by Steve Richer
SUMMARY
A small island and killers everywhere. No communications. No boats. A hurricane closing in. Rogan Bricks alone against an army.
Former FBI agent and Marine Rogan Bricks once uncovered a shadow government and took down a drug cartel, so he's looking forward to his next assignment to infiltrate a laid-back meeting with financial wizards on a Caribbean island. Nothing dangerous this time, all he has to do is listen and report.
Yeah, right. It's just his luck when ruthless commandos sneak onto the private island and start killing everyone.
At the risk of blowing his undercover mission, Rogan must find a way to rescue the survivors and discover why these assassins are here... in the middle of a hurricane!
Standalone action novel following the best-selling thrillers The President Killed His Wife and Counterblow.
~ ~ ~ ~
Murder Island
By Steve Richer
Copyright © 2017 Steve Richer
The cover art for this book makes use of licensed stock photography. All photography is for illustrative purposes only and all persons depicted are models.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Also by Steve Richer
The President Killed His Wife (Rogan Bricks 1)
Counterblow (Rogan Bricks 2)
The Pope’s Suicide
Terror Bounty
Park Avenue Blackmail
The Kennedy Secret
The Gilded Treachery
Never Bloodless
The Atomic Eagle
Sigma Division
First Thrill
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Prologue
“I think you’re gonna have to repeat that,” Rogan Bricks said as he leaned back in his chair and exhaled loudly. “You guys have a cigarette?”
The two men in suits in front of him glanced at one another, clearly wondering where that was coming from.
“No,” Krause said. “I don’t smoke.”
Khoury, who was older, shook his head. “Sorry. According to your file, you don’t smoke either.”
“Oh, I know. I simply thought this might be a good time to start since you just chiseled the precise date of my death on a stone tablet.”
“Now now, Special Agent Bricks…”
“I’m a civilian now,” Rogan pointed out.
“Yes, that’s right, my apologies. But let me be clear that there’s nothing in our proposal that’s dangerous.”
Krause took over. “There’s certainly nothing in there that has anything to do with your date of death, as you say.”
Rogan stood up. “As a famous thirteenth century French monk once said: what the fuck are you talking about? You’re asking me to go on an undercover mission. This isn’t exactly selling Girl Scout cookies door to door in Beverly Hills, is it? I thought you wanted to see me to consult on a case or something.”
The two older men once again shared a look. It was on the surface apologetic, but Rogan knew that it was a strategy. It was to let him stew, to make him understand how important this was and how sorry they were to be doing this to him. And, of course, this was Grade A bullshit.
They were in a downtown Philadelphia hotel, a suite to boot. Rogan had been surprised when he’d been contacted about this. After all, he had left the FBI because he was tired of these games. Why had he agreed to this meeting anyway?
He couldn’t possibly miss the job already, could he?
He didn’t stop to contemplate this question because the answer scared him. He instead focused on the work at hand. These guys needed his help, so it had to be important. It had to be worth his undivided attention.
Senior Special Agent Krause and Supervisory Special Agent Khoury were both from the FBI’s Transnational Criminal Enterprise Section, which was a fancy way of calling the organized crime unit.
“This is important,” Khoury said. “These days, most of our budget goes toward national security. If you can write the word terrorist in one of your reports, your funding practically doubles. Those of us handling organized crime are left with very limited resources.”
“And when the Justice Department actually cares about organized crime,” Krause added, “it’s because they want us to go after Mexican cartels.”
Rogan nodded because he understood the reason. He understood the political game. Washington did everything in its power to associate Mexican cartels with terrorism. It wasn’t exactly untrue, but it did leave a gaping opening for traditional mobsters to operate in.
“We have this player dead in our sights,” Krause said, leaning forward in his chair.
“And you don’t have the funds to investigate him,” Rogan finished the statement for him.
“Correct.”
“Local authorities are stretched thin and this falls under our purview. We need that tiniest of sparks to make the investigation official.”
Rogan crossed his arms and leaned against the TV cabinet. “But even if I go in, anything I get will be inadmissible.”
“Yes, but it will tell us what to look for. You’ll know more in a day than we’ve been able to find out in a year. You give us the name of his associates, where he operates—hell, the name of his barber—and we can launch an official investigation with the budget that goes along with it.”
“Sabatini is a tough son of a bitch, Mr. Bricks. He deserves to be taken off the board.”
Khoury said, “All you have to do is go in, open your eyes and ears, and pay attention. That’s it. You would be doing us a huge favor.”
“It’s just a weekend in the Bahamas,” Krause said. “After that, we meet again and we write up a report that we have a confidential informant with intel regarding this organization. And it won’t be a lie. The CID Assistant Director will be forced to let us investigate properly. We can build a major RICO case against this guy.”
