Intruders (A Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Book 1)

by Gary Winston Brown

  “I heard you the first time.”

  The caller hung up.

  Tasker scrolled through the pictures attached to the electronic dossier. The family stood beside a private jet on the tarmac at Maui’s Kahului Airport terminal building. The aircraft looked familiar. He noted its tail number, HN-3RN, and realized he was standing under the jet.

  “I’ll be damned.” He read the list of names whose immediate termination had now been entrusted to him: Michael Farrow. Mary Farrow. Jordan Quest. Keith Quest. Emma Quest (child). Aiden Quest (child).

  He recognized the name. Anyone who was even slightly informed about advancements in computer technology knew the name Michael Farrow. The next two names were unfamiliar to him until he read the familial relationship: Jordan Quest was Farrow’s daughter, Keith Quest her husband. The last two names were those of the Quests kids. Killing children always bothered him, but in his line of work emotional involvement was right up there on the list with second thoughts. Neither were a luxury he could afford. Attachments of any kind led to hesitation, and hesitation led to someone dying. He preferred it not be him.

  He opened the second dossier, that of the contractor, and studied the man’s face. Though he knew of him by reputation there had always been something about the man he never liked. Something disturbing even to someone in his line of work. Something… off.

  No matter. Within a day or two he’d be taken out and no longer of concern to anyone.

  He checked his watch. An hour had passed. It was time to leave. It would be just like the smartass desk clerk to return the mechanics to the hangar early even though he’d specifically told him he was not to be disturbed.

  For a moment Tasker welcomed an intrusion by the irritating clerk. The weapon under his jacket was equipped with a silencer. No one would hear the gunshot.

  The thought made him smile. The trunk of the fire captain’s car was generous enough to accommodate two bodies, not just one.

  He could make room.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE WINE… something in the wine…

  Shannon Dunn tried to push back the mental fog that had rolled in, obscured her ability to concentrate, and left her memory of the past week as scrambled as the mismatched sides of a Rubik’s Cube; pieces of a puzzle, twisted, turned, parts of a whole, yet incomplete.

  Her last memory was watching Zoe collapse. They had been in Los Angeles for only an hour, unpacked their clothes and put away the few basic groceries they had purchased en route to the condo (milk, eggs, bread, corn chips, a six-pack of Dos Equis beer). She noticed the bottle of wine and accompanying card sitting on the dining room table. Zoe read the note aloud, reminded her sister how fortunate they were to have such a thoughtful father, then picked up the bottle of Lotus California Cabernet Sauvignon and paraded it around the room with theatrical vigor, extolling the wines ‘fruity undertones, with just the right hint of spice,’ and how it would -in the absence of expertly prepared filet mignon- pair perfectly with Spicy Nacho Doritos.

  She remembered pouring the wine and their toast to Harvard. Minutes later she felt lightheaded. Her body had become tremendously heavy. The room had begun to spin. Walls wrapped around her. Her peripheral vision narrowed, faded to black, and caused the room to morph into a tunnel. The strange change in her equilibrium caused the condominium floor to rise and fall as though she were on the deck of a ship being tossed about in foul weather, trying to maintain balance. Before consciousness finally left her and she fell to the floor, she called out for Zoe.

  Shannon recalled another side of the jumbled memory cube before riding the swell into darkness: The lobby communication panel had chimed three times, with long pauses between each ring. Minutes later, two figures let themselves into the condo. Both wore reflective vests, work boots, and gloves. They wheeled two large gray bins into the room, dropped two heavy duty vinyl bags on the floor, one beside her, the other beside her sister. They unrolled the bags and pulled down their full-length metal zipper. Even in her impaired state Shannon recognized what it was: a body bag, used to transport the dead. One of the men rolled her into it, then pulled the zipper up past her face.

