Intruders (A Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Book 1)

by Gary Winston Brown

  Vehicles occupying the center and slow traffic lanes had pulled off the Interstate when the luxury jet came smashing through the safety barrier and screeching to rest against the center lane guardrail. Now a tractor trailer, its load too heavy to stop, was barreling down the open highway toward the downed aircraft. From the open door, Rock watched the driver fighting with the steering wheel, trying to regain control of the eighteen-wheeler, attempting to bring the big rig to a stop. Its wheels fully locked, sliding across the rain-slicked pavement, the transport began to turn. The rig shuddered and screeched as it bore down on the doomed jet.

  “Get down, Jordan!” Rock yelled.

  With its course inevitably set beyond any opportunity to correct itself and avoid crashing into the jet, the massive rig closed in on the dead aircraft. Jordan fell to the ground. She felt a whoosh of hot air overhead as the transport jackknifed, its undercarriage passing over her. It fell on the jet, crushing it, pushing it down the highway… a raging fireball.

  Jordan clambered to her feet, bewildered by the incomprehensible series of events that had just taken place. Mind and body succumbed to shattering panic. She screamed, “Nooooo!” and stumbled toward the cremating mass of truck and aircraft. She found herself caught in a struggle with strangers. Unfamiliar voices surrounded her.

  “Stop, you can’t go there…”

  “Jesus Christ, did you see that?”

  “Someone get her a blanket…”

  “Call 9-1-1. This woman needs medical assistance…”

  One voice stood out among the others. “What’s your name, honey?” the woman said.

  “Quest… Jordan Quest.”

  “Okay, Jordan,” the woman said. “You just take it easy. An ambulance is on its…”

  The woman’s voice trailed off against the sound of distant sirens as Jordan fainted in her arms.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE ER team burst through the standby doors as the LifeAir helicopter touched down on the rooftop of Angel of Mercy Hospital and raced to meet the paramedics. The Burn Unit had been kept up to date on the status of their inbound patient.

  “Talk to me,” Dr. Scott Lyons yelled above the swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of the slowing rotor blades as the team transferred their patient from the helicopter to the gurney and rushed back into the health center.

  “Jet fuel burns to ninety percent of his body,” the paramedic replied. “This guy shouldn’t even be alive.”

  The man’s face was burned beyond recognition. Shreds of clothing had melted into his skin. The soles of his running shoes had vulcanized to his feet from the intensity of the white-hot fire that erupted when the eighteen-wheeler collided with the jet.

  “Respiration?” Lyons asked.

  “We kept him on oxygen but he’s barely breathing. My guess is cellular hypoxia from the jet fuel smoke. He’d been breathing carbon monoxide and hydrogen cyanide for God knows how long before we touched down.”

  The man’s physical injuries compounded his already grave condition. The radius and ulna of his right arm were broken, as too his left femur. Splintered bone protruded from his body, held in place by a gluey mass of melted fabric and congealed skin. His fingers were skeletonized, nails on both hands gone.

  “You check for ID?”

  “Couldn’t. Clothing’s charred to the body.” The paramedic shook his head. “I’ve attended my share of burn victims, Doc. But nothing as bad as this. Poor bastard.”

  “Any other survivors?”

  “One. A woman. She was thrown clear of the jet before it was hit by the transport.”

  “Transport?”

  “It’s all over the news.”

  “Where is she?”

  “En route as we speak.”

  “Name?”

  “A witness said her name is Jordan Quest.”

  Lyons turned to one of the nurses. “Notify me the minute she arrives. He looked at his patient. Maybe she can tell us what happened. And who this is.”

  “Yes, doctor,” the nurse replied.

  The team wheeled the gurney into the surgical suite. Lyons turned to the paramedic. “You were right.”

  “What’s that, Doc?”

  “Poor bastard.”

  The ambulance screamed to a stop at the Emergency entrance to the hospital. The rear doors crashed open and Jordan was wheeled past the triage desk into a waiting suite. The nursing team went straight to work, cuffing her arm, checking her blood pressure, clipping a heart rate monitor to her finger, placing her on supplemental oxygen.

