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

by Gary Winston Brown

  Startled, the group turned in the direction of the stranger’s voice.

  “I said let her go. Now.”

  77

  HALLIER WAS GREETED in the lobby of the FBI’s Los Angeles field office by Special Agent Brent Cobb. Cobb pressed the elevator call button for the seventeenth floor.

  “ADC Ridgeway is waiting for you, Colonel,” he said. “She asked me to provide you with any assistance you’ll need.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Hallier said.

  “Sir?”

  Hallier didn’t reply.

  The elevator whisked the men to the seventeenth floor. “On your left, Colonel,” Cobb said as the men exited the elevator.

  Assistant Director in Charge Ann Ridgeway was speaking to her administrative assistant when Agent Cobb and Hallier walked through the double glass entrance doors into her office.

  “ADC Ridgeway,” Agent Cobb introduced, “Colonel Hallier from DARPA.”

  “Good to meet you, Colonel.” The Assistant Director smiled and shook his hand.

  “Likewise,” Hallier replied. “We’re on the clock Agent Ridgeway. You ready?”

  Apparently as arrogant in person as he had been on the phone, Ann Ridgeway forced a smile and reminded herself of the Bureau’s commitment to foster healthy inter-agency cooperation.

  “Of course, Colonel,” she replied. “Please come in. And it’s Assistant Director if you please.”

  Agent Cobb tried to follow them into Ridgeway’s office. Hallier stopped him at the door.

  “Sorry son,” he said, “you’ll have to wait outside. You’re not cleared for this discussion.”

  Cobb looked to his boss for direction.

  “It’s all right, Agent Cobb,” Ridgeway said. “I’ll contact you if I need you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The agent nodded and left the office.

  The Assistant Director’s office was furnished more like a home than a place of business with a large rosewood desk and plush high-back leather chair. The wall-to-wall bookcase behind the desk contained FBI procedural manuals as well as framed photos of special events in her life: hamming it up with friends over drinks, a family picture with her husband and two kids, all of them dressed in white, and their three German Sheppard’s. A framed basketball jersey signed by Los Angeles Lakers basketball star LeBron James hung on one wall. On the other, the FBI Medal of Valor.

  “I see you’re a Lakers fan,” Hallier said, pointing at the jersey.

  Ann Ridgeway seated herself in her chair. “My brother-in-law is the Lakers strength training coach. LeBron’s a friend.”

  “I’m more of a golf man myself,” Hallier said. He turned his attention to the framed medal. “I’m impressed,” he said.

  “Don’t be,” Ridgeway said. “Any number of agents should have received that medal that day. I keep it there to remind me never let my guard down again. And of how an otherwise average day can go to hell in a heartbeat.”

  “Mind if I ask what happened?”

  “Three agents and I were assigned to a return-to-prison transfer detail for a convict, Anton Carpaccio.”

  “I know the name from the news,” Hallier said. “Serial killer. Twelve victims, right?”

  “Fourteen,” Ridgeway corrected. “Carpaccio drew a shiv on the wrong guy in prison. Ended up on the business end of the blade and took nine stab wounds for his trouble. Unfortunately for the rest of humanity the bastard didn’t die. The prison rushed him to Cedars-Sinai Hospital for emergency surgery. Two weeks later the docs declared him well enough to leave and the State called us in to facilitate return transport. When the orderlies were helping him out of his wheelchair Carpaccio doubled over. One of the agents stepped in to help him. Big mistake. It was a setup. Carpaccio grabbed him around the neck, then got control of his gun. He drew down on another agent, Bill Cooper. Coop was on my left. I knew Carpaccio was going to shoot him, which he did. I threw myself in front of the shot and knocked Coop out of the way. Carpaccio’s round caught me in the shoulder when we fell. Another agent, Trevor Johnston, was standing beyond of the line of fire. He shot Carpaccio just as he turned on him. One round, a perfect shot, right between his eyes. Blew out the back of his head. Bad for Carpaccio, good for us. We all went home to our families that day. Around here we call that a win.”