  She recalled being picked up by the men, dropped unceremoniously into the maintenance bin, and rolled out of the condominium. The ding, ding, ding sound of the elevator as it traveled from the tenth floor down to the basement. The jostling around of her body in the bin as the container rumbled over a rough concrete surface and down a ramp. The beep… beep… beep of a truck’s warning system as it backed up, the high-pitched squeal of its brakes as it came to a stop, and the hissss of its hydraulics as the driver shifted it into Park. All the while, Shannon tread water on the ink-black surface of unconsciousness, fighting the urge to surrender to the incapacitating effect of whatever drug was coursing through her bloodstream, desperate not to sink deeper into a place from which she might never resurface. That they had both been drugged and targeted for abduction was clear. But why, and by whom?

  A putrid smell seeped out of the back of the truck. Even in her semi-conscious state Shannon felt the gorge rise in her throat. She fought back the urge to vomit, knowing that if she did she would choke to death on the bitter bile inside the body bag. The man lifted her out of the container, then rolled her into the rear hopper of the truck. She lay on her side in the trash collection basin, surrounded by the stomach-churning smell of rotten food and the stench of diesel fumes, when she heard a sickening thud. Zoe fell in beside her. She heard her sister moan. Bags of garbage were thrown on top of them. The brakes released, and the truck shuddered as it jumped into gear. They were moving.

  Shannon passed out. When her senses returned, her body ached from head to toe. She had no idea how long they had been in the back of the garbage truck, how far they had traveled, or where they were. All she knew was that she was still alive.

  She woke in the corner of a room, lying on a bed of straw, wearing only her bra and panties, and covered with a poncho. Her shoes, jeans and blouse sat on a stool in the corner of the room. Steel shackles separated by a chain link bound her wrists. A plastic-coated steel cable, fashioned into a noose, was fitted around her neck, and secured to a metal O-ring in the wooden ceiling. A ceramic heater glowed and provided heat to the damp, musty space.

  Shannon pressed her back against the wooden wall and struggled to her feet.

  The cable was sufficiently slack to permit her to walk the perimeter of the room. She recognized her prison: a horse stall. In one corner stood a compostable toilet. The rear and side walls of the stall were made of wood, the front wall a composite framework of vertical steel bars above horizontal wooden planks. The latched gate was locked.

  The toilet reeked of feces and urine. Hers?

  Shannon called out. “Zoe? You there? Can you hear me?”

  In the stable a horse responded with a loud whinny.

  “Zoe?”

  Her sister answered from a stall across the hallway “Yeah, Shay. I’m here. You okay?”

  “I guess so,” Shannon replied. “They give you water yet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Food?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “Any idea where the hell we are?”

  “None,” Zoe said.

  “We need to get out of here.”

  “You think?”

  “I don’t want to die here, Zoe.”

  “Neither do I. And I’m sure as shit going to make sure you don’t either.”

  “You think anyone’s looking for us?”

  “Maybe… maybe not.”

  “Dad hasn’t heard from us for a while. He’ll suspect something’s wrong.”

  Zoe didn’t reply.

  Movement at the end of the barn. The clop-clop-clop of boots on the rubber mat. The horses stirred and snorted. Meal time.

  Shannon gasped at the sight of their captor. He stared at her from outside the stall, unrecognizable in his red, green, and blue polka-dotted costume and knee-high yellow boots. A clown
mask covered his head; a wild-eyed, evil-looking prosthetic with bushy red hair, long protruding jaw, and wickedly sharp teeth. In his hands he carried two buckets, one filled with soapy water, the other with cans of liquid meal replacement and bottles of water.

  The Clown didn’t speak. He gestured to Shannon that she was to move to the far corner of her stall.

  Shannon hesitated, then stepped back. The Clown unlocked the gate, entered, threw the bucket of soapy water over her, then tossed two cans of meal replacement and a bottle of water at her feet.

  “Fuck you!” Shannon yelled, wiping the water away from her face with her bound hands. She screamed. “What do you want from us?”

  The Clown raised a finger to his lips. Shhhhh.

  “Why are you keeping us here?” Shannon asked.

  He wagged his finger and shook his head. A warning. He removed a rubber-gripped metal rod from inside his boot.

  “No,” Shannon pleaded. Her voice cracked. She slid down the wall as the Clown walked toward her. “Please,” she said. “No…”

  The Clown lifted the chain links between her shackles with the metal rod, cocked his head, and pressed the trigger.