  Dr. Lyons entered the room. “Ms. Quest, my name is Dr. Lyons. Can you hear me?”

  Lyons removed a penlight from his pocket, opened her eyes, checked Jordan’s pupillary response.

  “Pupils are dilated and unresponsive,” Lyons said. “She’s in shock.” He instructed the nurse. “Draw blood. Send it to the lab right away. And check her sugar. Let’s be sure we’re not dealing with anything else.”

  “Right away,” the nurse replied.

  “Come on, Jordan,” Dr. Lyons said, as much to himself as to his new patient, “Help me help you.” He walked to the foot of the bed, scraped his penlight up the soles of both feet, checked her reflexes: Neutral. To the nurse he said, “Page me when her tests are back.”

  Jordan saw herself in Maui, lying on the beach at her parent’s vacation home. Emma and Aiden played in the surf at the water’s edge. Keith was chasing after them, water gun in hand, first after his daughter, then his son, spraying them as they ran. Emma screamed with delight. Aiden laughed. In the distance she saw her parents returning from their ritualistic hour-long walk, holding hands, kicking water at one another, acting like a couple of teenagers, just as they had for as long as she could remember. Rock strolled behind them, keeping watch from a distance, glancing inland, vigilant.

  The day was perfect. Sunny and hot. A gentle breeze. Not a cloud in sight.

  She returned her attention to her iPad. She had started to read a wonderful review of a new book from a promising up-and-coming author when suddenly the heavens rumbled, the sky turned crimson, and everything around her began to bleed.

  Jordan rose from the lounge chair and walked toward the ocean. The water washing over her feet burned her skin. She stepped back. Though the waves lapping gently against the shoreline and the water itself presented no unnatural appearance, it clearly wasn’t water. Jordan examined the sea foam on the beach, watched the bubbles as they broke. A hissing sound preceded the pop of each bubble. Blood flowed out of them. The wet sand crackled.

  She called out to Keith, tried to warn him of the unknown danger, to tell him to get the children out of the water. The heavenly growl grew louder, like the threating sound of a fast-approaching thunderstorm. One ferocious thunderclap followed the last with greater anger.

  Oblivious both to her and the impending storm, Keith and the children continued to play. Red rain fell, plopping down from the sky in thick viscous drops, smearing Jordan’s skin when she tried to wipe them away. Blood.

  Jordan looked up. In the sky, where the sun should have been, a white dot appeared. The object, whatever it was, was hurtling toward them at meteoric speed. Jordan ran along the beach, calling out to Keith, Emma and Aiden, her parents, Rock. Her cries went unheard. Her family were oblivious to the object racing earthbound at terminal velocity and the strange environmental changes taking place around them.

  The roar of the object had become deafening. Jordan fell to the ground, looked up, watched as it descended, then recognized it too late for what it was.

  Her father’s corporate jet, fully engulfed, slammed into the sandy beach and exploded on impact. Flames leapt from the wreckage, then morphed into snake-like form and stood beside the smoking mass of debris, sentries of burning jet fuel, possessed by an otherworldly intelligence. The flames raced along the beach toward, around and past her, as though she was exempt from their rules of engagement; a civilian, not one of the specific targets they sought. Instead they found her husband, her children, her pa
rents, found Rock, and swarmed them, melting them to the ground on which they stood with a heat so intense they liquified right before her eyes.

  An emotional fire burned within Jordan so hot that she had no choice but to feed it, let it out.

  She screamed.

  CHAPTER 11

  SPECIAL AGENT’S Chris Hanover, Grant Carnevale, and FBI Director Andrew Dunn rushed into Jordan’s room upon hearing the scream and found her thrashing in bed. Carnevale grabbed his goddaughter by her arms and held her down. Hanover and Dunn stood at her bedside.

  “Jordan, honey. Settle down. It’s Uncle Grant. You’re having a dream.”

  Jordan opened her eyes. The nightmare inferno of her father’s corporate jet plummeting from the sky and crashing onto the Maui beach, incinerating her family, quickly faded. It was replaced by unfamiliar faces and surroundings. She searched the hospital room in a panic, looked up, and recognized her godfather. Sweat soaked and breathing heavily, she fell back into bed.

