Intruders (A Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Book 1)

by Gary Winston Brown

  Rigel loosened his grip enough to let the kid catch his breath. “0-6-0-4-0-1.”

  “Let me guess. Your birthday? Mom’s birthday? Parent’s anniversary?” Rigel asked.

  “My birthday.”

  “How original.” Rigel entered the six-digit code, watched the LOCK status indicator light turn from red to green, then turned the handle. The door clicked open.

  “Good job,” he said.

  Among the rifles standing in the safe was a Smith and Wesson M&P 15 .223 and Soviet SKS, both semi-automatic tactical weapons, a Remington 783 bolt-action rifle with scope, and several target rifles. The collection of handguns mounted inside the safe door included a Taurus PT111 9mm, Glock 19, Smith & Wesson Shield 45ACP, Ruger LC9S, Sig Sauer P238, and an Honor Guard 9mm. Boxes of ammunition were stored on the top shelf.

  “Your dad knows his guns,” Rigel said.

  “He should,” the kid said. “He’s a cop. LAPD.”

  “We can’t all be perfect,” Rigel replied. He removed the Glock 19 from its mount, checked the clip (full), slammed it back into the weapon, then raised the back of his jacket and tucked it into his waistband. He lifted the Smith and Wesson M&P 15 out of the safe, repeated the inspection protocol, and lay the rifle on the workbench beside the safe. “I’ll be needing these,” he said.

  The kid stared at the rifle.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Rigel warned. He palmed the Glock. “By the time your hand touches the stock I’ll have put two in your head.”

  Now more angry than afraid, the teen asked, “Who the hell are you? And who’s the guy upstairs?”

  “Who I am is none of your business,” Rigel said. “As for the guy upstairs… beats the hell out of me.”

  “You don’t know him?”

  “Never seen him before in my life. I’m thinking maybe road rage. Let this be a lesson to you. Drive safely. Watch your speed. And for God’s sake don’t piss anybody off. You never know who’s packing these days.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The floor creaked again, the sound closer to the top of the stairs.

  Rigel snatched the rifle off the workbench. His eyes had now adjusted to the near lightless basement. He noticed a door across the room. “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “That wasn’t the question.”

  “General crap. Christmas decorations, odds and ends, stuff like that.”

  “Does the door have a lock?”

  “Why?”

  “Does it lock?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Rigel grabbed the teen by his collar, pulled him across the floor to the room and opened the door. “Get in.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “Opinions differ.” He pushed the teen inside and held up the tactical rifle. “You ever fire this before?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Then you know how big a hole it’ll punch through the door and you if you make a sound.” He pointed his finger at the teenager. “By now I’m sure you’ve figured out I’m not the kind of guy who asks twice.”

  “I got that impression,” the kid answered.

  “Good boy.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Rigel smiled at the teen as he closed and locked the storage room door.

  Another creak. The gunman had reached the top of the stairs.

  Rigel considered his options. He was well armed. If the situation came down to a gun fight he was confident he’d be able to defend himself without difficulty. Besides, the gun safe behind him provided him with ready access to an arsenal of weapons and ammo if he should need it. But the fact remained that he was at a tactical disadvantage. Despite having the armory at his disposal, he was still trapped in the basement. He needed to find a way out of the house that didn’t include removal in a body bag.

  He remembered seeing a cast-iron reloading press anchored to the work bench when he scanned the room with the light of the phone. Being a cop, the boy’s father probably did a lot of field and range shooting to keep his reaction time quick and reflexes fast. The press meant the cop made his own ammo at home. Which also meant he kept the necessary shooting supplies on hand. Rigel had an idea. He returned to the open safe. On the top shelf found what he was looking for: a large container of smokeless gunpowder.

  Rigel placed the container on the workbench. With a few more supplies he would have everything he needed to create the perfect diversion. On the shelf above the bench he found several glass jars containing wood and metal screws, each labelled according to thread size and length. Additional jars were filled with nuts and bolts. A can of gunsmithing oil and two cleaning rags sat on the corner of the workbench beside the reloading press. On the opposite end of the bench lay a hammer and an open box of one-inch finishing nails.

