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

by Gary Winston Brown

  Hawkins nodded. “We also think Dr. Merrick used his Department of Defense privileges to access the supercomputers at Dynamic Life Sciences and launch his own private investigation into what happened to his daughter. He probably started by looking into Granger, connected her to Puzanova and Verenich, and finally Verenich to Rosenfeld. That’s how he found out about The Company.”

  “I’m quite sure the Department of Defense isn’t about to confirm your suspicions anytime soon,” Ridgeway said.

  Hawkins agreed. “Not likely.”

  Agent Cobb knocked on the meeting room door.

  “Yes?” Ridgeway said.

  “Sorry to intrude, ma’am. Colonel Hallier from DARPA is on the line. He says he’d like a word with you.”

  Ridgeway motioned to the conference phone in the center of the table. “Put him through.”

  “Right away.” Cobb closed the door. The phone rang.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel,” Ridgeway answered.

  “Thanks for taking my call, Ann.”

  “My pleasure.” The agents stood to leave the room. Ridgeway gestured for them to stay. “My team and I are recapping the case right now, Colonel. Agents Quest and Hanover are with me, as well as our head of Cyber Support, Agent Hawkins. Do you mind if they listen in?”

  “Not at all,” Hallier replied. “I want to thank you and your team for your assistance. You all did a fine job under exceedingly difficult circumstances. It would be my pleasure to work with you again, anytime.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. The feeling is mutual.”

  “I also wanted to let you know about a development in the case as it pertains to Dr. Merrick.”

  “Oh?”

  “I received a call this morning from Sergeant Cowell, LAPD SWAT. He told me the uniforms who took eyewitness statements at the scene connected a car and motorcycle parked outside the main entrance of the university to Merrick and Egan. Fingerprints confirmed it. Both were stolen.”

  “Has LAPD interviewed the owners of the vehicles?” Ridgeway asked.

  “One’s dead, the manager of the Acadia Motor Inn in Laguna Beach who owned the car. Uniforms interviewed his wife. She had noticed that the car was gone and assumed her husband had stepped out to run a few errands. But then she found the front office door locked and no one on duty. She looked through the window and saw him lying beneath the counter in a pool of blood. A pen was stuck in the side of his neck. The prints on it matched Merrick’s.”

  “Murderous bastard,” Ridgeway replied. “And the owner of the bike?”

  “Dr. Brian Harvey,” Hallier replied, “an emergency room physician at Mercy General Hospital. He’s fine. Apparently, the doc had just bought the motorcycle. Only had it for a couple of days. He stepped out on his break to check on it, saw it was missing and called the police right away. The prints on the bike were Egan’s. Responding officers also found a missing squad car from a neighboring jurisdiction in Mercy General’s parking lot. Turns out it was one of three missing units.”

  “What do you mean, missing?”

  “They haven’t been able to reach five of their officers since yesterday,” Hallier said. “Total loss of radio contact. No one knows what’s going on. Their department is in a complete panic.”

  “Have they announced a General Alert?”

  “Yes, within an hour of their disappearance. All off-duty emergency services personnel have been called in to assist in the search. Fire and rescue too.”

  “I’ll put in a call. If they want our help, they’ve got it.”

  “I’m sure they’d appreciate that, Ann. Again, thank you.”

  “Anytime, Colonel. Keep in touch.”

  “Will do.”

  ADC Ridgeway disconnected the call. “Anything else Agent Hawkins?”

  “No, ma’am,” Hawkins replied. “That’s everything we’ve been able to ascertain thus far.”

  Chris stood. “If that’s that case then I’d like to make a suggestion. Lunch is on me. Massey’s Steak House. Ten minutes.”

  “I’ll cover the beers,” Hawkins said.

  ADC Ridgeway laughed. “Massey’s it is. But make it in thirty. I need to speak with both of you in my office. It’s urgent.”

  “Take a seat,” Ridgeway said. She handed Jordan a file folder. “Your next case,” she continued. “Serial killings in New York City. Ritualistic by the looks of it. NYPD has asked for our help.”