  “You saved Agent Cooper’s life,” Hallier said.

  “Not me. Agent Johnston did. He saved all our lives when he took that shot. The only reason they gave me the medal is because I caught a bullet covering Coop.”

  “How’s the shoulder now?”

  ADC Ridgeway pointed to the framed basketball jersey and smiled. “Let’s just say LeBron doesn’t have anything to worry about.”

  Hallier cracked a smile.

  The Assistant Director sat back in her chair. “So, tell me Colonel. What’s so important that DARPA needs the Bureau’s help? I thought you guys always flew solo when it came to matters of national security.”

  “Normally we do,” Hallier replied. “But there is someone I need to find fast, and I can’t rally enough manpower to cover the ground as quickly as you can. I need your help to track down a missing scientist by the name of Dr. Jason Merrick.”

  “By missing do you mean abducted?”

  Hallier shrugged. “We don’t know the full circumstances related to Dr. Merrick’s disappearance yet. But we have reason to believe he may be in possession of a technology that has the potential to harm many people.”

  “You think he might be trying to sell the technology to our enemies?”

  “I’m afraid that’s a possibility.”

  “Why come to us and not LAPD?” Ridgeway asked. “They could put an army of feet on the street for you in a matter of seconds.”

  “That’s precisely what I don’t want,” the Colonel replied. “This has to be done quietly. I need professionals, not street cops. Your team will be under explicit instructions to observe and report - that’s all. I want Dr. Merrick located as soon as possible and placed under surveillance until my men are ready to make their move. The decision to engage will be made by me and no one else.”

  “So you’re asking for the Bureau’s help, but you don’t think we’re capable of taking Merrick into custody on your behalf. Is that it? Seriously, Colonel, we’re a little better trained than you’re giving us credit for.”

  “No, you’re not, Assistant Director,” Hallier replied curtly. “Not for Merrick.”

  Ann Ridgeway looked perplexed. “You know the one thing that I hate more than anything else, Colonel? When people aren’t straight with me. You need to come clean, right now. I’m fine with this being your operation, but these are my people. Exactly what is it you’re not telling me? Just how much danger will my agents be in?”

  Hallier didn’t answer.

  Undaunted, the Assistant Director pressed him for a reply.

  “All right, Colonel,” she said. “Let me put the question to you another way.” Ann Ridgeway leaned forward and placed her elbows on her desk. “Exactly what is it about Merrick that has DARPA’s sphincter registering a ten-out-of-ten on the pucker scale?”

  78

  BLACK AND WHITES blocked off the store services lane at the back of the Corona Mews Shopping Mall. Chief Riley Jenkins had been called to the crime scene when it was confirmed that part of a human thumb had been found beside a Dumpster at the back of the mall. Deputy Jack Poole met him as he arrived and stepped out of his Jeep. The Chief was already in a sour mood. He had spent the last sixteen hours interrogating a suspect about a murder in a municipality that hadn’t seen the commission of a violent crime in the last ten years. The experience had left him feeling drained and more than a little touchy.

  “What’ve we got?” Jenkins asked. Poole met him at the Jeep and ducked under the black and yellow crime scene tape. Corona County coroner, Dr. Earl Kent, was kneeling on the ground at the foot of the garbage bin collecting samples from the ground and carefully placing them in plastic specimen jars.

 
“A couple of kids out for a bike ride found it while Dumpster diving,” Poole replied. “Freaked ‘em out when they saw it was real. They rode home and told their parents, who called us. We had already dispatched a unit to check out a complaint from a resident who backs onto the laneway. Guy reported a stench coming from the back of the mall. Said it smelled like rotten meat. Two of our guys puked their guts up as soon as they got here. Can’t say I blame ‘em either. It stinks to high heaven over there.”

  “What’s that under your nose, Jack?” Chief Jenkins asked. He reached out his finger and touched a shiny layer of gel under Poole’s nostrils.

  Poole drew his head back, brushed away the Chief’s hand. “Mentholatum,” he muttered.

  “Seriously… you?”

  “Yep.”

  “And I thought you were a seasoned veteran.”

