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

by Gary Winston Brown

  “He doesn’t look so tough.”

  “He’s trained to kill.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “Chris, the man has forgotten more about self-defence than you’ll ever know.”

  “I’ve learned a few moves over the years, you know.”

  “News flash,” Jordan said. “Watching Ultimate Fighting on pay-per-view with a beer in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other does not qualify as expert instruction.”

  Ridgeway interrupted. “Are you two just about done?”

  Jordan said nothing.

  Chris smirked. “She started it.”

  “Very mature, Agent Hanover,” ADC Ridgeway replied.

  “Sorry, ma’am. Yes, we’re good.”

  “All right. It looks like we’re wrapped up here. I’ll liaise with Colonel Hallier later. In the meantime, have another look around the scene. Grab whatever evidence you can find.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jordan answered.

  “And meet me in my office tomorrow afternoon for debriefing. After all the craziness that’s gone on here today it might be wise if we collaborate our reports on this one.”

  “We’ll be there,” Chris said.

  Jordan knelt and inspected the area where the commandos had recovered Merrick’s body. A few yards away, a Los Angeles city coroner tended to the body of a dead FBI SWAT agent.

  “That could have been you or me,” Jordan said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Chris replied.

  Blood-soaked steel rods lay on the ground where Merrick’s body had been retrieved. Under one of the metal shafts lay a small plastic object.

  “Got a glove on you?” Jordan asked.

  Chris fished a latex medical glove out of his jacket pocket.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” Chris said. “I always make it a point to carry protection.”

  Jordan rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you do.”

  “Find something?”

  “Maybe.” Jordan slipped her hand into the glove. “I don’t suppose you have a pair of tweezers with you as well?”

  “Sorry, I’m all out of medical supplies,” Chris said. “Try this.” He removed a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, folded it lengthwise twice, then again in half. “Presto! Tweezers.”

  “That should work.”

  “I’m gonna need it back when you’re finished with it.”

  “The glove?”

  “The twenty.”

  Jordan smiled. She picked up the item.

  “What did you find?” Chris asked.

  “Looks like a needle sheath.”

  Chris winced. “I hate needles. Suture needles in particular.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Very funny. I’ve been stitched up too many times to count. Take it from me, needles were designed with a singular purpose in mind: to inflict as much torture on human beings as possible.”

  “Then it’s probably a good thing you didn’t take on Mr. DARPA back there. It would have been suture

  city for you.”

  “Ha-ha,” Chris said. He watched Jordan extricate the item from beneath the bloody steel rod. “Did you know that the Egyptians were the first to come up with the idea of suturing? They made needles out of bone and used a rough cord to close the incisions.”

  “You’re a wealth of knowledge, Hanover,” Jordan replied. “Let me guess. National Geographic Channel?”

  Chris ignored the barb. “They used them in the process of preparing a body for mummification.”

  “Thank you, Tutankhamen,” Jordan said. “I feel so much more informed. Got an evidence bag handy?”

  “Hang on. I’ll grab one from the Coroner.”

  Jordan held the plastic sleeve up to the light and rolled it between her fingertips. Trace material from the contents of the syringe sparkled inside the cover. Suddenly the sleeve began to vibrate. “What the hell?” she said.

  Chris returned holding a small evidence bag. “Will this do?”

  “Perfect,” Jordan said.

  He opened the mouth of the bag. “Drop it in.”

  Jordan didn’t reply.

  “You okay, J?”

  “Me? Yeah, sure. I’m fine.”

  The needle sheath clipped the edge of the evidence bag as Jordan dropped it. She caught it in her ungloved hand. A tiny drop of the rose-colored solution escaped the plastic cover. It glimmered on the palm of her hand.

  “Hold on,” Chris said. “I’ll get a wash kit.”

  “No… time…” Jordan said. She collapsed.

  “Jordan?” Chris yelled as he watched her fall. “Jordan!” His partner lay on the ground, unconscious. “Agent down!” Chris yelled. “I need medical! Get me medical!”

  Jordan raced through a spinning tunnel of brilliant light. A kaleidoscopic vortex of color exploded around her: rose reds, bright yellows, blinding whites. She felt as though she had fallen into a wormhole and was traveling through space at the speed of light. As fast as her journey had begun it came to an abrupt halt. The connection, or whatever it was, had been broken. Jordan didn’t just come around. She was thrust back to consciousness. She sat up, gasping for air.

  Chris steadied her as FBI paramedics rushed to her side. “What the hell just happened?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jordan said. She stared at her hand. Her palm was dry. No trace of the solution was visible. “Oh, God!”

  “What’s wrong?” Chris asked.

  “Whatever was in that needle absorbed into my skin. It’s in me now.”

  “What is?”

  “I don’t know. Something… bad.”

  119

  FBI SWAT CONTINUED their building-by-building sweep of the campus, escorting the terrified students and faculty to safety. For some, the horror of the attack had left them so incapacitated they could not walk. Members of the tactical team were forced to carry them from the buildings in their arms.

  The site swarmed with emergency services personnel. Firefighters cut through the wreckage of the downed FBI helicopter to gain access to the unconscious officers trapped inside. Students from the university’s School of Nursing worked beside police and medical teams tending to the injured, assessing the dying, and pronouncing the dead.

