“Why would Rosenfeld buy his art from mobsters?” Jordan asked. “He could easily afford to pay whatever price the market was asking.”
“Not in this case,” Hawkins said. “These pieces have historical significance. They’re not for sale. They’re meant to be appreciated by the world, not just one man. But individuals like Rosenfeld with unlimited financial resources know who to connect with to make such acquisitions happen. And that kind of money buys silence.”
“What I don’t understand is why Rosenfeld would even want to be associated with Vasiliev or Usoyan,” Jordan asked.
“I have an idea,” Hawkins said. “But it’s probably a long shot.”
“Let’s hear it,” Chris said.
“Remember the files I found on the computer in Rosenfeld’s panic room? The ones labeled Account 1 and Account 2? We clicked on the hidden link at the bottom of Verenich’ website, entered one of the Account 1 codes into the search box and got a full profile of the girl: name, description, how much she billed out, even her purchase price. Here’s my theory: What if Rosenfeld acquired the Pont Neuf and the Codex Leicester from the Bratva through Verenich?”
“That would connect Verenich to the Russian mob,” Jordan said.
“Exactly.”
“It might also mean that Rosenfeld’s murder was a mob hit,” Chris added.
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Hawkins said. “Maybe he tried to double-cross them. Like I said, it’s just a theory.”
“Verenich did tell us his clientele was primarily Russian,” Jordan said.
“We need to get Ridgeway’s permission to go back to Verenich’ office and press him for answers,” Chris said. “See if he breaks.”
“He’ll spout off about his rights, throw the Constitution at us, then toss us out on our asses,” Jordan said.
“Wouldn’t be a first for me,” Chris said. “And I’m pretty sure my ass can take the fall.”
“Mine too,” Jordan replied.
104
MERRICK PULLED INTO the main entrance of California State University Long Beach campus behind the stolen motorcycle.
Egan stepped off the bike. “It’s been a while,” he said, shaking his handler’s hand.
“So it has,” Merrick replied. “Ready?”
Egan nodded. “Let’s do it.”
The two men entered the grounds and walked past the Visitor Information Center. A university police officer stepped out of the booth. The cop called out. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
Merrick and Egan ignored the policeman.
The officer spoke again. “Hold up a second, fellas.”
The men turned around.
“What’s your business here at Cal State?” The cop smiled. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you both look a little old to be students.”
Merrick laughed. “To be sure. I’m afraid our days of taking notes in the classroom have been over for quite some time. And I don’t mind telling you it’s much more enjoyable being on the other side of the lectern.”
The cop leaned against the wall of the Visitor Booth. “What brings you here today?” he asked.
“My name is Professor Kincaid,” Merrick lied. “This is my colleague, Professor Dawson. We’re looking for a colleague, Dr. Ashley Granger. Would you happen to know where we might find her?”
The cop pointed down the road. “Molecular and Life Sciences Center, just off East Campus Drive. Is Dr. Granger expecting you?”
“No. In fact, we were hoping to surprise her,” Merrick replied.
“Sorry professors,” the cop replied. “University rules are cut and dry when it comes to visitors. No guests are permitted on campus without a pass.” He picked up the phone. “Let me call Dr. Granger. I’ll arrange that for you right now.”
“I understand, Officer,” Merrick replied. “I assure you we won’t be long.” The men turned and walked away.
The guard spoke into his radio. “You’ll have to wait here until I contact Dr. Granger.”
Merrick and Egan ignored him, kept walking in the direction of East Campus Drive.
The officer called out. “Professors?”
No reply.
The university cop issued a final warning. “Both of you stop right there!”
Merrick turned to Egan. “Connect with me when you locate Granger. Bring her to me. I’ll find the boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Egan replied.
Lights flashed. A Cal State University Police car sped around the corner from West Campus Drive and braked to a hard stop in front of Egan. The officer stepped out of the vehicle, removed his baton, and opened the back door of the cruiser.
The cop walked up to Egan. He was solid, all muscle, and towered over him. He pressed the tip of the club against the soldier’s chest. “Get in,” he said.
Egan looked down at the weapon then up at the officer. He shook his head. “Trust me, Kong,” he said. “You really don’t want to do this.”
“This is going to go down one of two ways,” the cop said. “Either you get your ass into the back seat willingly or I’ll cuff you and shove you in there myself. Your choice.”
Egan looked up at the cop and smiled. “I’ll bet you say the same thing to your wife. What do you call that in your house? Foreplay?”
“I won’t ask a third time.”
“You won’t have to,” Egan said. “I’ll give you five seconds.”
“For what?”
“To get out of my way.”
The officer pushed the baton harder into his Egan’s solar plexus. “That’s it,” he said. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.”
“Three seconds, Kong,” Egan said. “Tick-tock.”
“Screw you.”
Egan grabbed the shaft of the baton and held it tight. Shocked at Egan’s strength, the officer struggled to pull the weapon free from his grasp, couldn’t. The band around Egan’s wrist began to glow.
“What the hell,” the officer said.
