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

by Gary Winston Brown

  The stranger raised his hands quickly, faced his palms toward the ceiling, and halted their sudden descent. They hung in the air horizontally, facing the ground but unable to touch it, bodies frozen, unable to move. They were silent now. All of the fight had been drained out of them. Lenny peed again, then threw up.

  Egan turned his palms to the floor and dropped his arms to his side. The gang fell the last couple of feet onto the floor of the warehouse.

  Kevin stood beside Ben Egan. He watched as the glow from the metal band around his wrist dissipated, turning from light blue to white, and finally back to its original metallic appearance.

  “Holy shit on a stick!” Kevin said. “Did you see that Lauren? Did you?”

  Egan looked at the boy. “Language, son,” he said.

  “Oh, sure, whatever you say, mister,” Kevin said. “But… I mean… that was the coolest thing I’ve ever… how did you… holy sh--… I mean… holy crap!”

  “Both of you wait here,” Egan said.

  Lauren began to walk after Ben Egan. Kevin grabbed his sister and pulled her back. “Seriously, Lauren?” Kevin said. “Didn’t you just see him lift those guys off the ground? What part of wait here don’t you understand? Duh!”

  Egan walked across the factory to where the thugs lay sprawled on the floor. Colin looked at the ceremonial dagger laying a few feet in front of him, then up at Egan.

  “You sure you want to do that?” Egan asked.

  Colin’s face was purple. He was seething with rage and embarrassment at being so completely and utterly dominated by the supernatural powers of the stranger. He lunged for the knife.

  Egan waved his hand. The dagger lifted off the ground and streaked through the air with such velocity its blade penetrated deep into a wooden support column on the opposite side of the factory.

  Egan looked at the gang as they gathered themselves up off the floor.

  “Coming here was a mistake,” he told them. “I can’t let you leave.”

  Lenny pleaded with Egan. His pants were soaked in urine. A string of vomit hung from his chin. He wiped it away with his coat sleeve. “Look, man,” he said. “It’s all good. Just let us go. I swear to God no one’s gonna talk.”

  “Shut up, Lenny!” Colin ordered.

  Lenny continued. “We’ll just walk outta here and leave you alone, mister. No problem. We don’t want any trouble.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” Egan replied.

  Colin looked over his shoulder at Lenny. “Shut up, you whiney little prick.”

  The band on Egan’s wrist flashed bright blue. He waved his hand at Colin. Suddenly the punk was unable to speak. He grabbed his throat. The blood drained from his face. His lips began to turn blue.

  “He’s choking,” Lenny yelled. He took a step toward Egan and raised his fist. “You’re killing him, man! Let him go!”

  Egan turned toward Lenny. Once more his feet became rooted to the factory floor. This time he didn’t bother to struggle.

  Egan walked up to Colin, grabbed his chin, pulled it up and stared into his eyes. The gang leader tried unsuccessfully to hold his gaze. Eyes watering, he struggled to catch his breath. Egan’s eyes were cold, dark, and vacant, as though they were not the eyes of a human being capable of superhuman acts but those of a predator, a great white shark perhaps, well-practiced in circling its prey before moving in for the kill.

  “I should kill you,” Egan said, “Every one of you.”

  Colin’s eyes began to close.

  “You brought the girl here to kill her. Maybe rape her, too?”

  Colin started to lose consciousness. His body fell slack.

  Egan lowered his body to the floor and whispered in his ear. “That was it, wasn’t it?”

  Weakly, Colin nodded.

  Egan stood up. He waved his hand.

  The constriction around Colin’s neck abated. He sucked in deep breaths of air. The color slowly began to return to his face. He gasped, choked, gasped again.

  Egan looked down upon the pathetic bully huddled at his feet, curled in a fetal position. “There’s something I want you to remember,” he said.

  Colin tended to the crushing pain in his throat. He looked up at Egan, breathed heavily.

  “Ten seconds,” Egan said. “Say it.”

  Colin swallowed. “Wh-what?”