  On the sports track and baseball fields adjacent to the fallen Pyramid, two military evacuation choppers approached in trail pattern. The second bird maintained its position in the air while the first descended, its makeshift landing zone marked by four flashlights placed on the ground in “T” formation. Hallier covered his face, waited for the dust cloud kicked up by the rotor wash to settle, then walked to the helicopter to meet the medical team as they deployed.

  “Inside,” he yelled over the deafening roar of the chopper engine. He pointed to the Pyramid. “Multiple casualties, plus a DB requiring armed transfer to JFTB Los Alamitos.”

  The medic looked confused. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Did you say you want us to provide armed transport for a dead body?”

  “Did I stutter?” Hallier yelled.

  “No, sir,” the pilot replied.

  “Then you heard me correctly. And don’t let it out of your sight.”

  The medic saluted. “Copy that, Colonel.”

  Throughout the campus, Cal State University facilities management had erected a network of portable lighting stations. The generators switched on. The halogen lamps glared. Within minutes Long Beach campus was illuminated in harsh white light.

  Hovering news helicopters kept their distance from the emergency airspace that had been claimed by the military. News crews returned to the police barricades and resumed their live-to-air report on the aftermath of the attack.

  Having been cleared by medical and recovered from the ill-effects of the strange liquid, Jordan and Chris sat on the steps outside the Pyramid.

  “You sure you’re all right?” Chris asked.

  “I think so,” Jordan replied. “Still a little lightheaded, but I’m okay.”

  “Wha
t happened back there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you remember passing out?”

  “Sort of. It felt more like I was falling. I didn’t realize I’d lost consciousness.”

  “Do you remember what you said when you came around?”

  “That’s a little fuzzy.”

  “You said something bad was in your body.”

  Jordan opened her hand. A tiny dot, no larger than a pinprick, marked the point where her body had absorbed the solution.

  “Let me have a look.”

  “Really, Chris. I’m fine.”

  “Humor me.”

  Chris took her hand, opened her fingers, found the red mark, and massaged her palm. “You scared the hell out of me back there,” he said. His touch was gentle.

  “Sorry.”

  “Look, Jordan,” Chris said, “I know you can handle pretty much anything that this job could ever throw at you. And I’ll probably never fully understand your gift. It’s just that…”

  “Just what?”

  “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  Jordan stood. “Don’t go there, Chris,” she said. “I don’t want you taking responsibility for me. We’re partners. It’s natural for you to want me to be safe. Same here. We protect each other.”

  Chris nodded. There was more he wanted to say but this was not the time or the place. “Fair enough,” he said.

  “We should get back inside. Ridgeway wanted us to have a look around. Maybe we can turn up more on Merrick.”

  “Agreed,” Chris replied. “Speaking of bad guys, I had Egan dead to rights in my scope before all hell broke loose and the building started to collapse. But then this pink glow appeared inside the wall of debris. He was there and then he… wasn’t.”

  “I know.”

  “The mark on your hand,” Chris said. “Does what happened to him have anything to do with why you passed out after you touched the needle sheath?”

  Jordan nodded. “I think so.”

  “You think after the building fell Egan went… somewhere?” Chris said. “You know... Back to the Future, flying DeLorean, flux capacitor kind of stuff?”

  “Something definitely happened to him.”

  Chris stared at his partner. “I don’t know about you, but in my world, people don’t just suddenly vanish into thin air.”

  Jordan was quiet, her silence telling.

  “Wait a minute,” Chris said. “The liquid from the needle cap was the same color as the light I saw coming from the debris pile. It shimmered on your skin. I saw it when you collapsed. Did you go somewhere?”

  Jordan hesitated. “Yes. Not physically, of course, but mentally. Something happened that I can’t explain. Maybe because my exposure was minimal so too was the effect.”

  “So if Egan had injected himself with a syringe full of that stuff…”

  “His exposure would have been massive,” Jordan finished. “There’s no telling what effect it would have had on his body.”

  120

  MARINA PUZANOVA CLEARED airport customs at LAX at 6:00 A.M. after an exhausting thirteen-hour flight from Moscow. Any desire for sleep that her body demanded had been rendered impossible by the frequent intrusion of nightmares. Marina sensed the dark dreams were, in fact, premonitions; portents of the danger facing Ilya. In their phone conversation, the stranger said he had been keeping close tabs on her son, knew his whereabouts at all times, his daily schedule, the classes he attended at Long Beach, even when he spent time with his girlfriend. He was also aware of her involvement with The Company. The how and why of it all was unimportant. This person, whoever he was, had proven himself to be a viable threat, not just to her professionally, but to her family. This could not be allowed. She thought of Kastonov. No doubt he would demand that she answer for her insubordinate act of leaving the country without Company permission, but she didn’t care. As much as The Company had saved her from the streets and provided her with a life better than anything she could have imagined, her first and foremost duty was to protect Ilya. If The Company found it unacceptable that she would choose protecting her own son over the ‘greater good’ then they could go straight to hell. Marina knew how valuable her secrets were to the international police intelligence community. There wasn’t a country in the world that wouldn’t roll out the red carpet and make a place for her should she decide to turn. She knew there would be no welcome mat waiting for her in Russia when her business in the U.S.A. had been concluded. America might be just as good a place as any to a start new life, under a new name, with a new identity.