  Poole smirked. “You don’t see me over there decorating the pavement with my lunch and messing up a perfectly good crime scene, do you? No. Why? Experience, my friend. Remember what happened last year with Stinky Steve?”

  “The floater we hauled out of Royce Lake.”

  “Exactly. That dude was riper than my brother-in-law’s farts. And believe me, that man can clear a room. I swear he stores up his crap for weeks. After Stinky Steve, me and my Mentholatum go everywhere together.”

  “I’ll bet your wife loves that.”

  “She takes after her brother,” Poole said. “Lucky me.” He removed the small container of Mentholatum from his trouser pocket and offered it to the Chief. “Want some?”

  Jenkins waved him off. “I’m good.”

  “Suit yourself,” Poole said. He applied more of the menthol-scented gel under his nostrils. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

  Dr. Earl Kent scooped a specimen of gooey paste off the asphalt at the foot of the Dumpster and spread it inside a sample jar. He stood as Chief Jenkins and Deputy Poole approached.

  “Thumb’s definitely human, Chief” Dr. Kent confirmed. “Distal phalanx. Part of the joint is still intact with some partial ridge detail remaining. Not much, but I’ve preserved it.”

  “Good,” Jenkins replied. “Run the print. Let’s see if we get a hit.”

  The medical examiner nodded and gestured toward the bin. “You need to look at this.”

  The men walked over to a section of carpet that lay open on the ground beside the garbage container. A thick opaque mass had congealed on the filthy floor covering, the result of its direct exposure to the afternoon sun.

  “We pulled it out of the bin and unrolled it,” Dr. Kent said. “Some of it leaked out. The whole container reeks.”

  “Leaked out?” Jenkins asked.

  The coroner nodded. “They’re liquefied remains, Chief. So far, the tip of the thumb is the only physical part of the body we’ve been able to find. Which is to say these remains might not comprise the whole body. After all, the thumb was found beside the Dumpster, not in it. This might just be the disposal site and not our primary crime scene.”

  “Jesus.” Chief Jenkins removed his microphone from its shoulder clip. “4512 to Command,” he said.

  “Go ahead, 4512.”

  “Dispatch a K-9 to my location, 10-18. Tell them to meet me on scene.”

  “4512. K-9, 10-18, your location. Copy that.”

  “4512.”

  With the urgent assistance for a canine tracking dog requested, the Chief continued his discussion with Dr. Kent.

  “What the hell could have caused this, doc?”

  Kent shrugged. “If I were to speculate, I’d say alkaline hydrolysis, also called ‘green death.’ Funeral homes and crematoriums offer it these days as an alternative to traditional burial or cremation. The body is liquefied in a chemical bath at high temperature and then separated from ash and bone in a drying process. The dry remains are left. The liquid is disposed of off–site.”

  “Any funeral homes around here doing that?”

  “None that I’m aware of. And if there were, state law would require them to use a pick-up service to properly dispose of the liquid waste.”

  “What if someone wanted to do it themselves… to dispose of a body this way. Could they?”

  “I suppose so,” Dr. Kent replied. “They’d need a pressure vessel large enough to accommodate a body and could handle a mixture of water and lye at a temperature just shy of boiling. But yes, it could be done.”

  “You thinking body dump, Chief?” Poole speculated. “Mexicans, maybe? Sinaloa cartel getting creative?”

  “Could be,” Jenkins answered.

  An officer who had been sifting through the contents of the Dumpster called out. “Got something here, Chief.”

  The officer stood on a ladder that had been placed into the garbage bin to facilitate ease of entry and exit from the container. In his hands he held two magnetic car signs. Each read, Dan’s Home Improvements. The phone number on the sign was local.

  “Pass me a couple of evidence bags,” the officer said. “There’s more stuff down here the doc should take a look at.”

  Chief Jenkins removed his cell phone and dialed the number on the sign.