  One-hundred-thousand volts of electricity, conducted on the wet chain, shot out of the stun stick and surged through Shannon’s body.

  A chattering scream escaped her, then faded.

  The darkness returned.

  CHAPTER 9

  ROCK PARKED the limousine in the Executive Air gated lot and opened the door for Jordan. During the drive from the conference center to the airport a light drizzle had christened Los Angeles. The tarmac glistened with beads of oily raindrops. Wisps of steam ascended from its hot black surface and drifted lazily across the private runway. Ahead, the engines of Michael Farrow’s private jet whined softly.

  Rock and Jordan cleared the security counter, gathered their bags, and walked across the tarmac to the jet. Jordan’s mother and father greeted her at foot of the stairway. Keith kissed her.

  “Shortcake!” Michael Farrow said to his daughter. “How’s my gorgeous girl?”

  “Hi dad,” Jordan replied.

  “Too bad the kids couldn’t come along,” her mother said. “They would have loved Maui.”

  “I know,” Jordan replied, “But the thought of being away from them for just one week is more than I can handle. Two months? I’d go out of my mind.”

  “You realize you’re denying us our grand-parental right to spoil them rotten,” Farrow said. “It’s in the handbook, you know.”

  “There’s a handbook?” Jordan laughed. “No, I didn’t know.”

  “The Farrow Guide to Privileged Grandparenting. Chapter 1: Hawaiian Vacations. I’ll get you a copy.”

  “You should get right on that.”

  “Would you prefer the print or eBook edition?”

  “You have a wild imagination.”

  “Hey, they’re kids. A couple of months on the island would do them good. There’s still time. I can send a car and hold the jet until they arrive.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Jordan said. “I’m sure they’d love it. But I can’t tuck them in when they’re twenty-five hundred miles away.”

  Her father winked. “There’s always Skype.”

  Jordan shook her head. “Maybe next year.”

  “Fair enough,” Farrow replied. “Keith tells me your tour wraps up next week.”

  Jordan nodded. “The first leg of it, anyway. One week on the road, then two weeks off to spend with Emma and Aiden. That was the agreement I made with my publisher.”

  Keith added, “After sixteen consecutive weeks on the New York Times and USA Today best seller lists they weren’t about to argue with her.”

  “They didn’t try to negotiate a better deal?” her father asked.

  “I have a three-book commitment. This is the last one. I told them I was giving serious thought to not re-signing and publishing the next book independently.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They told me to enjoy my time with the kids.”

  Michael laughed. He wrapped his arm around his daughter. “Sounds like you picked up a negotiation tip or two from your old man.”

  She smiled. “Could be.”

  Jordan admired the aircraft. The private jet was the epitome of luxury air transportation and positively stunning to behold. Its pearl-white fuselage gleamed in stark contrast to the bruised purple and orange twilight sky.

  “She looks beautiful,” Jordan said.

  “Your father just had her repainted, plus a full interior makeover,” her mother replied. She took her daughter by the arm “Come inside, check her out. She’ll blow your socks off.”

  Rock and Keith followed behind as the family boarded the jet. “Anyone else traveling with us today?” Jordan asked.

  “Just Rock,” her mother replied. “He’ll be staying on with us in Maui. And the crew, of course.”

  “Same gang?”

  Farrow answered. “Captain Sanders and First Officer Brentworth have the flight deck. Julie and Gayle will be taking care of us.”

  “They’re so sweet,” Jordan said.

  “Sure are. Flight attendants don’t come any better. I told them you were coming. They’ll be disappointed that the kids won’t be joining us.”

  “I sense a conspiracy,” Jordan joked.

  Farrow laughed. “Nothing like that, Shortcake. They just think the world of them. We all do.”

  “Next time. I promise.”

  “Good. I’ll hold you to it.”

  Captain Sanders voice came over the intercom as Julie and Gayle closed and secured the door. “Afternoon, folks. We just got the thumbs up from the tower, so we’re good to go. We’ll be in the air in a few minutes so settle in and buckle up. Flight attendants prepare the aircraft for departure.”