  Marina handed her inspection card to the customs officer and exited the arrivals gate. Beyond the automatic doors, well-wishers gathered in eager anticipation of the arrival of friends and family. Two toddlers stood in front of an attractive young couple, their handmade sign reading Dobro pozhalovat’ v Ameriku! - Welcome to America! As their grandparents walked through the doors the children threw down the sign, squealed with delight, ran under the steel handrail, and flung themselves into their open arms. The heartwarming reunion drew a quiet round of applause from the crowd.

  Marina walked down the exit ramp, turned on her cell phone and tried to call Ilya. The call went straight to voicemail. Like so many teenagers who lived on their phones, it was unlike Ilya to have the device turned off. Concerned, she decided the best course of action was to go directly from the airport to Ilya’s condominium.

  A group of travelers stood outside a Starbuck’s coffee kiosk watching several banks of television monitors. The look of concern on their faces drew Marina’s attention. Several Los Angeles television stations were reporting on the catastrophic events that had taken place at Long Beach campus while Marina was still in the air.

  A man stood with his arm around his wife. She cried quietly.

  “What’s going on?” Marina asked.

  She woman caught her breath. “It’s the University,” she replied. “They think it was a terrorist attack.”

  The video loop refreshed: a police helicopter falling from the sky, crashing, and bursting into flames... students fleeing the grounds... buildings turned to rubble… dozens of police, fire and medical vehicles on the scene, their flashing service lights lighting up the night… the fallen Pyramid.

  “My daughter goes to Long Beach,” the woman said. “We flew in to spend a couple of days with her. I can’t reach her. The police have shut down all cellular communication in the area in case more bombs are hidden on the campus. They’re afraid they could be detonated remotely by cellular transmission. What in God’s name is happening in this country?” She wept.

  A ticker scrolled across the bottom of the screen beneath the graphic images:

  BREAKING NEWS… Twenty dead in suspected terrorist attack at California State University Long Beach Campus… 4 FBI SWAT agents… 16 students… Dr. Ashley Granger, Professor of Mathematics, found dead at scene… Names of additional deceased withheld pending family notification… No groups have yet claimed responsibility for the attack.

  Ashley! Marina recognized the name of her friend and business associate. Was Ilya dead too? She had to get to the University right away.

  No sooner had she left the crowd and walked toward a taxi stand when two men stopped her.

  “Marina Puzanova?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mother of Ilya Puzanova?”

  “I am. What’s going on? Has something happened to my son? Oh, God!”

  The men presented their credentials. “FBI, Ms. Puzanova. Are you aware of the incident that occurred last night at California State University?”

  Marina nodded. “I just saw it on the news.”

  “Your son is fine, ma’am,” one of the agents said. “He was on campus at the time of the event and was slightly injured during the attack, but it’s nothing serious. We’re speaking with him, as well as other students we think might be able to assist us in identifying the individuals responsible for the attack. We’re holding him and t
he others in protective custody until we’ve taken their statements. We can take you to him now.”

  “Yes, of course,” Marina said. “Where is he?”

  “Bureau headquarters, downtown L.A. Do you have all your bags, ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  The agent put his hand on Marina’s shoulder. “Try not to worry, Ms. Puzanova. We’ll have you downtown in no time.”

  “I want to call him,” Marina said. “I want to speak with Ilya.”

  “I’m sorry,” the second agent replied. “That won’t be possible. Not until our agents have completed the debrief. I assure you there’s no cause for concern. It’s just protocol. Right now, we need to gather as much intelligence about the event as we can.”

  “Wait,” Marina said. She stopped. “You don’t believe he’s a suspect, do you?”

  “Not at all, ma’am” the agent replied. “Like I said, it’s just routine.”

  Together they walked through the arrival’s terminal, past the taxi stand, up the ramp to the parking garage and took the elevator to the fourth floor.

  Marina couldn’t stop thinking about her son. “How long have you been holding him?”

  “Since last night.”

  A black sedan was parked in the back corner of the garage. The agent clicked the remote, started the car and lowered the windows. He took Marina’s travel case from her and placed it in the trunk of the car.

  The second agent opened the rear passenger door. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “We’ll get you to your son as fast as we can.”

  “Thank you,” Marina said. She sat in the back seat and placed her purse beside her.

  The agents stepped to the back of the car, conferred quietly, then closed the trunk lid.

  A thought occurred to Marina. Why had the agents parked here? Surely they could have parked in the Police parking zone, located immediately outside the terminal entrance. After all, they were here on official business. Marina suddenly realized that she had become so focused on Ilya and the situation at California State University that she had let logic evade her. She was not thinking straight. She refocused. How did the FBI know she was on this flight? Her visit to the U.S.A. was to have been a surprise to Ilya. She had not told him she was coming. The only person who was aware of her travel plans was Taras Verenich. Suddenly something felt very wrong.