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

by Gary Winston Brown

  The opportunity for escape came in an instant. As a thank you for his cooperation and telling them what they needed to know, Mohammed, Otto’s lead interrogator, instructed his associates to remove him from his enclosure so that he might enjoy a hot meal and a sponge bath; two concessions he would never have offered a prisoner. Now free of the device, while enjoying the bland soup and stale bread, Otto spied the business end of a Kalashnikov assault rifle hidden beneath a prayer mat. Not knowing if the weapon was loaded, he took a chance. Feigning illness, he told Mohammed he was going to be sick. As Mohammed stepped back Otto fell forward onto the mat. He lay on his side on the ground, his back to Mohammed, clutching his stomach, writhing in apparent pain. In fact, he was clambering for the weapon. He threw back the mat, raised the gun, and pulled the trigger.

  The weapon responded with deadly force.

  Otto rose to his feet and delivered round after round, dispatching his captors into the afterlife, then made good his escape, shuffling from the kill house for one-and-a-half miles, one painful step after another, until finally he collapsed. His last memory of that night was the sight of the Blackhawk helicopter hovering above him and watching the Navy SEAL’s sent to rescue him fast-rope to the ground, take up positions, surround him, secure their package and ex filtrate him to Combat Outpost Callahan in Baghdad. Following an extended period of rest and recovery, Otto was deemed to be psychologically unstable, no longer able to serve his country, and discharged. Back in the United States, now a civilian, he returned to his first love, books. In particular, restoring them back to their former glory.

  To Otto, rare books were a thing of beauty. He loved everything about the process of restoration. The feel of the paper in his hands. The suppleness and musty smell of the centuries-worn leather. Even the mechanically typeset letters on the page, each manually arranged to form words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into pages, pages into chapters, and chapters into literary works of art. The project set out on the workbench before him was a seventeenth-century bible. Otto had deconstructed the book, removed its pages from its cover, and begun the first part of the process: re-building the cover. He rose from his desk and walked to his supply cabinet, opened the drawer marked ‘16th Century Leathers,’ removed several pieces that matched the bible and returned to his workstation. Unbeknownst to the owner, he insisted on leaving his own artistic ‘signature’ on each work.

  He rose from his chair and walked to a cot in the corner of the room upon which he took his afternoon nap. The cot sat on an area rug he obtained from an Iraqi businessman. He purchased the item because it reminded him of the prayer mat under which he had retrieved the assault rifle and secured his escape from captivity. Lag bolts secured the metal legs of the cot through the rug and into the wooden floor. A secret lever under the bed frame released the locks that held the cot in place. Otto pulled the lever. With a click the false floor under the cot released. The bed lifted several inches up off the floor.

  The raised cot exposed a staircase that led down to Otto’s special place.

  In the dungeon below, a woman lay on a medical gurney, unaware of his presence due to the potent anesthetic coursing through her bloodstream.

  Otto examined her naked body, located the specific section of skin he wanted for this current restoration project, cut off the flesh and held it up to the light.

  Perfect.

  With great reverence he lay it on a stainless-steel tray beside her.

  Soon he would treat the skin with his special formulation and allow it to cure. When it was ready, he would incorporate it into the restoration of the bible.

  Like the book, the girl would become a part of history, never to be forgotten.

  129

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Jordan and Chris stepped out of the fifth-floor elevator and into the beehive of activity that was the Scroll Killer Task Force. A heated debate was taking place at the back of the room. Two of NYPD’s best homicide detectives, Rick Pallister and David Keon, watched them cross the floor. Jordan read Pallister’s lips as he whispered to his partner: ‘Feds.’

  Chris spoke to the men. “Care to bring us up to speed, guys?” Keon crossed his arms. Pallister turned away. The detectives remained closed, stoic.

  “Let me guess,” Jordan said. “You two must be the welcoming committee.”

  A voice boomed from across the room, gruff, deep and none too happy with what he was seeing. “Is there a problem here?”