  “You heard me. Say it.”

  Colin forced out the words. “Ten… s-seconds.”

  “Good,” Egan said. “Don’t ever forget it. That’s about as much time as you had left. Now get up.” He pointed in the direction of the drying kiln and addressed the gang. “All of you,” he said, “Over there. Move.”

  Colin slowly rose to his feet.

  Egan stopped Colin as he walked past. “I’m not finished with you yet,” he said. Egan pressed his finger against his chest. “Now you know what I’m capable of. If you ever threaten those kids again, I’ll find you, no matter where you are. And when I do, I’m going to take back those ten seconds. Do we understand each other?”

  Colin massaged his throat and nodded.

  “Good,” Egan said. “Now move your ass.”

  82

  AGENT HAWKINS SCROLLED through the laptop computer file labeled ‘Account 1’. The file contained one-hundred-and-twenty split frame pictures of young women, twelve per page. The left side was a glamor shot, the right a full body picture. Each of the women was provocatively dressed in tight fitting club wear, a bikini, or lingerie. The clothing choice had been carefully selected to accentuate both her beauty and physical attributes.

  “Even looking past the makeup it’s hard to tell the ages of the girls in this file,” Hawkins commented. “I’d put the eldest in her early twenties. All appear to be American, an even mix of Caucasian, Hispanic, Asian and African American. Compare these to the pics in Account 2. Same ethnic mix, but older. Again, all stunning.”

  “Separate markets,” Jordan speculated.

  “For two types of buyers,” Chris added.

  Hawkins nodded. “Girls of this caliber would command a lot of money on the black market. This must be a big operation. The age range and quantity alone are impressive.”

  “A girl for every taste and budget,” Chris said.

  “Budget wouldn’t even be a consideration,” Hawkins replied. “These girls are top shelf all the way. A client would need to pay thousands of dollars to buy play time with these ladies.”

  Chris pointed to the number under each picture. “Looks like a file number. Can you search it?”

  “Already tried,” Hawkins said. “No luck. It’s just a number, not a hyperlink.” He paused. “Hmm... I wonder…”

  “What are you thinking, Hawk?” Jordan asked.

  “Hold on a second.”

  Hawkins opened the web browser and entered the first number from Account 1. “Your search – 73962549174 – did not match any documents” appeared on the screen.

  “Well, it was worth a shot,” Chris said.

  “I’m not finished yet,” Hawkins said. He opened the computers Favorites area and clicked on the History tab. “Let’s see where Dr. Rosenfeld had been spending most of his time online.” From the drop-down menu, he selected ‘Most Recently Visited.’

  Four websites appeared in the search. Hawkins clicked on each of the links. The first led to the doctor’s own website, Rosenfeld Advanced Surgical. Hawkins spent a few minutes searching the site.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary here,” he said. “Overviews of Rosenfeld’s product line… instructional videos… upcoming course and conference information… blah, blah, blah.”

  The second site was FreeSurge International, the Rosenfeld’s global humanitarian aid organization. The site featured numerous pictures of Itzhak and Zahava with recipients of the services donated by the plastic surgery team; before and after pictures of children, living in impoverished war-torn countries, once without hope, now healed and all smiles. The cleft palate of a ten-year-old girl had been corrected. Her beautiful brown
face beamed with pride and new-found confidence. The machete-hacked shoulder wound of a twelve-year-old boy was now healed and nearly invisible. The story below his picture told of how he had thrown his body over his infant sister to protect her against the guerilla forces who had invaded and plundered their small village and how by some miracle he had survived the attack. Now he wanted to become a surgeon when he grew up, just like the men and women of FreeSurge who had returned near-complete nerve function to his arm and given him a new lease on life.

  The third site asked for the username and password to the members login area of the American Society of Plastic Surgeons.

  The fourth website caught Hawkins attention: Verenich Law. He clicked on the link.