  “Uncle Grant?”

  “I’m right here, honey.”

  “Where am I?

  “You’re in hospital, Jordan.”

  Jordan stared at her godfather. “Hospital? How did I get here?”

  “There was an accident, Jordan. Do you remember anything?”

  Jordan hesitated, focused, then answered. “Something happened to the jet.”

  Carnevale nodded. He held her hand. “You’ve been in a crash. But your doctor says you're going to be fine.”

  “Is everyone okay? Mom and Dad… Keith?”

  Carnevale’s mouth went dry. He tried to look away from his goddaughter, couldn’t. “I’m sorry, Jordan.”

  Jordan gripped the bedrail, tried to pull herself up. “What do you mean, sorry?” she said. A tremendous pain seized her left arm. She lost her grip on the rail and fell back into bed. Jordan looked at her arm. It was wrapped, shoulder to wrist, in white medical gauze. An immobilizer brace had been secured her left hand to eliminate wrist movement and protect the damaged tendons from unnecessary strain.

  “Where’s my family?”

  Director Dunn placed his hand on Carnevale’s shoulder. “We’ll be outside, Grant,” he said. Hanover closed the door behind him as the two men left the room.

  Carnevale watched the door fall shut. The circumstances seemed so surreal, the news he had to deliver to his goddaughter unfathomable. Could this really be happening?

  “They’re gone, Jordan. Your mother and father, Rock, the flight crew… they didn't make it.”

  “No.”

  “If the transport hadn’t hit the jet…”

  “God, no…”

  “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  Jordan was unsure whether to scream or cry.

  “It's a lot to process right now…”

  No, this was not the time to cry. She would deal with her emotions later. The faces of her children flashed though her mind. “Where’s Keith?”

  Carnevale didn’t reply.

  “You said my parents and Rock and the crew were dead. You said nothing about Keith. Is my husband dead or alive, Uncle Grant?”

  “He’s alive, Jordan.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Here.”

  “You mean here, as in this hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  Jordan fought against the pain in her wounded wrist once more, tried to lift herself out of bed, couldn’t. She searched the plastic guardrail for the electronic lowering mechanism. When she couldn’t find it, she kicked at the barrier, tried to knock it loose.

  “Settle down, Jordan. You're only going to make your injuries worse.”

  “Get me out of here, Uncle Grant. Take me to Keith. I want to see my husband.”

  “Jordan, please.”

  “Now!”

  “You can’t, honey.”

  “Why not?”

  Carnevale paused. “Keith is on life support.”

  The words stopped her. “Life support?”

  Carnevale nodded. “He’d been exposed to the fire and the fumes for some time before the paramedics could extricate him from the wreckage. The damage to his body is… extensive.”

  “Is he going to make it?”

  “We don’t know. His doctor says it’s touch and go.”

  “I have to see him.”

  Carnevale conceded. “I know.”

  “Where is he?”

  “The burn unit.” He sighed. “He’s not good, Jordan. Not at all.”

  “Take me there.”

  “Honey…”

  “I want to see my husband.”

  “Let’s check with your doctor first. See what he has to say.”

  “I don’t give a damn what any doctor has to say!” Jordan yelled. Her voice trembled, her eyes wide with fear. “Either help me out of bed or get me someone who will.”

  Carnevale called out. “Agent Hanover?”

  Chris Hanover pushed open the door and entered the room. “Yes?”

  “Tell Dr. Lyons we’re going to the burn center. Mrs. Quest wants to see her husband.”

  Hanover nodded. “Right away.”

  “You sure you’re up to this, Jordan?” Carnevale asked.

  “No,” Jordan replied. “But I have to be.”

  CHAPTER 12

  KOST 103.5, KIIS-FM 102.7, and every other radio station James Rigel tuned in on his drive from the Arizona border to Los Angeles were reporting on the story of the hour: the unfathomable aviation disaster that had befallen a private jet during its take-off from LAX.