  Pallister turned around. “No, sir.”

  Keon shook his head. “We’re good.”

  The big man crossed the floor. Jordan and Chris’ New York bureau liaison, FBI Special Agent Max Penner, slapped Pallister on the shoulder and tightened his grip in a not-so-friendly manner. “I didn’t think so,” Penner said. Pallister tried not to wince under Penner’s iron grasp. No luck. Penner’s hand engulfed the detective’s shoulder. At six-foot-two, the agent appeared to be carved from a slab of muscle and bone. The sleeve-tattoos on his arm peeked out from under the French cuff of his crisp white dress shirt. The garment strained as he flexed his powerful shoulders.

  “I expect you’ll be extending every courtesy to my new friends here. Or would you prefer I take the matter of your disinterest to cooperate up with your boss?” Penner was referring to Police Commissioner Haley.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Keon said. He shook hands with Jordan and Chris. “Welcome to the jungle, agents. I hope you’ve had your shots.”

  Pallister qualified Keon’s remark. “You’ll understand what Detective Keon means by that after you’ve had a closer look at the board. Whoever the Scroll Killer is one thing is certain. He, or she, is a goddamn animal.”

  “Give me the room,” Agent Penner said. “I’ll fill in Agents Quest and Hanover. You two head downstairs. Bring up everything we’ve got on SK. I want Agent Quest to look over all the evidence we’ve collected and give me her opinion.”

  Keon spoke. “What do we look like, Penner? Your…”

  Pallister cut off his partner mid-sentence. “We’ll be happy to,” he said. “It’s our pleasure to assist the FBI any way that we can.”

  “Right answer,” Penner replied.

  Penner watched the detectives walk away. Keon muttered to himself. Pallister opted to say nothing, kept walking.

  “You have no idea how much I dislike that little prime-time prick,” Penner said.

  “Keon?” Chris asked.

  Penner nodded. “Guy’s been a royal pain in my ass since the Bureau got involved with the case. Guess he figured he would make his career on this one. Ask me, he’s done nothing but spin his wheels. The man needs to be reminded he works for the victim. I’ve never met such a goddamn glory hound. If there’s a television camera within a block of the scene you can bet your ass it’ll be his mug you’ll see on the six o’clock news. Probably carries a makeup kit with him wherever he goes. Moron.”

  Chris laughed. “Tell me how you really feel, Agent Penner.”

  Penner smiled. “Call me Max. Sorry, I don’t tolerate bureaucrat bullshit or case jumpers very well,” he admitted. “Two years in deep cover will do that to you. I thought I’d seen it all with bike gangs. But Scroll takes the cake. Keon was right. He is one sick sonofabitch.” He pointed to the board. “See for yourself.”

  Penner directed Jordan and Chris’ attention to a large tack board which ran the full width of the Scroll Killer Task Force room. Crime scene photos depicting the remains of twenty victims were taped to the board, organized in chronological order, starting from the date the first body had been found.

  “Anything strike you as unusual?” Penner asked.

  Jordan nodded. “No notes, no stickies… not a single thing to show that progress is being made on the case.”

  “Precisely,” Penner said. “Every single victim was killed in a different manner and a different means was employed to do so. The only common connections are the damn scrolls found with the bodies. Beyond that, victimology is all over the map. W
e can’t find one cohesive connection that marries one vic to another. We’re up to twenty so far. All appear to be unrelated. This guy doesn’t even have a particular type. He’s not just targeting blondes or brunettes, married or single. We’ve got Caucasian, African American, Latino, Asian, soccer moms, hookers, businesswomen, slim, heavy. Ironically, the only thing that stands out is how uniquely different each murder is to the next. If it were not for the scrolls being left at every murder scene, I’d say we were looking for twenty different killers.”

  “A team of serial killers… all working together? That would be insane,” Chris said.