  From the file, Chris retrieved a copy of a handwritten letter and read the note. “He’s daring the police commissioner to catch him. That takes a pair.”

  Jordan asked, “Has New York been informed that we’ll be joining their investigation?”

  “They know you’re on your way,” Ridgeway replied. “You’ll be liaising with Special Agent Max Penner and his team. They’ll provide you with whatever support you’ll need.”

  “When do we leave?” Chris asked.

  “9:00 A.M. tomorrow morning,” Ridgeway said.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Jordan said. She and Chris stood to leave.

  ADC Ridgeway shook their hands. “Be safe, agents.”

  “Always,” Chris said.

  123

  COLONEL QUENTIN HALLIER returned the guard’s salute, pushed open the stainless-steel doors leading into the morgue and flipped the wall switch. The fluorescent ceiling fixtures crackled, flickered, and flashed to life. The black bag lay on the autopsy table.

  Hallier opened his cell phone and placed a call.

  “Ford.”

  “It’s Hallier, General. I’m at Los Alamitos. Merrick’s body has arrived.”

  “And Channeler?”

  Hallier unzipped the bag. The top-secret device remained attached to the dead man’s wrist.

  “Intact, sir.”

  “Remove it and keep it safe. Escort the body back here for destruction.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hallier removed the spent syringe from his pocket. We have a further complication, sir,” he said, “LEEDA has been compromised. I have the injection device. It’s empty.”

  “Merrick injected himself?” Ford asked.

  “No, sir. Egan did.”

  “Tell me you have him in custody.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “What is his status?”

  “Unknown at this time.”

  “What does that mean, Colonel?” Ford snapped. “Either the Commander is in custody or he isn’t.”

  “We were unable to reach Commander Egan before he injected himself, sir. He’s… missing.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  Ford was furious. “My orders, Colonel? What in God’s name do you think my orders are? We have a one-of-a-kind, multi-million-dollar military asset somewhere out there that we can’t find because we’ve turned off every goddamn means of tracking it. My orders are that you fly back here with the body and Channeler, put together a recovery team, and find Egan. I don’t care how you do it. Just track him down, wherever the hell he is.”

  “And when we do, sir?”

  “Deal with him… with extreme prejudice.”

  “Understood, General.”

  “You bloody-well better,” Ford said. “Either your team brings Egan in alive or you retire him permanently. I’ll be damned if I’m going to have an asset with his abilities out of our control and running rogue.”

  “Copy that sir. Egan will be handled appropriately.”

  Ford was right, Hallier thought. Merrick, Egan, the Channeler and LEEDA projects, the scientific team at Dynamic Life Sciences… all of it had been under his direction. The fact that Merrick had been able to figure out a way to steal the project right out from under them was inexcusable.

  Ford continued. “What about project records?”

  “Unsalvageable, sir.”

  “How the hell is that possible?”

  Hallier recalled a text he had received less than an hour ago from Dr. Han informing him of a security breach at Dynamic
Life Sciences. He relayed the update to Ford.

  “Last night, DLS’s computer system was the target of a time-delayed electromagnetic pulse bomb. It detonated at 9:00 P.M. The facility is offline, sir. They’re completely in the dark.”

  “Surely they backed up their data?”

  “The attack was thorough, sir. There’s nothing left. The entire server farm dedicated to the GENESIS project is six-feet under.”

  “Let me guess. No backup, for reasons of national security.”

  “I’m afraid not. No one except DLS computer staff and Dr. Merrick had access to the room.”

  “What about outside of DLS?” Ford asked. “Could Merrick have backed up the data externally?”

  “We’re checking into that, sir.”

  “Hardcopy?”

  “No physical files. Just a notepad in Merrick’s desk drawer containing a list of names. All but three had been stroked out. There was a number for a cell phone in Moscow which matched a name on the list: Marina Puzanova.”