  Rigel thought about his acting classes and how they had emphasized the importance of improvisation. When the circumstances called for it, one must be able to think on their feet and adapt to any situation. The overlap of his acting lessons and their application to his professional life never ceased to amaze him.

  He thought about the assassin upstairs. He too was a pro. Sloppier than Rigel, of course, but a professional nonetheless. He had been hired by someone to kill him. Only one answer made sense: New York. But why? He had the situation under control. The Farrow’s were already dead. Just the daughter and her family remained, and very soon they too would be resting in peace for eternity. There was more to the situation than he knew right now. He wanted answers badly, but even if he didn’t get them that would be fine. He knew the players in the New York syndicate and how to find them. If necessary, Zippy could be kept busy for a very long time.

  He grabbed the jars of wood and metal screws from the shelf, spilled their contents out over the workbench, removed and punched a hole in the metal lids with the claw end of the hammer, tore a cleaning rag into strips, soaked it in gunsmithing oil, fed each strip through the lid until it rested on the bottom of the jar, then packed the jars to the brim with screws and nails. Finally, he poured the gunpowder into each jar, shaking each one gently, watching the powder sift down, filling the gaps between the screws and nails. The jars now full, he screwed on the lids, leaving a six-inch strip of the wet cloth hanging from each container. He held the two makeshift bombs in his hands.

  He was ready.

  Across the room on a shelf stacked with camping supplies, Rigel found a spark lighter and a container of kerosene. He filled the remaining glass jars with the flammable liquid, fitted them with cloth wicks, and executed the final step in his plan.

  The window well was much larger than he first thought it to be when he had taken refuge in the room. The latch was a standard bolt-action design and secured the window to its frame from the inside. Rigel released the mechanism and slid the window back. The damp night air rushed in, bringing with it the familiar fragrance of geosmin. Rigel breathed it in. Magnificent. What a perfect evening it had turned out to be.

  Rigel returned to the workbench, picked up the Smith and Wesson tactical rifle, slid the work bench stool across the room, placed it under the window well to facilitate a fast exit, and slid the weapon out through the window onto the concrete walkway.

  Ready to face his attacker, Rigel called out. “You have got to be the worse fucking shot on the planet, asshole.”

  The door to the top of the stairs flew open. Rigel lit the wicks on each of the kerosene filled jars, threw them as hard as he could, and heard them shatter. Fire danced off the walls. An orange glow licked across the landing.

  Rigel waited.

  The assassin appeared in the doorway a second later. Rigel lit the wicks on the homemade bombs, threw them at the man, and dove for cover. Round after round spat out of the machine pistol, splintering the wooden stairs and basement handrail.

  Out of harm’s way, Rigel heard the explosions. Wasting no time, he climbed on the stool, crawled out the window, picked up the Smith & Wesson, and ran.

  Shards of glass, meta
l screws and nails flew at Tasker from all directions, embedding themselves in his face, hands, legs and chest.

  He fell to his knees on the fire-ravaged landing and dropped the Tec-9.

  He couldn’t stop screaming.

  CHAPTER 33

  RIGEL REACHED the backyard gate when he heard the assassin scream. The fire and nail bombs had created the perfect diversion, the attack crippling. The man could never have expected to find himself on the receiving end of such a well-calculated retaliation. His attempt to breach the landing behind a spray of bullets from the Tec-9 and take the basement by storm had proven to be a tactical error. Worse, it had put him in a position from which retreat was impossible. The damage inflicted upon him by the deadly combination of fire and shrapnel-filled bombs must have been severe. Which was exactly the point.

  Rigel opened the gate, unzipped his jacket, hid the rifle against his body, and walked past the bullet-riddled Jeep to the sidewalk.