  “Aptly put,” Penner stated. He stepped back from the board, reviewed the wall. “In my twenty years on the job I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “No men,” Jordan said.

  “Say what?” Penner asked.

  “There are no male victims, nor couples. Just women. Considering the inconsistencies that could be significant.”

  “Agreed,” Penner said.

  The elevator doors opened. Pallister and Keon returned, each pushing a supply cart full of file boxes marked ‘SK EVIDENCE.’

  “Here you go, your highness,” Keon said to Agent Penner. “Twenty boxes. One for each vic.” He turned to Jordan and Chris. “Knock yourselves out.”

  Jordan immediately zeroed in on the aura surrounding one particular box on Pallister’s cart.

  The evidence label read, “Courtney Valentine.”

  “This one,” she said. “This is where we start.”

  She pulled the box off the cart, placed it on a desk, broke the evidence seal, and removed the lid.

  The psychic impression she received from its contents struck her hard.

  “This was bad,” Jordan said. “Real bad.”

  130

  ON WAKING, LACEY Chastain’s mind processed her predicament within seconds, then manifested the appropriate response with a scream.

  She struggled in the rope and pulley system which supported her, hands tied behind her back, feet bound, body swaying from side-to-side in a slow, steady arc. She saw the man sitting in the corner, an open leather-bound book in his lap, head slumped forward, fast asleep. Oddly, her cries did not startle him out of his deep slumber. He merely opened his eyes, blinked twice, lifted his head, smiled, and said, “Good morning, Lacey.”

  Lacey pulled and kicked at the ropes, then yelled at the top of her lungs. “Who the hell are you? Let me go, you sonofabitch!”

  Otto Schreiber stood, removed his wire-rimmed glasses, closed the book, placed it on the stool and calmly said, “Do it again.”

  “Do what?”

  “Yell.” He walked behind her and tested the security of the lifting rope secured to her wrist. “As loud as you want, for as long as you want.”

  Lacey cried out. The pain in her shoulder sockets was unimaginable. How long had she been unconscious, suspended there? All night?

  Schreiber circled her, then faced her. “You’re a student, Lacey. Am I right? Between dances and dates that is. How up are you on eighteenth century history? The Inquisition, in particular?”

  “I’m in no fucking mood for a history lesson, asshole,” Lacey spat out. She tried unsuccessfully to mask the fear in her voice. “Let me go!”

  Schreiber shrugged, then continued. He motioned at the contraption that bound her. “This device is called a strappado,” he said. “Let me show you how it works.”

  He pulled down hard on the lifting rope behind her back. Lacey felt her feet pull out from under her. Her body fell forward, dropped hard, her shoulders bearing her full weight. The pain was immediate, agonizing, extreme, white-hot. She danced with darkness but remained conscious.

  “This was the preferred method of torture of the day,” Schreiber said, “used to elicit a confession from the accused. Do you have something you need to confess, Lacey? A crime you have committed, perhaps? A secret you need to reveal?”

  Lacey watched a fine strand of spittle leave her mouth, travel down, and touch the floor. “What are you talking about? I have no secrets.”

  “Oh, come now,” Schreiber said. “We all have something hidden away. A dark memory from our past, something we’ve said or done that we wish we could take back.”

  “You mean like getting into the car with you?”

  Schreiber pulled hard on the rope. With an audible click, Lacey heard her arms dislocate from their sockets. This time the pain proved too much to bear. She offered no scream, no cry, no plea for mercy. Darkness enveloped her.

  Lacey fainted.

  Schreiber stared at the young woman for a while, head fallen, spit-string anchoring her head to the floor. He took a moment to revel in her exquisite beauty.

  He had made a perfect choice.

  She would make a perfect wife.

  There would be festivities, a celebration, bridesmaids. As always, the streets would provide.

  He called out. “I’d like you all to meet Lacey, my future wife. You will do whatever she says, act on her every whim. Is that understood?”

  An attack of voices assaulted him from the surrounding cells that ran the length of the dungeon.

