Intruders (A Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Book 1)

by Gary Winston Brown

  “Answer the question, Harrison,” Rigel said. He pushed the Glock forward another inch. Added incentive.

  Tasker wondered what lay in store for him beyond this world.

  “Was it New York?”

  He had always wanted a family… should have had a family…

  “Those fuckers rescinded my contract, didn’t they?”

  The gun was just two inches from his hand. Two damned inches.

  “Are you working alone?”

  Cold overtook him. His body shuddered. He dropped his head and closed his eyes. So, this was death.

  Rigel saw that the man was slipping away. “No way you get to die that easily,” he said. The killer rose to his feet, pulled Zippy out of his pocket, yanked out the metal lanyard and wrapped it around the man’s neck.

  As Tasker slumped forward, his hand fell on the Glock. Though his body was failing him faster than his mind, his sense of touch recognized the textured surface of the weapon’s handgrip and communicated the message to his brain. As the steel cable tightened around his neck, he clamped his fingers around the gun, raised it as high as he could and pulled the trigger.

  The lanyard fell slack as the round lifted Rigel off his feet, sent him staggering backwards into the Great Room and the Venus de Milo. The heavy marble statue tilted with the impact of his body but held its ground. Rigel had taken the hit to his shoulder. He checked his vest. The slug was lodged in the material. He plucked it out and threw it across the room.

  The Glock! he thought. How could he have been so careless?

  Tasker dropped his arm but maintained a loose hold on the Glock. He looked down at the weapon, urged his fingers to cradle the handgrip, find the trigger and lift the gun. Impossible. His strength was gone.

  Rigel shuffled back to Tasker. The gun lay in his hand, his fingers slack.

  “Sonofabitch,” Rigel said, favoring the pain in his shoulder from the gunshot. Zippy hung loosely around Tasker’s neck. Rigel yanked on the steel lanyard. The metal cord cut deep, serrating the flesh, severing the carotid artery. Tasker gurgled. Blood flowed freely from his neck. His hands flailed helplessly at the wire. He kicked at the ground. His body convulsed and twitched until at last he sat still. It was over. Harrison Tasker was dead.

  “It’s about fucking time,” Rigel said. He pulled Zippy out of the man’s neck and ran the serrated steel cord across the dead man’s jacket, removing fine particles of flesh and blood from the weapon, then retracted the garrote.

  He picked up the Tec-9, draped the sling around his neck, shoved the Glock into the front pocket of his bulletproof vest and walked out of the Great Room.

  In the main lobby he stopped, listened, pulled the last Werther’s out of his pocket, unwrapped the candy and popped it in his mouth.

  The estate remained cemetery silent.

  His targets were still here, hiding somewhere within the massive house. He could feel it.

  He set out to find them.

  CHAPTER 54

  MORE GUNFIRE.

  “It’s coming from the Great Room,” Jordan said.

  “How can you be sure?” Chris asked.

  “Like I said, I know this place. I can tell you the location of every sound in the house from within these walls. That definitely came from the main floor.”

  They made their way through the secret passageway until arriving at the Training Room.

  “We’re here,” Jordan said. She pushed a button on the labyrinth wall.

  The hidden entrance, disguised as one of many mirrored panels that ran the length of the wall of the Training Room, clicked open. They stepped inside.

  “Holy crap,” Chris said. He looked around the room. “What the hell are you training for?”

  The room featured a lap pool, Jacuzzi, urethane dumbbells of varying weights on chrome stands, barbells, training racks and benches, two treadmills, an elliptical Cross-Trainer and rowing machines, a Rockwerx indoor rock-climbing wall, state-of-the-art Pilates equipment, heavy bags, speed bags, grappling dummies, Ensolite training mats, head, hand and foot gear for martial arts training and sparring, and elastic hand wraps. Opposite the fitness area were two specially designed ranges: a soundproof indoor shooting range for handgun practice and a knife-throwing target range.