“I don’t know,” Rogan replied, shaking his head. “I mean, I can see your point, sure, but I’m gonna stick out like a Mississippi preacher at a Pride parade.”
“You have the experience, Mr. Bricks. After that thing with the President, your time in Mexico… Frankly, I wouldn’t want anyone else doing this for us. You’ve also been around money for a long time. You know business, you know how the game is played.”
Rogan stopped listening for a moment and looked at the bar. This was a nice suite and the bar wasn’t mini. The bottles were tall and made him thirsty. He felt like a tumbler of bourbon right now and yet he didn’t want to impair his judgment.
“It’s only a one-time thing,” Khoury said gently. “For someone like you, it’s a cakewalk.”
Rogan was scared, terrified in fact. He was scared not of the mission or of the possible consequences, but rather that it would make him feel alive again. He had left the FBI because he’d been tired of those crazy assignments putting his life in danger. He’d been looking forward to settling down with Shiloh and his dog, Glut.
He didn’t want to be that guy who couldn’t walk away from what he loved even if it was bad for him. He had made a promise to Shiloh. Life was supposed to be easy now. He was still young, they had their whole lives ahead of them to do whatever they wanted.
What was sickening was that Khoury and Krause knew it as well. T
hey could see that he was made for this job, for the action. That’s why they had set up this meeting. He’d been a goner since the start.
“Just a weekend?” Rogan said. “You promise? Pinky swear and cross your heart?”
“Forty-eight hours, that’s it.”
Khoury smiled. “Thank you for doing this, Rogan.”
The younger man ignored him. “And I go undercover, right?”
“We have the perfect identity for you. The legend is solid, very deeply backstopped. You’ll have to learn your new identity.”
“You mean I can’t go as Bono? I already have the sunglasses and everything.”
Krause didn’t get the joke, but his superior chuckled.
“You need to become this other person all the way through. New name, new history. You have to think like him, Mr. Bricks. You have to pretend to be this person every step of the way. Girlfriend, ex-wife, alumni society, past work experience, outrageous anecdotes. Even if one of them eventually suspects that they’ve been infiltrated, nobody will know who it is. You will blend in because you’ll belong there. Understand?”
Rogan nodded, pacing through the room as he thought about the situation. He couldn’t let them know that he was actually eager to go.
“I’ll be on my own?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Khoury said. “No backup, no weapons, no wire. All we need are your eyes and ears. Remember as much as possible, report back when you return, and we nail these guys.”
Again, Rogan nodded but he was looking at the carpet. At first, he considered telling Shiloh that he was going away for a weekend in Vegas with some friends. She would never believe that though. She could smell a lie from a country mile. He would have to tell her the truth. She might be disappointed, but she would understand because when it came to the job she was just like him.
At long last, he stopped walking and turned to the two federal agents. “All right. I guess I can spend a couple of days in the Bahamas.”
“Wonderful! Thank you for doing this, Mr. Bricks.”
They shook hands and Krause said, “Although you will have a completely different identity, remember that.”
“Don’t remind me. What’s the name of this place I’m going to anyway?”
Chapter 1
Murder Island.
Why did the place have to be called Murder Island? Oliver shivered as he repeated this thought to himself. It didn’t help that he didn’t like flying and the helicopter he was in didn’t seem sturdy.
“Hold on,” the pilot announced.
Right then, they banked to the left, swooping down. The whole aircraft trembled. It was turbulence, he knew that much. However, it seemed a lot more dangerous in a tiny helicopter than it did in the jumbo jet that had carried him down to Florida.
Looking around, he saw that he wasn’t the only one worried. The big guy next to him was clutching the fabric of his pants, his eyes tightly shut. His lips were moving silently. Was he reciting a prayer?
The woman in the row facing him was immobile, almost serene. It was the same with the solidly-built man next to her. Oliver started wondering if he wasn’t putting too much stock into how dangerous this flight was. If it really was unsafe, they wouldn’t have been allowed to fly, right?
He shook his head, doing his best to clear his mind. Then again, how can you really clear your mind when heading to a place called Murder Island?
He pondered the situation. Would he have accepted the invitation if he’d known the name of his destination? It would be fun to say at parties that he hadn’t been afraid– absolutely not afraid!—but the reality was that he needed the money. That check for fifty thousand dollars was a godsend. And it had cleared, which had surprised him.
This was for real.
The call had come a week earlier. He’d been sitting at his desk, in his cramped office, when he was contacted by a law firm from New York City. They wanted to know if he was available the following weekend, if he was willing to travel for a couple of days. That’s all he knew aside from the fact that the gig paid fifty grand.
He had accepted on the spot even though he’d need to make arrangements. It was his weekend with Jeremy and he surely didn’t get enough time with him since the divorce. He had promised to take the boy to the zoo.