“What is it with you guys?” Egan said, “You never learn.” A pulse of blue light shot along the shaft of the baton, straight into the cop. The officer dropped to his knees, then fell against the crash bumper of his patrol car. He lay on the ground, semi-conscious, dazed. Egan tossed the baton aside.
A group of students had gathered at the intersection and watched the campus police attempt to arrest the strangers to no avail. Concerned for the welfare of the injured officers, four young men threw down their backpacks, walked across the street, and confronted Egan while their girlfriends recorded the event on their cell phones.
“Hey, asshole,” one of the kids yelled out. “They told you to leave.”
Another student stepped forward. “Yeah,” he said. “Get the fuck out of here!”
The fallen officer warned the students. “Get back!” He yelled into his microphone. “Front gates. Officer down. I repeat, officer down!”
The students heeded the cops warning and stepped back. Egan walked past the police car and headed down the road in the direction of East Campus Drive.
Three additional police cars screamed to the scene, lights flashing, sirens blaring, taking up tactical positions on the road. The officers emerged from their vehicles; weapons drawn.
The sudden realization that gunfire might erupt at any second charged the already panicked crowd. The young men ran back to their girlfriends and snatched their backpacks up off the ground. Together they ran out of the University grounds and past the Visitors Information Centre, waving frantically at the passing traffic. An LAPD squad car took notice of the commotion, turned on its service lights, executed a U-turn, and accelerated back toward the students.
One of the officers screamed at Egan: “On the ground! Do it now!”
Egan looked at the police, then at Merrick. “Your orders, sir?”
“It’s time,” Merrick said. “Light it up.”
“Yes, sir.”
The men activated their devices. The bands around the
ir wrists glowed bright red.
Egan raised his hand and directed Channeler’s powerful energy at the police. Their squad cars began to shudder and shake. Tires hissed, blew out. The smell of burning rubber mixed with the putrid odor of scorched metal, melting vinyl and polystyrene as the cars burst into flames. Windshields shattered. Headlights popped. Police and onlookers watched in awe as Egan raised the burned-out shells off the ground, higher and higher into the air, lifting them by an unseen force, until they stopped and hovered in midair. With a swipe of his hand Egan caused the vehicles to take flight. Hurtling through the air, they crashed with tremendous force into the front entrance of the Nursing building.
Merrick pointed his fist in the direction of the parking garage and engaged Channeler. From inside the structure came a series of massive explosions – boom! boom! boom! He had caused the vehicles inside the structure to burst into flame. The intensity of the heat within the confine of the structure continued to build until it reached its flashpoint. The building started to rumble, then shake. Thick black smoke climbed over the waist-high walls of the parking levels and billowed skyward. Students staggered out of the building and collapsed to their knees, coughing, vomiting, trying desperately to suck life-giving oxygen back into their seared lungs.
The thunderous explosions brought students and faculty out of every building. The University’s Emergency Warning System siren activated and blared a rising wail across the campus. Terrified students crashed out of the exit doors of the buildings and ran for cover, their screams barely audible above the deafening wail of the EWS.
Merrick turned his attention to the lecture halls, dining area and administrative facilities. The buildings began to tremble as though the Long Beach campus sat atop a treacherous geological fault line which was about to be ripped apart by the mother of all earthquakes. Glass exploded out of window frames, impaling the fleeing students with white hot shards. No longer able to withstand the violent assault the buildings creaked, moaned, sighed, and fell. From within the cloud of dust and debris pleas for help could be heard. While the injured begged for help the dying fell silent.
Hell had found the University.
On the streets, in buildings, even on rooftops, students and faculty sought refuge from the attack.
Merrick could feel the presence of Ilya Puzanova. Channeler confirmed it.
He set out in search of his target.
105
FBI ASSISTANT DIRECTOR Ann Ridgeway’s incoming text from Special Agent Cobb simply read, “911.” She called him immediately.
“We have a situation underway in Long Beach,” Cobb said. “Numerous reports of massive explosions at Cal State University. LAPD’s getting hammered with calls from students, faculty and residents, all reporting what they believe to be bomb explosions.”
“Have we liaised with LAPD?”
“They’re en route as we speak. Could be a terrorist attack.”
“I’m on my way. Forward all intelligence updates to me the second they come in.”
“Yes ma’am,” Cobb said.
Ridgeway scrolled through her phone contacts, found “HRT,” and pressed the call button.
“HRT. This is Chainer.”
“David, it’s Ann. Bring me up to speed on Long Beach.”
The intensity of the conversation caught Hallier’s attention. He walked over to the Assistant Director. Ridgeway opened the speaker on her phone.
“Hostage Rescue Team One is on the way. Team Two’s gearing up. Two unfriendlies reported so far, could be more. Multiple casualties.”
“Means and motive?”
“Unknown at this time.”
Hallier motioned to speak to the Assistant Director privately. “Hang on, Sergeant.” Ridgeway muted the call.
“What’s going on?” Hallier asked.
“California State University at Long Beach is under attack. Two men on campus. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Merrick and Egan.”
Ridgeway nodded.
“Put your man back on.”
Ridgeway took Chainer off hold.