  “I’m the daughter of a billionaire,” Jordan replied as she walked across the training mat toward the ranges. “My family has received more than our fair share of death threats over the years. Unfortunately, that comes with the territory. I can’t always rely on bodyguards. Rock designed this place for me. He trained me so that I’d know how to protect myself.”

  “Rock Dionne... your father’s head of security. The man who died in the crash.”

  “That’s right.” Jordan replied. “He taught me how to shoot, throw, and fight. I’m going to show him he didn’t waste a second of his time.”

  A safe was built into the wall beside the shooting range. Jordan punched in the combination, opened the door, removed a Heckler and Koch VP9 9mm tactical handgun from the shelf, racked the weapon, fitted it into her waistband, then walked to the knife throwing range. Three perfectly balanced, stainless steel Gil Hibben throwing knives in a black nylon shoulder harness hung on a wall hook. Jordan slipped into the rig.

  “Need anything else while we’re here?” Chris said. “Blowgun, maybe? Poison darts?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Hardly. You train like a friggin’ ninja.”

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far.”

  “Says the woman strapped with the semi-automatic handgun and wearing the three-pack of knives.”

  “I like to be prepared.”

  “No,” Chris said. “Packing an overnight bag with fresh underwear and a toothbrush is being prepared. Keeping a flashlight in your glove box is being prepared. Hell, taking a pee before a long drive is being prepared.”

  “Would you rather we just ask them nicely to leave?”

  “You know, if Dunn were here he wouldn’t let you leave this room.”

  “Well, he’s not. You are.”

  “I shouldn’t let you, either. It’s too dangerous.”

  “But you will.”

  “Because I have no choice in the matter?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And because if I tried to stop you you’d probably kick my ass?”

  “I would never assault a federal agent.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Subdue… possibly. Incapacitate… maybe. But assault? Never.”

  “Every man and woman in law enforcement thanks you.”

  “Come on,” Jordan said. She walked back toward the hidden mirror-door. “There’s one more thing I need to do.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Level the playing field.”

  CHAPTER 55

  RIGEL EXPLORED the first floor of the grand home. He held the Tec-9 high, close to his body, eyes locked on the front sight, the weapon trained directly ahead, searching each room for his targets.

  He recalled the specific condition of the Quest contract: no survivors. The entire family was to be wiped out. The payout was huge. His mind drifted back to his battle with Harrison Tasker. The man had been discourteous enough to die before telling him whether or not New York had, in fact, rescinded his contract to kill the Quests. Regardless, he would be paid. He would factor any financial loss into the creation of a new contract. The competition would pay him any amount of money he demanded in exchange for the carefully planned execution of the New York syndicate bosses, especially if the murders were carried out in ways that would not draw attention to his benefactors. He would make the killings look like a series of accidents: a fatal heart attack from a failed pacemaker; a family dinner at a fine restaurant ending in death from anaphylactic shock. Each assassination would be made to order, no clues left behind. His most profitable contract had earned him thirty-million dollars for three months of work in Columbia. Reconnaissance and planning accounted for eighty-five of those ninety da
ys; the terminations completed in the remaining five. The deaths, undoubtedly his best work to date, had been front page news for a week in El Tiempo, the country’s largest newspaper. Framed reprints of the articles hung on the living room wall of his Florida home. The posters served as excellent conversation starters. When a dinner guest once asked why he chose to display such grisly art, he told her the truth; that he had carried out the contracts and been responsible for the deaths. He shared with her the story-behind-the-story and elaborated on the exciting details of each hit, only to realize too late that in his enthusiasm he’d crossed the line. The look on her face and sudden change in demeanor gave her away. People had a strange tendency to become uneasy when hearing a confession of murder, especially when they found themselves in the presence of the murderer himself. He was then forced to rectify the situation, and nothing tends to put a damper on an otherwise enjoyable evening faster than killing your guest in order to guarantee her silence. Living in the Sunshine State had its benefits, among which included the Everglades and its plenitude of hungry alligators. He took pride in keeping them well fed.