  “You think Merrick planned to sell Channeler and LEEDA to the Russians? To this Puzanova?”

  “It’s possible, sir,” Hallier replied. “If that’s the case, perhaps what happened at Long Beach was an orchestrated event.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That it could have been a demonstration. Using Egan… attacking the University... maybe someone wanted to see first-hand that the technology worked before they bought it. Long Beach would be all the proof a buyer would need to confirm Channeler’s capability. Merrick would have been paid billions. Any country with deep pockets and a non-extradition treaty would grant him asylum in a heartbeat, assuming he lived to collect the money after the transaction was completed.”

  “Close it,” Ford said.

  “Sir?”

  “Shut it down. Bolt the goddamn doors. Bring every piece of equipment back to DARPA for examination, right down to the last computer chip. Have data forensics determine if anything in those servers is salvageable.”

  “Copy that, sir.”

  Ford sighed. “I can’t believe this. Hundreds of millions of dollars and a decade of defense research… all gone, possibly in Russian hands. Do you have any idea how far back this will set our defense initiatives if this turns out to be true? There’ll be hell to pay, Colonel. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to take the heat.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  A voice came over the intercom on Ford’s desk. “General?”

  “What is it?” Ford barked.

  “An urgent call for you sir,” Ford’s assistant said. “The White House is on line one.”

  “Thank you, Connie.”

  To Hallier, Ford said, “Get on this, Colonel. Get me answers. And bloody-well get me Egan!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The line went dead.

  Ford took a deep breath then pressed the flashing button. “This is Brigadier General Ford speaking.”

  The White House operator spoke: “Please hold for the President.”

  124

  TARAS VERENICH, NOW Taras Antipov, floated on his pool lounger, sipping a scotch on the rocks, and enjoying the warmth of the Costa Rican sun on his face. Beads of coconut-scented perspiration trickled across his brow and crept into the corners of his eyes. He unrolled the terry towel neck support, blotted away the stinging sweat, and looked out over the edge of the saltwater infinity pool. Mist drifted lazily over the jungle treetops below his mountainside estate.

  He had paid three million in cash for the place, but in terms of the seclusion it offered the property was priceless. A single-gated road led into the property, manned around the clock by six armed guards whom he rarely saw yet grossly overpaid to ensure his safety. Taras seldom had a requirement to leave the estate. Whenever he needed supplies or food or women he simply flew into town and used a driver. His helicopter sat on a landing pad at the edge of the property.

  The location of the estate was its key attribute, so ensconced into the rugged hillside that it was practically unreachable from the hillside below, and as impenetrable as any mountain fortress. The landscaping of the grounds had been designed with Taras’ personal safety in mind and featured a state-of-the-art underground security system consisting of military-grade improvised explosive devices which would prove fatal to any trespasser unfortunate enough to set foot on any of the twenty pressure-plates strategically buried under the grass. A discrete pathway provided Taras with safe passage off the grounds and into the surrounding jungle if ever the requirement for a quick escape should prove necessary.

  His thoughts turned to Marina and how she would react when she arrived in Los Angeles and found him gone. She would be furious. But did she really think he would be stupid enough to wait for her to put a bullet in his head? And what was this bullshit excuse she had given him that the reason for her trip to America was because she believed her son was in danger? He shook his head. Arrogant bitch. He was far more intelligent than she gave him credit for. He was sure The Company knew it too. They would never have been able to gain the financial foothold they now enjoyed on the West Coast had it not been for him turning Rosenfeld by taking advantage of his weakness for fine art and using him to launder millions through his many companies.

  The Company owed him his freedom and he was taking it, whether they liked it or not. He had just decided to move his retirement date up by a decade or so.

  Granger was dead, or so he presumed, and the FBI had come sniffing around his office asking questions about Rosenfeld. Both were good reasons to get out unscathed while he could.

  All signs pointed in the same direction. The Company’s American operations had come under scrutiny. Which meant now was the time to disappear. The Company had made him rich, but he had done the same for them. As far as he was concerned, they were even. Living here in his mansion-in-the-mist for the rest of his days would be his reward, one he had planned for and dreamed about for many years. Finally, it was here.