  The sound of the explosions had been louder than anticipated. Neighbors had come out of their homes to investigate the noise. They stood huddled together in the rain, staring in horror as the fire began to spread throughout the house. The main floor hallway was now fully involved. Behind the rain-pelted windows flames climbed the walls, illuminating the interior of the home. Fire licked across the living room floor and rolled across the ceiling, hungrily consuming everything in its path. Thick black smoke billowed out from beneath the front door.

  Across the street, an old man and his wife shared an umbrella in the pouring rain. He watched Rigel walk past the house and called out. “What happened?”

  Rigel kept the barrel of the Smith & Wesson hidden behind his leg as he turned to reply. “No idea,” he lied. He pointed to the assassin’s Mustang GT parked a few doors down. “I was driving past the house and heard the explosion. Shook the damn car. Thought I’d have a look to see if I could help.”

  “And?”

  Rigel gestured at the house. “The place is cooked. I called 9-1-1.” Another lie. “Fire departments on the way.”

  Distracted by the arrival of another neighbor, the old man turned his attention away from Rigel. Rigel walked to the assassin’s car. The driver’s side window on which the machine pistols silencer rested when he had come under fire was down. Rain blew into the car, soaking the interior. Rigel checked the ignition; no key fob. He circled around to the passenger side of the vehicle, opened the door, rummaged through the glove box, found the vehicle registration, and read the name on the document: HARRISON TASKER, New York, NY.

  Who the hell was this guy? Why had he been sent to kill him? And the most important question of all: How had he been able to find him?

  Only two answers made sense. New York was behind this. But why? He had worked for the syndicate for most of his professional career. As to how he had been found only one answer made sense. He was being tracked. His car had been tampered with. A device of some kind had been placed inside or beneath the vehicle, broadcasting his location to Tasker. But the more he thought about it that didn’t make sense. His car was still half a block away. If the vehicle itself was being tracked Tasker would have found the car, waited for him to return to it, and then tried to kill him. But that wasn’t what had happened. Tasker had rolled up and opened fire on him when he was still on foot. They had to be tracking him by some other means. Of course, he thought. His smartphone. Whoever hired Tasker had hacked the phones operating system and was tracking his location in real time. Even if he was wrong, if some other technology was being used to locate him, he’d still need to lose the phone. If Tasker’s screams were any indication, the pursuit was already over and the man dead, consumed in the fire. Nevertheless, he wasn’t prepared to take any unnecessary chances. New York knew his reputation. After all, they had profited from it on numerous occasions. They would have assumed he would be hard to kill. If Tasker had been sent to kill him and failed, New York would soon know about it. Others would follow. The pursuit would continue until he was dead. The rules of the game were clear.

  Rigel removed the slip of paper from his pocket on which he had written the Laundry Services managers computer password for Angel of Mercy Hospital. He powered up the phone, entered the URL, logged into the hospitals computer network and followed the prompts.

  PATIENT LAST NAME: Q-U-E-S-T

  PATIENT FIRST NAME: J-O-R-D-A-N

  PROCESSING…

  STATUS: OBSERVATION UNIT, SUITE 604, BED 2

  ATTENDING: PAUL TREMAINE, M.D.

  NOTES: FBI/MEDICAL PERSONNEL ONLY. NO VISITORS PERMITTED

  The target was still at the hospital. Despite the heavy FBI and police presence he would need to find a way to get to her. He had slipped into her room undetected once before. He could do it again. This time he wouldn’t leave until she was dead.

  Rigel knew how the Feds operated. If he didn’t get to the hospital soon he would lose his window of opportunity to kill her. They were probably preparing to move her, likely to an FBI safe house, which would complicate matters somewhat but not prove to be an insurmountable problem.

  Sirens in the distance. Getting closer.

  The authorities were en-route to the burning house.

  Someone had called 9-1-1. Very thoughtful.

  Having acquired the information he needed, Rigel removed the cover on the back of his phone, pulled out the SIM card, tossed it on the ground, and crushed it under foot. If his phone was being used to track him it wouldn’t be any more. Without a functioning chip-card the device was useless. Assuming his car was free of similar tracking devices he would now be invisible, a ghost.