It would definitely break the five-year-old’s heart, Oliver knew that and hated himself for it, but the money was eventually for him. Right? His ex would undoubtedly claim otherwise but, on the other hand, that was why she was his ex.
So it was with zero knowledge about the current assignment that he had flown from Cleveland—tickets had been purchased for him—and arrived at Miami International on this Friday afternoon. He was met by a young woman who didn’t introduce herself and didn’t know more than he did.
He was ushered to a limo which took him to a different part of the airport, away from the commercial airliners. There were many private jets around, but it was to a helicopter where he was eventually led.
The man who was now sitting next to the pilot had introduced himself as Clifford and he was in charge. He wasn’t old, maybe thirty, but with none of the swagger young people had. There were three others already there, seemingly as clueless as he was.
“Where are we going?” Oliver asked after they were invited to climb aboard the white helicopter.
“Murder Island,” the guy replied with a grin, as if he took pleasure in being mysterious.
“Doesn’t really inspire confidence. Where is it?”
“It’s a private island, about halfway between Bimini and Nassau.”
“The Bahamas?”
Clifford didn’t reply, instead choosing to gaze out through the windshield as a light rain finally cleared.
The sun was almost completely gone but, since the chopper was heading due east, it cast a mesmerizing orange glow on the water below. Oliver forgot his concerns for a moment and looked out his window.
It was a few minutes later, when they fully reached twilight, that Clifford spoke again. “Hang on, everyone. We’re initiating our descent.”
The fat man next to Oliver craned his neck, trying to look out through all the windows at once.
“Why are we going down? There’s no island?” He turned to the others. “You guys see any islands? I don’t see an island.”
“We’re going sailing for a bit first,” Clifford said, again with that goofy smile that took pleasure in keeping the mystery alive.
Oliver kept his mouth shut and did like the others, looking around until he knew what was going on. He peeked between the strange, aloof man and the woman, and at last he saw it. Down below, in the middle of the calm ocean, was a sleek white yacht. The fat guy saw it at the same time.
“We’re landing on that?!”
“That’s right.”
“I wish somebody had told me, okay? I didn’t bring my Dramamine. Anybody have any? I’ll pay you. Twenty bucks, right now, not just for one pill.”
The woman looked at him and shrugged. “Sorry.”
Oliver shook his head as well. For his part, the third man didn’t even glance his way, as if this was beneath him. As if he was alone in the helicopter.
The landing was surprisingly smooth although it was slow and measured. Oliver supposed it wasn’t an easy feat to land a wobbly aircraft on top of a rocking ship. The fat man kept his eyes closed through the entire process and mumbled another prayer when the pilot announced that they were free to unbuckle their belts.
A warm breeze welcomed Oliver as he stepped out of the helicopter. Without even thinking about it, he reached for the woman’s hand to help her out.
“I can do it myself,” she spat, ignoring his hand and stepping down.
Oliver was hurt and he wanted to call her out on this, but he had no time. Clifford led the way down from the helipad.
The yacht seemed even bigger now that they were on board. It had three decks and it was in the vicinity of a hundred and fifty feet long. Oliver knew that some of the superyachts were in t
he four hundred feet range, but this one was impressive, nevertheless.
Just off the flybridge, they were met by a man in a suit and tie. He had a crown of white hair and had to be about sixty. The massive potbelly reminded Oliver of a pregnant Arnold Schwarzenegger in the movie Junior.
“Welcome to the Jersey Devil. My name is Paul Bloom. Please come with me as Clifford takes care of your luggage.”
They followed him down some stairs and into what was usually referred to as the grand salon, the huge living room on the main deck. It was spacious, with cream leather couches, a dark crimson carpet, and Tiffany lamps throughout. There were windows on each side which offered breathtaking views of the Caribbean Sea.
It wasn’t Oliver’s first time aboard a yacht, but it was his first time while at sea. The other instances had been while in port in Manhattan, attending lavish business parties. To think that he had once been certain that someday soon he’d be able to afford one of these boats.
How goddamn stupid he’d been.
It had been practically promised to him, though. It was part of the plan. You were a hotshot Wall Street kid, within a couple of years you started making millions, managing your own fund, and before you were forty you became a billionaire. That’s how it was supposed to be.
He had screwed everything up. You try to do something right, you choose the wrong path to get there and, before you know it, everything’s gone.
But he would get it back, Oliver decided. This was his chance. This weekend, this was the first step to getting his career back on track and he wouldn’t let anything stop him.
If he had only known about Murder fucking Island…
Chapter 2
Paul excused himself as two stewards in immaculate white uniforms appeared with trays of champagne, lemonade, and hors d’oeuvres. They went to the guests who all picked champagne, save for the woman who chose lemonade. Everyone except the fat guy avoided the food.