  Taras spun the last mouthful of scotch around in his glass and gulped it down. In need of a refill, he hand-paddled over to the edge of the pool, raised himself out of the floating chair and stood on the ladder.

  A tremor ran through the handrail and step. An earthquake? He quickly stepped out of the pool and onto the deck.

  On the opposite side of the pool, the water level suddenly dropped. Taras watched as a series of small waves radiated across its surface, gained momentum as they flowed toward him, then broke over the edge of the concrete deck and splashed at his feet. Inside the mansion, a heavy ceramic vase fell from its pedestal in the main hall. Taras heard it shatter on the marble floor.

  The crash of the vessel was followed by a dazzling burst of brilliant pink light. Taras shielded his eyes. “What the hell?” he said.

  Although confident he was perfectly safe in his hilltop hideaway, Taras nevertheless carried a fully loaded Colt semi-automatic pistol with him at all times. He lifted his towel off the chaise lounge, grabbed the weapon and chambered a round.

  Footsteps on the marble floor. Inside the mansion.

  Coming closer.

  A man he had never seen before suddenly stood on the open terrace.

  “Well, that was pretty damn cool,” the stranger said, walking toward Taras. He looked strong, tough, military.

  “Who the hell are you?” Taras asked. “How did you get in here?”

  “Actually, I’m still trying to figure that out for myself,” Ben Egan answered. “But you have to admit it’s one hell of a way to make an entrance.”

  Too shocked to speak, Taras raised the weapon and pointed it at the Commander.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Egan said.

  The man’s physical appearance began to change right before Taras’ eyes. His skin turned gray and thick and looked as tough as a rhinoceros.

  Terrified, Taras fired round after round at Egan. He continued to squeeze the trigger even after the last bullet had been fired and the clip was empty. Click-click-click...
/>
  The slugs bounced harmlessly off Egan’s skin and fell to the ground. Egan knelt, gathered up the spent rounds and threw them into the pool. Taras watched as his skin instantly returned to normal.

  “Who are you?” Taras said. His arm fell to his side. The gun slipped from his fingers and fell. It clattered on the pool deck.

  Ben Egan stepped to the edge of the pool. “I have a message for you from Dr. Jason Merrick.”

  Taras shook his head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Egan began to walk around the edge of the pool. Taras backed up.

  Egan stopped at the bar cart. “You mind?” He poured himself a Scotch, tossed in a few ice cubes, took a sip. “Single malt,” he said. “Personally, I’m more of a blended man. But back to business. Does the name Paige Merrick ring a bell?”

  Taras said nothing. He appeared to be in shock. He supported himself by holding fast to a pool chair.

  “Okay, okay,” Egan continued. “I can see you’re a little weirded-out, what with the whole appearing out of nowhere and bulletproof thing I’ve got going on. Let me throw out a few more names you might recognize. Ashley Granger. How about Aaron Dowd? Marina Puzanova? Itzhak Rosenfeld? Tell me when I’m getting warm.”

  Taras nodded.

  “Ah, Itzhak Rosenfeld!” Egan said. The Commander set down the glass on the bar cart and clapped his hands. “All right. We’re going to play a game. I hope you like Jeopardy! Your category is ‘21st Century Seriously Fucked-Up Homicidal Psychopath’s.’ Ready? Here’s the answer: ‘This organization, of which you are a member, murdered Dr. Merrick’s only daughter, Paige.’”

  Taras looked over his shoulder.

  “You have ten seconds to answer and your time starts... now.”

  The escape route, Taras thought. He could make a run for it, navigate his way around the strategically buried IED’s. Not knowing their locations, the son-of-a-bitch would be blown to pieces when he tried to follow.

  Egan hummed the theme music from the iconic television show: “Ding, di-ding-ding-ding… ding… ding... boom-boom. Time’s up. So, what’s the clue?”