  As Jordan took her seat a strange feeling came over her. She held Keith’s hand tightly.

  “Damn, girl,” Keith said. “You been working out or something? That’s one hell of a grip.”

  “Sorry, hon,” Jordan said. “Guess I’m a little nervous.”

  “Of flying? With all the traveling you’ve done this past year I’m surprised you haven’t gotten your pilots license and bought your own plane. Since when have you been afraid to fly?”

  “I’m not,” Jordan replied, thinking about her confrontation with Marsden at the convention center. “It’s nothing,” she lied. “It’s been a long day. I’m just tired.”

  The whine of the jets engines rose and fell as the aircraft taxied to its assigned runway. The setting sun serrated the horizon in a bright orange glow. Jordan looked out her window at the row of private hangars. Aircraft mechanics were working on a jet in Hangar A. Hangars C and D were vacant. Jordan watched the ground mechanics roll shut the doors to the Farrow Industries hangar. The jet executed a tight turn. Captain Sanders lined up the aircraft for takeoff.

  The turn cast the hangar in bright sunlight. Jordan shielded her eyes against the glare.

  Suddenly she remembered the pen Marsden had left behind. Segments from the strange vision she received when she read it on the drive to the airport flashed back to her.

  A brilliant, blinding light, narrowing to a column… the smell of aircraft paint… the figure alone in the hangar… the tool on the floor…

  The jet began to rocket down the runway, its engines screaming as the plane accelerated.

  “Something's wrong,” Jordan called out.

  Keith turned to her. “What are you taking about?”

  Jordan unbuckled her lap belt and jumped out of her seat. “It’s the jet!” she yelled. “Abort the takeoff! Something’s wrong with the jet!”

  Julie called out to her. “Jordan, get back in your seat!”

  Rock unfastened his seatbelt and hurried toward her, gripping the seat backs for support.

  A tremendous boom! rocked the underside of the jet.

  Captain Sanders yelled over the intercom: “Everyone down! Brace for impact!”

&nb
sp; As the aircraft fell, Rock lost his balance, fell back, and struck his head on the floor.

  The jet slammed down hard onto the runway. It slid off the tarmac, out of control, careening across the soft grass on the outskirts of the airport, ripping through the barrier fence and dragging it under its fuselage before coming to rest in the middle of the Interstate.

  Jordan had been thrown forward to the front of the plane. She lay at Julie’s feet outside the flight deck cabin door. The flight attendant stared at her through lifeless eyes. Her neck had been broken in the crash. Gayle sat in her seat, slumped forward, unconscious.

  The rancid stink of burning metal and blistering paint seeped into the cabin. Smoke crept up through invisible joints in the floor and sidewalls of the jet.

  Jordan called out. “Mom… Dad… Keith…?”

  No response.

  “Jordan?” Rock said. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so.”

  The bodyguard rose unsteadily to his feet and wiped away a trickle of blood from his forehead. “The jets on fire,” he said. Thick smoke began to pool on the cabin floor. “We’ve got to get out of here.” Rock moved past Jordan to the front door of the jet and pulled the emergency release. The door exploded off its hinges and fell onto the highway below. The escape ramp automatically deployed, folding itself out from the fuselage and onto the highway.

  “I’m not leaving without my family!” Jordan yelled.

  “I’ll take care of them,” Rock yelled. “You need to get off the aircraft.” He pulled Jordan up off the floor. “Go! Now!”

  Jordan fought back. “No!”

  “Sorry, Jordan,” Rock yelled, “but I have to do this.” He grabbed her by her shoulders and threw her out the open door. Jordan half slid, half tumbled down the escape ramp and rolled onto the highway. She rose to her feet, tried to run back up the slick vinyl ramp, slipped and fell. Rock stood in the doorway and waved her away. Blood from the laceration to his head flowed freely, obscuring his vision. He was having difficulty seeing her.

  “Get as far back you can. I’ll get everyone out. I promise… Oh Jesus!” Rock pointed past Jordan. “Get on the ground, Jordan! Now!”