  Speculation abounded as to the cause of the crash which brought down the aircraft and the inevitable collision that followed when it broke through the steel safety barrier at the end of the runway, slid across the highway, and came to rest in the path of a fully loaded eighteen-wheeler. Mechanical malfunction or pilot error were the most widely offered theories for the tragedy, though none of the bystanders knew exactly what had happened, except that the passengers of the ill-fated jet had lost their lives under truly horrific circumstances.

  But the most widely reported account relating to the crash was the miraculous survival of a woman who escaped the aircraft seconds after it came to rest against the interstate divider. They had watched as she stood in the middle of the highway, staring helplessly at the jet, oblivious to their cries for her to get to safety, her back to the immense rig barreling towards her at highway speed, a victim itself to the immutable laws of physics and inertia, unable to slow under the weight of its load, brakes hissing, tires stuttering as it tried to stop, couldn’t, then jackknifed, with her directly in its path. They watched her throw herself to the ground as the out-of-control rig rocketed over her at full highway speed, slammed into the helpless jet, and drove it down the highway in a fiery explosion. They saw her rise to her feet then run toward the roiling inferno until she was intercepted, caught in the arms of Good Samaritans who held her back and escorted her to safety seconds before the gas tank of the eighteen-wheeler erupted, the explosion so intense that the windows of adjacent passenger cars, abandoned by their owners as they ran to safety, exploded from the heat of the blast.

  Half an hour later as he approached the city limits, KIIS-FM announced the name of the woman found on the highway: Jordan Quest. The doomed aircraft had belonged to her father: tech billionaire Michael Farrow. Although representatives for Farrow Industries refused to confirm or deny if their founder or any members of his immediate family were among the dead the rumor mill had already begun to turn. Reports of a second victim, medical status unknown, had been removed from the wreckage and transported by air ambulance to Angel of Mercy Hospital in Los Angeles.

  Rigel pulled off the highway. He needed to think. Was Farrow already dead? The contract! New York had already deposited five million into his account, with a second five million payable upon its completion. If Farrow was dead, they would know about it by now. Every broadcaster and social media feed in the country, perhaps even the world, was breaking the story at this moment.

&
nbsp; He thought about the money. The first five million was guaranteed. That was non-negotiable. But the question that concerned him most right now was whether he would lose the balance of payment.

  A text notification dinged on his cellphone. He read the screen: CALL IN.

  Dammit!

  New York had made the terms of the contract clear: Farrow and his family were to be taken out. There were to be no survivors. The specifics of how it was to be done had been left up to him. He assessed the facts. As far as anyone knew right now, Michael Farrow might not have been on the jet when it crashed. He was a billionaire, for God’s sake. Perhaps he had given his daughter the use of the aircraft for a personal trip. Maybe Farrow himself was alive. He had five million reasons to think positively about the situation.

  Rigel had always prided himself on his ability to maintain an optimistic disposition, even under the most difficult circumstances. Beyond his exemplary skill at killing, which he had proven repeatedly, he believed his affable nature was one of the reasons why New York enjoyed their relationship with him as much as they did, and why he remained in such high demand. Had he not chosen to pursue a career as a professional killer he would have made an excellent movie actor, perhaps sharing the screen with the likes of Morgan Freeman and Sir Anthony Hopkins. He had so much to offer, so much life experience he could to bring to his roles. One day he would give all of this up and star in motion pictures. But for now, he was having too much fun doing what he loved to do most. Which was to kill.

  The phone dinged again, a second message received: URGENT YOU REPLY.

  He turned off the phone and tossed it in the cup holder between the seats. He decided to continue to Los Angeles and investigate Farrow’s status firsthand. If he were still alive he wouldn’t be much longer.

  The radio announced an update on the tragedy: “The names of two of the survivors of today’s catastrophic plane crash at Los Angeles Airport have been released. The first is Jordan Quest, celebrated attorney, psychic, and daughter of computer technology magnate Michael Farrow. The second, her husband, Keith Quest. Mr. Quest was airlifted from the scene to Angel of Mercy Hospital. He is reported to be in critical condition with life-threatening injuries.”