  From somewhere within the disposal bin a phone rang. The officer poked around, found it. “Got it,” he said. He passed the ringing phone to Jenkins. The Chief hit the speaker button just before the call went to voicemail. The announcement began to play: ‘You’ve reached Dan Labrada at Dan’s Home Improvements. Sorry I can’t take your call at the present time…”

  “Son of a bitch,” Chief Jenkins said.

  He snatched the radio mic from his lapel: “4512 to Command,” he snapped. “Where the hell is my K-9?”

  79

  HALLIER TOOK A SEAT. The Assistant Director was right. Her people would be in danger. She deserved to know the truth. To that end, an emergency security clearance had been approved to permit the Colonel to share sensitive military information with her in his search for Merrick.

  “Ten years ago,” Hallier began, “DARPA commenced a two-tier black book project with one simple objective: to create a human military asset that could be deployed at a moment’s notice anywhere in the world in a battle-ready covert capacity. Dr. Jason Merrick was selected to lead the research team. We code-named the co-projects Channeler and LEEDA.”

  “Sounds like the plot of a Hollywood movie,” Ridgeway said.

  “Far from it,” the Colonel replied. “Dr. Merrick was tasked to create organic and inorganic exploration technologies that would be capable of syncing with the human brain and which would permit psychic dimensional crossover. In truth, we’ve been able to do this for quite some time. But our objective for the Channeler and LEEDA projects was to take it to the next level.”

  “Exactly what do you mean by psychic exploration?”

  “Mind travel. Also known as remote viewing.”

  “Dr. Merrick was able to accomplish this?”

  “And more.”

  “My God.”

  Hallier continued. “The project succeeded beyond our wildest expectations. One of our best and brightest, a Commander by the name of Ben Egan, was selected to field test Channeler and push it to its limit. This morning, Merrick disappeared from DARPA’s technological development think tank, Dynamic Life Sciences, under unusual circumstances.” The Colonel removed the photograph of Merrick taken with his family in Paris and showed it to the Assistant Director. “I don’t think for a second that he was abducted.”

  “Nice family shot,” Ridgeway said. “But how is this relevant?”

  “Read the back.”

  She turned over the picture. “All will pay,” she said. “Merrick wrote this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like a threat.”

  “We’re proceeding under that assumption,” Hallier said. He removed the Channeler prototype from his pocket and laid it on the desk. Ridgeway picked it up, examined it.

  “What’s this?”

  “That is the result of nine years of research and investigation into man’s abil
ity to harness the secret capabilities of the human mind. It’s the first prototype of Project Channeler. Merrick left it for us to find.”

  Ridgeway looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. If you have the device in your possession what’s the concern?”

  “Like I said, that is the first prototype. We’re now six generations beyond what you’re holding in your hand. Merrick is in control of Channeler. And Commander Egan is missing as well.”

  “You think the Commander has turned?”

  Hallier shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I believe Egan is a just pawn in Merrick’s game. But if Merrick has control of Channeler he’s probably controlling Egan, too. The current version of Channeler imbues Egan with the power to do things we never thought humans could be capable of accomplishing, like physical energy transference, modulation, and telekinesis. We believe Merrick has achieved Channeler and LEEDA’s penultimate goals: the ability to break down and rematerialize matter at the cellular level, at will, using nothing more than the power of the human mind.”

  “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying…”

  “You would more commonly know it as teleportation.”

  The Assistant Director leaned back in her chair, speechless. Finally, she asked, “So this is real? We’re actually able to do this?”

  “Yes. And Channeler and LEEDA are just the tip of the iceberg, Assistant Director. I can’t tell you where we plan to go from here. That’s highly classified. Suffice it to say, we’re just getting started.”

  “What about Commander Egan?” Ridgeway asked. “If Merrick is controlling Channeler, and Channeler is controlling the Commander, shouldn’t we be looking for him too?”

  “Yes,” Hallier replied. “But finding Merrick is the key. Shut down Merrick and we shut down Egan and eliminate the threat in the process.”

  “And Project Channeler? What happens to it?”

  “It’s over. With Merrick, Egan and both technologies unaccounted for there is no telling what might happen. Both Merrick and the Commander might not be recoverable.”