  “Stop hurting her!”

  “Leave her alone, you bastard!”

  “Let the rest of the girls go. Take me instead.”

  “Why are you doing this to us?”

  “You have no right!”

  “Burn in hell, you psychopath!”

  “Please, let me go. I want to go home.”

  “She’d rather die than marry you!”

  “Freak!”

  “SILENCE!” Schreiber called out. One woman cried softly. Another chastised her, told her to pull herself together. The whimpering ceased.

  The woman on the operating table moaned.

  The sedative was wearing off.

  Schreiber tended to her open wound and evaluated the sample layer of skin he had earlier sectioned from her body. The thickness was exact, the size ideal.

  He retrieved the book from the stool and placed the skin between its pages.

  When dry it would make an excellent writing surface.

  Paper scrolls no longer interested him. Human flesh would make the delivery of his messages much more compelling to read.

  Schreiber spoke to his captives. “Let this be a lesson to you all. I will not be disobeyed. A price will be paid for insubordination.”

  He listened, awaited a reply.

  The chamber had fallen mouse quiet.

  131

  JORDAN SHUDDERED AS the psychic vision that was the abduction and horrific murder of Courtney Valentine played out in her mind.

  The young pediatric nurse, having finished her shift at St. Christopher’s Hospital, had been driving home from downtown Brooklyn when her nearly new four-wheel drive suddenly began to cough and sputter, forcing her to pull on to a service road leading into an apartment complex under construction. It had been a harrowing day for Courtney from the moment she had walked through the doors of the neonatal intensive care unit and into the ward. She and her team had spent the afternoon fighting to save the life of young Thomas Masterson, the three-day-old son of United States Senator Allan Masterson and his wife, Tracey. Thomas, the Masterson’s only surviving triplet, had been born with spina bifida. His younger siblings, brother Caleb and sister Ann, also born physically challenged, were not as strong as their older brother and took their final breaths fifteen-minutes apart after entering the world. Angry at God for claiming their two precious children, the Masterson’s placed what little faith they had left in the Divine and begged for a miracle that would save Thomas’ life. The child succumbed to the insidious disease. The Masterson’s were inconsolable and took no solace from the nursing staff when talk turned to their children serving a higher purpose than what was intended for them in this world. Tracey Masterson had to be removed from the unit by security personnel. No one blamed her for her sudden and complete mental and emotional breakdown, but her attempt to leave the hospital with her three dead ch
ildren bundled haplessly in her arms could not be permitted. Hearing of the incident, Courtney and her team took turns excusing themselves to the staff room and crying until they could cry no more, then collected themselves and returned to the ward, ready to save the life of the next precious child that demanded their attention. Never had Courtney been more ready to end a day than she was at that moment.

  Cursing the vehicle malfunction when all she wanted to do was to drive home, pour herself a glass of cabernet sauvignon and draw a steaming hot bath, she popped the hood, stepped out of the car, and examined the engine, having absolutely no clue as to the source of the problem or how to fix it. She was grateful when, moments later, a silver Bentley limousine pulled in behind her, turned on its four-way flashers and the driver stepped out and asked if he could be of assistance.

  Jordan turned Courtney’s bloodied and shredded nursing smock in her hands. In doing so, the scene changed. The man had insisted that Courtney wait in the back of the limo while he inspected her vehicle, said it was he least he could do to make the end of her day more comfortable, and that she should help herself to the open bar. Guard down, overcome by the emotional trauma of the day, Courtney readily accepted. It surprised her how quickly she became impaired by the small amount of alcohol she had consumed. When the man returned to the limo she had already passed out. Which is what he had expected. He had laced the alcohol with his special concoction of potent drugs. Unconscious, he pulled her out of the back seat of the car and dragged her behind the blowing plastic sheets in the apartment complex that separated one unfinished room from the next, then turned on a concrete-cutting circular saw and cut her body into pieces.