  Rigel moved through the house, clearing the solarium, twin kitchens, dining room, ballroom, cigar room and reading room. The lower levels of the estate were next. He was about to descend the marble staircase when the home suddenly plunged into darkness.

  Rigel froze, heard a whirring sound above him, looked up. It came from a camera mounted high in the ceiling.

  Inside the labyrinth, Jordan used her cell phone to log into the mansion’s security system. She zoomed in on the intruder standing at the top of the stairs and opened the speaker. Her voice boomed over the house-wide intercom: “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

  Rigel lowered his weapon and smiled at the camera. “Good evening, Mrs. Quest,” he replied. “Nice place you have here. A little much for my taste. But hey, each to his own.”

  “Answer the question.”

  Rigel displayed the Tec-9. “That’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Someone who has unfinished business with your father.”

  Hanover turned to Jordan. She muted the phone. “What is he talking about?” Chris asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jordan replied. “But I’m sure as hell going to find out. Follow me.”

  Together they traversed the labyrinth. Jordan captured the electronic image of the intruder on her phone and instructed the system to FOLLOW. The security system locked in on Rigel and tracked his movements as he searched the house.

  Jordan and Chris exited the labyrinth by way of the Great Room. Tasker’s body lay in the adjoining entrance to the Music room. Despite the obvious fatal laceration to the man’s neck Chris checked his pulse. He looked at Jordan and shook his dead. “He’s dead.”

  “Good guy or bad guy?” Jordan asked.

  “He’s not one of ours,” Chris replied. He saw the glass shards in his face and hands, the steel nails sticking out of his body. “Jesus,” Chris said. “What the hell happened to this guy?”

  “Look at his neck,” Jordan said. “Same injury as yours. How much do you want to bet the guy who did this is the same one who attacked you in the hospital?”

  “And you.”

  Jordan looked at her phone, located the man. “He’s on the move,” she said. “Games room, East wing. Straight ahead.”

  They removed their weapons. Chris stepped ahead. “Stay behind me. I want him taken alive. We need to know who he is and who sent him.”

  “That’s what fingerprints and DNA are for,” Jordan said.

  Chris took her by the arm, stopped her. “Listen up, Jordan. No heroics. Got me?”

  Jordan nodded. “Whatever you say.” She stepped past him, raised the Heckler and Koch and proceeded down the hall. “Games room,” she repeated.

  CHAPTER 56

  RIGEL ENTERED the Games room.

  The bespoke twelve-foot ash pool table, a work of art recognizable even in the dark room, sported purple speed cloth. Matching chalks sat on its rails. Aramith balls, precisely positioned, sat ready to break in their wooden triangle. An exquisite bank of Tiffany lamps hung above the table they served. A rack on the wall held eight pool cues.

  Rigel removed one of the cues, placed its tip on the playing surface, pressed down on the shaft and scored a tear down the cloth as he walked the length of the table. In the corner of the room a security camera whirred, panned, and followed his every step.

  Rigel looked up at the camera. “I’m guessing you can see and hear me, Mrs. Quest.”

  “I can,” the speakers replied.

  “Kind of gives you an unfair advantage, doesn’t it? You able to see me, but me unable to see you.”

  “Works for me,” Jordan said. They reached the main foyer. She muted the microphone and whispered to Chris. “Down the hall. Last room on the right.”

  “Got it,” Chris replied.

  Rigel laughed. “Smart lady.” He removed the triangle, tossed it across the room, placed the white ball behind the break line, readied the cue and sighted the shot, but stopped short of taking it. He removed a one-hundred-dollar bill from his pant pocket, showed it to the camera, then placed it under the ball.

  “Care to make a little wager? A hundred bucks says I find you before the cops arrive.”

  Rigel waited.

  No reply.

  He continued. “Not rich enough for you, huh?” He took out a second hundred-dollar bill and slid it under the first. “Better?” He waved the pool cue at the camera. “How many of those have you got in this place? Forty? Fifty? I’m guessing fifty, minimum.” Rigel leveled the Tec-9 at the camera and pulled the trigger. Brrrrrrrrrrrr. The camera blew to pieces. Hot brass casings bounced off the pool table and fell on the floor.

