”

  “None.”

  “What about family?”

  “Dr. Rosenfeld’s only brother died last year. Her Honor’s parents died in Tel Aviv in 2001. Victims of a suicide bombing. No siblings.” Hanover glanced at the bodies. “Did you see anything else when you touched the railing?”

  “Just what I said before. Single-shooter, male… likely a pro. But something about him is off.”

  “Off?” Chris said. “You think? In my book anyone who kills like this fits the category of off rather nicely.”

  “I can’t explain it any better than that.”

  “Your visions are always so clear, Jordan. What’s different here?”

  “The UNSUB’s energy signature. I’ve never experienced one like it before. It fades in and out, kind of like a radio station signal that’s not quite in range. Usually I see everything: the killer’s face, surroundings, manner of dress, sights, and smells. Sometimes even the images of their victims will come through. But my reading on this killer is incomplete. As ridiculous as it sounds, it feels like I’m being… blocked.”

  “Any similarities to other cases?”

  “You mean the El Segundo and Long Beach murders?”

  “Yes.”

  Earlier in the week the agents had been called out to investigate two horrific killings that appeared to be related. The first victim, Michael Dowd, had been the owner of The Golden Rail, a famous strip club in El Segundo. Dowd had been enjoying a late-night swim when he was attacked. He had been found dead in his pool by his girlfriend, a dancer at the club, hands bound behind his back, feet tied to the side rails of the pool ladder, hanging upside down in the crimson water. He had been shot in the forehead. Hours later, police found his club manager, Julie Harper, dead in her Long Beach condominium. She was nude, hands and feet tied
to the bed; legs spread eagle. A can of tire puncture sealant had been pushed into her mouth; its inflation tube shoved deep down her throat. The release trigger had been jammed open. The contents of the can had been permitted to free flow which flooded her airway with gluey orange foam and led to her immediate suffocation and death. The contents of a second can had been expelled into her vagina. She too had received a fatal gunshot wound to the head.

  “Who the hell is this guy?” Chris said. “Four victims in one week and forensics hasn’t turned up a shred of evidence. No fibers, prints, DNA... nothing. No one sees or hears a thing. And all we get on security cams is static. It’s like the guy’s a goddamn ghost. He pops in, does the deed, then poof... he’s gone.”

  “Let me work the room again. Maybe I missed something.”

  “Even you can’t see what isn’t there, Jordan.”

  “I know. And for the record, he’s pissing me off too.”

  Forensics had begun to process the secret room. Agent Ron Perkins, the teams lead investigator, walked out of the closet entrance carrying a notebook computer under each arm. Jordan stopped him.