  Verenich Law was based in San Diego, California. The firm’s primary business was the provision of services for clients wishing to emigrate to America from Russia, Guatemala, Honduras, and Argentina. According to the ABOUT section of the website, the firm’s principle, Taras Verenich, was born in Russia but had immigrated to America with his parents when he was just a boy. His personal story told of his family’s struggle to survive the dark days of the Brezhnev regime, how they had lived on the street for a time, and the challenges of living day-to-day in a country once stricken with famine, poverty, and disease. He described his parent’s distrust of their government, their lack of belief in the politics of the day and their desperate desire to move to America to give their son a better life. Verenich went on to state how much his parents had impressed upon him that whatever path he chose to follow in life he should always remember the importance of giving back and paying forward the blessings that had been bestowed upon them by way of their new beginning in America. He found the practice of law to be his calling and honored his parent’s wish for him to help others by specializing in immigration law. Over the years, Verenich Law had assisted hundreds of new families to find a better life in the United States.

  Hawkins read Verenich’ bio and scrolled the site. “This doesn’t make sense,” he said.

  “What doesn’t?” Jordan asked.

  “Why would this guy’s website be one of Rosenfeld’s most visited sites? I can understand the others because there is a logical medical connection to his work. But immigration law? I mean, just look at this site. It doesn’t seem to warrant being one of Rosenfeld’s most visited sites. It’s your typical, cookie-cutter legal website. Standard Home and About pages, Client Testimonials, FAQ’s, Contact page. Nothing about it says that Rosenfeld should have shown more than a passing interest in it. I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe they’re working together,” Jordan asked. “Perhaps Verenich refers prospective patients from the countries he works with who are in need of FreeSurge’s help.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Hawkins agreed. He scrolled each page of the website again. He sighed. “Something isn’t passing the sniff test. I can’t put my finger on it, but my gut is telling me that one and one don’t add up to two here.”

  He returned to the Home page. Taras Verenich stood in the center of a group photo, surrounded by his support staff, flanked by the American flag on his left and state flag of California on his right. Hawkins scrolled down the page. Links to many articles written by the San Diego Union-Tribune and San Jose Mercury-News promoted the good work of the lawyer and his team along with a KUSI San Diego News Channel video clip. By all accounts the firm enjoyed a solid reputation and had worked hard to promote a favorable public image within the community.

  Hawkins scrolled down to the site map located at the bottom of the page. All the links were properly referenced. “Everything looks to be in order. But like I said, something just doesn’t feel right. Shit!”

  Frustrated, Hawkins poked the laptop’s mouse pad with his finger. The cursor slid to the bottom of the screen and came to rest on the sites Notification of Copyright line. The last three words of the line read All Rights Reserved. The last letter of the word Reserved featured an underlined lower-case letter ‘d.’

  “Son of a gun,” Hawkins said, smiling. “You were there all along. I almost missed you.” He turned to Jordan and Chris. “See this? The d in Reserved?” He ran the cursor back and forth over the letter. He shook his head. “It’s a hyperlink. Slick... very slick.”

  He clicked on the letter.

  The screen turned black. In the middle, a cursor flashed.

  He shifted in his chair, looked up at Jordan and Chris, then rubbed his hands together. “Here we go,” he said.

  Hawkins entered one of the numeric codes he had written down from the Account 1 file then pressed ENTER.

  The picture of the girl from the file appeared onscreen. The three agents read her profile:

  Name: Torina

  Age: 19

  Skin: White

  Hair: Blond

  Eyes: Blue

  Weight: 110 lb

  Height: 5’ 4”

  Piercing/tattoos: None

  Languages: English, Spanish

  Services: Full

  Hourly: $700.00

  Purchase: $800,000.00

  Offer: Pending

  “Gotcha,” Hawkins said.

  “Verenich is into prostitution,” Jordan said.

  “And human trafficking,” Hawkins added.

  “Which means Rosenfeld probably is too,” Chris replied.

  “It would certainly explain why someone sent a professional to kill him,” Jordan said.

  Hawkins pointed to the last line. “Verenich plans to sell this girl. An offer’s been submitted.”