“Sergeant,” she said, “you’re on speaker with Colonel Quentin Hallier, United States Army, Department of Defense, DARPA.”
“Colonel,” Sergeant Chainer said.
“Sergeant,” Hallier said, “I’m sending a tactical team to Cal State. Your men will liaise with mine. Tell your teams not to engage until we arrive. Set up a staging area outside the university. We’ll work out an infiltration plan when I get there. Until then you and your men need to stand down.”
“With all due respect, Colonel,” Chainer replied, “We’re not about to stand around and wait for the body count to rise. We need boots on the ground now.”
“I understand,” Hallier said. “Just get your men ready. I’ll explain more when I get there. Do not engage with these men. Air support will be there within minutes.”
“My guys are already in the air.”
“That’s fine. Just give us room to land.”
“Copy that, Colonel. Ma’am?”
Ridgeway replied. “Go ahead, Sergeant.”
“Word just came in. LAPD SWAT has been deployed.”
Hallier shook his head. “They need to be recalled, Ann. They’re walking into a death trap. Merrick and Egan will rip them apart.”
Ridgeway nodded. “Sergeant, call SWAT. Tell them we have reliable intelligence that confirms this could be a military assault, not a terrorist attack. They’re not trained for an engagement like this.”
Hallier jumped in. “Sergeant, you need to make their Commander understand that unless he wants to see every one of his men wearing toe-tags within the hour they need to stand down and wait for DARPA commandos to arrive. We’re equipped to deal with this. SWAT isn’t. We’re taking point on this operation.”
Sergeant Chainer replied. “Copy that. I’ll make the call.” He hung up.
ADC Ridgeway turned to Hallier. “This just got real serious, real fast.”
“You have no idea just how serious,” Hallier said. He placed a call.
“Joint Forces Training Base Los Alamitos. Commander Aikens.”
“It’s Hallier. Tell Tactical they’re green to go. Get them in the air now. Infiltration point is Cal State University at Long Beach. LAPD SWAT is on the scene. FBI Hostage Rescue Teams are en route.”
“Copy that, sir.”
“And advise them to expect to be met with advanced weaponry.”
“Sir?”
“You heard what I said, advanced weaponry. They’re clear to engage using any means necessary to minimize further casualties.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Make sure you do, Commander. I want these bastards wiped off the planet. Tell your team to make that happen.”
“Copy that, sir.”
Ridgeway and Hallier rallied with Jordan and Chris. “It’s going down now,” the Assistant Director told her agents.
“Where,” Chris asked.
“Long Beach.”
106
THE CAB RIDE to Caridad’s provided Taras Verenich with time to think.
Badly in need of a drink, he brushed past the maître d’ and walked straight into the bar lounge. Ashley Granger would be arriving for their meeting at any moment.
The barkeep invited Taras to sit. “What can I get you?”
“Glenfiddich 18. Make it a double,” Taras replied.
“Coming up.”
He checked his watch. 6:01 P.M. Granger was already one minute late. Taras had absolutely no tolerance for tardiness, if even for sixty seconds. His time was too valuable to be violated. Had it been anyone else he would have tossed the drink back, thrown a twenty on the bar and walked out. But this meeting was important. The circumstances surrounding it called for a reluctant extension of his patience.
The barkeep placed a coaster under his drink. “Cheers,” he said.
Where the hell was Granger?
A commotion outside the lounge caught Tara's att
ention. The head chef, a no-nonsense Jamaican named Henry Hutchinson, was shouting and calling for the staff to join him in the kitchen. Henry’s mother, Caridad, the restaurants namesake, as well as several of the wait staff, hurried through the steel doors. Taras soon heard crying, unintelligible murmurs, gasps of disbelief and muted conversation coming from the room. The steel doors crashed open. A young waitress walked out, blotting tears from her eyes. She walked into the lounge, sat in a corner booth, and played with the tissue she held in her hands.
Eric Cantor, the barkeep, stepped out from behind his station and walked to her table.
“What’s wrong, Gabby?” Eric asked. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Did someone say something to upset you?”
Gabby shook her head. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
Taras nursed his scotch. He checked his watch. 6:15 P.M. Damn it, Granger!
“Cal State University,” Gabby said. “The Long Beach campus.”
“What about it?”
“Police have shut it down. Multiple explosions. They’re saying it’s a terrorist attack. No one knows for sure exactly what’s going on.”
“Anyone hurt?” Eric asked.
Gabby nodded. “Many. My nephew goes there. My sister can’t reach him on his cell. Neither can I. Brian’s only eighteen, Eric. That’s too young to die.” She began to weep.
The barkeep walked to the bar, snatched up the remote control and pointed it at the large screen television on the wall. TSN was broadcasting a basketball game. He switched to a local news channel.
“I was watching that, Taras snapped.
“One second,” Eric replied.
“You always change channels on customers in the middle of the game?”
“This is important.”
“Nothing is more important than watching the Lakers kick the crap out of the Hawks.”
The customer was beginning to test Eric’s patience. “Have you heard what’s going down at Cal State?” the barkeep asked.
“Should I care?”
“Terrorists.”
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 42