  “Make that forty-nine,” Rigel called out. He sprayed the room again, fatally injuring the opposing players on a neighboring foosball table and decimating two vintage pinball machines; a Bally Eight Ball and R. Gottlieb Arabian Knights, then blew out the LCD displays of five classic video games–Pong, Frogger, Space Invaders, Pac-Man and Star Wars. A final blitz of gun fire annihilated a classic Skeeball Alley Bowler.

  Jordan and Chris advanced down the hallway towards the Games room as the ejected casings tinkled on the hardwood floor. Jordan looked at Chris and pointed to her phone. She shook her head. One of the rounds had struck and severed the camera cable hidden behind the wall. The screen was black, the live visual feed from the Games room to her phone lost. They were proceeding blind now. Fifty feet of open hallway separated them from the shooter.

  The next room, a guest bathroom, lay ten feet ahead. Twenty feet beyond it was the entrance to the art gallery. The doors to both rooms, normally kept closed, stood open. The intruder must have cleared them in his search for the family prior to investigating the Games room.

  Chris motioned to Jordan and pointed to the bathroom. The two moved quickly down the hall, slipped into the room, and hid behind the door.

  Footsteps in the hallway, outside the Games room.

  Rigel called out. “You never took me up on my wager.”

  Closer, in front of the art gallery now.

  Hanover placed the barrel of the Glock in the crack of the doorframe. He would wait for the man to pass, sight the back of his head - the ‘light switch’ as sharpshooters called it - take the shot, kill him instantly, and end the terror.

  “Maybe I should have made it a thousand?” the man called out. His voice was loud, just a few feet from the doorway. It echoed off the walls of the long hallway. “Just how fast is the police response in this neighborhood, anyway?”

  Hanover steadied his breathing, waited.

  Rigel stopped within inches of the door. Strange… the camera at the end of the hallway failed to whir or pan. Was the security system no longer tracking him? Had the woman escaped?

  No, she was here. He could sense her presence. But more than that, he could smell it. Jordan’s perfume. The same exhilarating blend he re
membered from his visit with her in her hospital wafted in the hallway: Indian jasmine… rosa centafolia… cardamom… carnation… benzoin… fruity citrus…

  Rigel dropped low and shoulder-rolled past the entrance to the bathroom.

  Hanover heard the man, saw him roll past the door, tried to reacquire the target, lost him. He pushed Jordan aside as a hail of bullets ripped through the bathroom door. All but one round hit high. The last bullet found its mark and caught him squarely in his shoulder.

  Chris groaned and dropped to the ground. The Glock clattered across the polished marble floor.

  Through the bullet holes in the splintered door he watched the assassin rise to his feet.

  Jordan moved to the center of the bathroom, crouched down, closed her eyes and listened. She knew how far the shooter was from the door: six feet.

  The hundreds of hours she had spent training with Rock Dionne came to her all at once: stay low… move fast… hit hard… never retreat.

  Stay low, move fast, hit hard…

  Jordan ran toward the doorway as fast as she could, threw herself on the floor and slid into the hallway, opening up on the intruder with the Heckler and Koch, squeezing off round after round. Each of the ten bullets found their target.

  Rigel was unprepared for the counterattack. He was sure it was the woman who had been hit with multiple rounds from the Tec-9. The rest should have been easy, pure clean up. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe that she would willingly give up the location of her family within the great house. No matter. At the least his principle target would be dead. He would find the rest of the family before the police arrived, kill them and the FBI agents, and make good his escape. But now he found himself in uncharted territory, staggering backward as round after round from the woman’s weapon struck his body armor with brutal force. The last bullet blew his index finger off his shooting hand. Rigel screamed. He clutched his hand and dropped the Tec-9.

  Never retreat…

  Jordan jumped to her feet, drew a knife from its sheath, and threw it at the gunman. The weapon sailed through the air, caught Rigel in his throat and brought him to his knees.