  Jordan instructed Agent Hawkins. “Run her picture through facial recognition and the National Crime Information Center. See if she’s in the system. Great work, Hawk.”

  As Jordan and Chris stood to leave two orderlies from the Coroner’s office exited the bedroom. The murder scene had been processed and cleared. The bodies of Itzhak and Zahava Rosenfeld, having now been officially released to the custody of the Los Angeles Coroner, rolled past them on steel gurneys.

  “Think they were both involved?” Chris asked.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Jordan said.

  “I want to have a chat with Verenich.”

  “Me too,” Jordan replied.

  “Real bad.”

  “Ditto.”

  “I’m talking about a leave-your-gun-and-badge-in-the-car kind of chat.”

  “We still don’t know exactly what Verenich’ role is in all of this,” Jordan said. “He may not be the key player.”

  “Maybe not. But there’s a damn good chance he knows who is.”

  The agents watched the orderlies wheel the dead couple out of the room.

  “Remember what I said earlier?” Jordan said.

  “What’s that?”

  “That maybe I should have gone to med school instead of joining the Bureau.”

  “Yeah?”

  Jordan rested her hand on her gun. “I take it back.”

  83

  THE GANG’S FOOTFALLS reverberated off the concrete walls, metal ceiling and brittle glass panes of the old factory. The building sounded cavernous.

  Once-tough Lenny began to cry. “It was just a joke, man. We only wanted to scare ‘em. It was supposed to be a joke.”

  Colin looked over his shoulder as the group walked across the factory floor toward the wood drying kiln. “Shut up, Lenny,” he said.

  Egan shoved him from behind. The gang leader tripped but didn’t fall.

  “How’d you do that, freak?” Colin asked.

  Egan didn’t respond.

  Colin pressed. “Let me guess. Somewhere there’s a circus missing its main attraction.”

  Jacob turned to Lauren and Kevin. “It wasn’t a joke, like Lenny said. It was Curt Thackery.”

  “Colin’s brother?” Lauren replied. “But he’s in prison.”

  Jacob nodded. “He told Colin that if he wanted in with the Sons of Satan, he’d have to make a blood sacrifice just like everybody else. Curt said he’d know when it was done ‘
cause he’d hear about it through the prison grapevine. He knows all about your family. You were targeted.”

  “Targeted?” Lauren asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Because of what your old man did to their family.”

  Kevin interjected. “Our family never had anything to do with the Thackery’s, least of all our dad.”

  “Oh yes, he did,” Jacob said. “Five years ago. The trial. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Kevin said. “Some drug dealers sold meth to an undercover cop, then shot her.”

  “Your father was the jury foreman.”

  “So?”

  “The drug dealers were members of the Sons of Satan and the guy who pulled the trigger was Colin’s brother, Curt. Every one of those jurors, except your old man, is dead now. S.O.S took out a contract on them. The Bandidos bike club out of Santa Fe agreed to take out the jurors in exchange for S.O.S. giving them the manufacturing and distribution rights to their meth operation. They agreed. But by the time the cops caught wind of the hits it was too late. The Bandidos had fulfilled the contract. Eleven separate hits, all taking place the same night. They got everyone except your old man. You got lucky, that’s all.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Your parents were hosting a party that night. One of the hit men recognized Chief Kenton and called it off. Said their contract didn’t involve taking out anyone but your father, least of all the Chief of Police. Besides, the Bandidos were given orders to make an example out of your dad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Curt knew your father hated him,” Jacob said, “hated all the Thackery’s. Your father lied when he accepted the position on that jury. The selection committee asked if he knew anything about the recent activities of a motorcycle gang operating in the state. He said he didn’t. But everyone had heard about the shooting of the cop and the drug bust that went wrong, and that it was probably biker related. It was all over the news, for Christ’s sake. He knew Curt was a member of S.O.S. and figured he was involved. He saw it as an opportunity to put him away for good. As it turned out, he was right.”