  Rigel noticed the Mustang’s passenger seat cushion rested on an odd angle. He lifted the seat and found Taskers secret weapons compartment. Empty foam cut outs outlined the shape of the Tec-9 machine pistol, its sound suppressor, and secondary clip. Two OC foggers, more commonly known as tear gas canisters, sat in their respective holders. Rigel pocketed the devices.

  The horn of an approaching fire truck sounded three long blasts. It would be on-scene any second.

  Rigel slammed the door of the Mustang and walked down the street. He would be back to his own car in a matter of minutes, then on to the hospital.

  He hoped the pungent smell of tear gas wouldn’t overpower the intoxicating aroma of the woman’s perfume.

  CHAPTER 34

  EYES WATERING from the acrid smoke, Harrison Tasker swept his hand across the fire-ravaged floor until his fingertips found the Tec-9’s shoulder-sling. He drew the weapon to him, used the wall for support, forced himself to his feet, and shuffled back into the kitchen, away from the rising fire.

  Tasker had warned New York the man would be difficult to take down.

  Blisters had formed on his face and hands, the result of direct contact with the flames. Shards of glass, metal screws and finishing nails were embedded in his arms and legs. He attempted to remove a piece of the shrapnel, couldn’t. The pain was unbearable. He knew he desperately needed medical attention. If the shrapnel remained in his body for too long the wounds would become infected. Sepsis would follow, then death. But his injuries would have to wait. He summoned his strength and focused his attention on reacquiring his target. James Rigel had a reputation for being an expert evasion strategist and had just proven it by using the tools at his disposal to ingeniously defend his position in the basement. Tasker needed to find a way to successfully breach the room, get downstairs, and eliminate the bastard.

  The fire in the hall was growing fiercer by the second and now encroached upon the kitchen. He had a minute, two at the most, before it would spread out of control and cut off his access to the basement entirely. He had to act quickly.

  Tasker searched the kitchen. In the cabinet beneath the sink he found an assortment of aerosol cleaning products: canisters of furniture polish, stainless steel and antibacterial counter surface sprays, oven cleaner, barbeque grill degreaser, and foaming tub and tile cleaners. All were neatly organized in a portable plastic caddy. Tasker hauled th
e caddy out of the cabinet and stumbled back along the hallway. At the end of the narrow corridor crackling and hissing accompanied the smell of burning wood. The fire had found the front of the house, started to consume the dining and living room furniture. A mirror shattered from the scorching heat. Chandelier bulbs popped in their light sockets.

  Tasker knew he had only one shot at this. For his plan to work he would have to walk back into the fire, breach the basement landing, and move down the stairs despite the intolerable pain electrifying every nerve in his body. Rigel had probably prepared a secondary defense, and if it proved to be as effective as his first Tasker knew his chances of survival would be slim.

  He forced the Tec-9 into his blistered hand, fingered the trigger, tried to steady himself, couldn’t.

  Fuck it, he thought. You only live once.

  Tasker shuffled through the open doorway, stumbled down the first few stairs to the open landing, tossed the caddy of aerosol canisters into the darkness below and fired a barrage of rounds into the room. Boom!-boom!-boom!-boom!-boom!-boom!-boom!-boom! The bullets ripped through the pressurized canisters. A succession of fireballs lit up the room. Tasker stood on the staircase and braced himself for Rigel’s retaliation.

  The room remained dark and still. The smell of incinerated chemicals drifted up from the basement.

  Tasker leaned against the handrail and slumped down the stairs. He swung the machine pistol high to low, left to right, his brain conducting an instantaneous threat assessment of every shape and shadow in the room as fast as his eyes could adjust to the darkness.

  Nothing moved.

  Across the room, a stool lay on the floor beneath the ground level window well he had walked past outside. The window stood open. Gusts of wind blew skeins of rain into the basement.