Murder Island (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 3)

by Steve Richer

  Chapter 15

  Alex took a deep breath and gingerly walked through the den. This was where the staff gathered to watch movies and play cards when they weren’t working. His eyes were finally getting used to the dim lighting conditions and he noticed that there was nobody here.

  He took the narrow hallway. On the right was the dining area. It was made up of three tables that could each seat eight people, if you squeezed enough and promised not to use your elbows too much. It was empty and clean.

  On the left was the kitchen and there was the first sign of light. Coming in, he realized that the refrigerator door was open. His mother used to give him grief about that so his first thought was to go close it, lest the meat and milk spoiled. But he didn’t.

  There were two dead bodies on the floor. Women, black. Uniforms. They were maids. They were sprawled on the ceramic tiles, blood on their chest and pooling around their bodies.

  Jesus…

  He recognized the one on the left. She had flirted with him last Christmas when Mr. Sabatini had spent the holidays here. Everybody had had too much eggnog, including Alex. He would have taken the girl up to his room if his boss’s son hadn’t requested him to drive him to the beach.

  Glancing around the kitchen, it was clear what had happened. They’d been in the process of putting away leftovers when someone had walked in on them. There was fried chicken on the floor, spilling out of a Tupperware container in front of the refrigerator. Tap tap, tap tap, straight to the center mass. They never stood a chance.

  Anger swelled through him. What the hell was going on? No lights, dead bodies. Who would want to kill the goddamn maids?

  He worked on his breathing again and left the kitchen, this time conscious that he might have to kill somebody again in the next few minutes. He actually wanted to.

  The hallway was empty again. There was no sound. He turned left toward the stairs and marched up, mostly on tiptoes to muffle his steps. All the while, his head was tilted up, just like his pistol.

  He reached the second floor and the corridor was deserted. On each side were doors leading to small bedrooms, reminding him of Army housing for enlisted personnel.

  The first door on his right was open and he peeked inside. Empty. So was the second one, and the third. The next door was closed and he pushed it in. There was someone in bed. It was the helicopter pilot. His eyes were wide open. There was blood everywhere. He had been shot in the throat.

  Panic starting to seep in, he crossed the hallway and found a door ajar next to his own room. He nudged the door in with his foot and aimed his pistol. On the floor was a man, slumped back against the nightstand.

  The buzz cut hairstyle left him with no doubt that this was Roger, his best friend on the security team. His Glock was next to him, like he’d had time to draw it, but not enough to shoot.

  What was happening?!

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Bill was tired of waiting. He leaned back and stretched his legs between the two front seats, crossing his ankles.

  “You think he’s gonna be long?” Orland shrugged in response. “I’m tired, I have to take a leak, and I can’t wait to get some sleep. Too much wine tonight. We have another busy day lined up tomorrow, not to mention the flight home. You have any idea what a bitch it is to fly from Miami to San Diego?”

  “Quiet,” Orland whispered.

  “I’m sick of being told what to do.”

  “I think there’s someone else upstairs.”

  Orland pointed upstairs. Through the second-floor windows, he could make out the outline of Alex. He’d been following his progress as much as he could while he inspected the place.

  But now there was a second shadow.

  “Look, that’s a gun.”

  “How do you know?” Bill asked.

  “That guy is holding a submachine gun. He’s going toward Alex. We have to do something.”

  “What? We don’t have any guns. Phones don’t work.”

  “You’re right,” Orland said before he leapt forward, bent over Bill’s legs, and pushed on the horn as hard as he could.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The loud honking threatened to give Alex a heart attack as it broke the silence. Nevertheless, he understood what was happening. It was a warning.

  He spun on his heels, exiting the hallway, and sure enough there was a gunman right in front of him. Dark fatigues, military gear and webbing. Scariest of all was the M4 carbine pointed straight at him.

  The intruder looked surprised to be caught and that was his downfall. Alex extended his right arm, took a bead on the man’s head, and pulled the trigger twice. The man collapsed. Dead.

  Alex smiled as relief washed over him. Stress and exhilaration always made for a weird combination. It also made him drop his guard. It decreased his situational awareness.

  It was too late when he heard the other footsteps behind him. By the time he turned and saw a second gunman with a carbine pointed his way, it was too late.

  The man fired a three-round burst, killing Alex instantly.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Bill backed up into his seat, his eyes growing wide, as if he was trying to escape deeper into the Jeep. “Holy shit! Did you see that?”

  “Yes,” Orland replied evenly just as a light rain began to fall.

  “Did you fucking see that?! That’s Alex, right? He was shot! Tell me that’s not what happened.”

  By now, Orland was out of the Jeep, standing next to it. He was still looking up at the second floor. The security guard had been ambushed and he hadn’t seen the second guy approach either.

  “Oh man…” Bill complained. “Oh shit…”

  The sound of crunching gravel made them both turn to the right. A black-clad commando was coming out of the shadows.

  His sleek assault rifle was pointed straight at them, his finger depressing the trigger.

  Chapter 16

  The rain didn’t matter to Blake. He had spent his life in the Navy, after all. He considered himself born, bred, and water-fed. Besides, the air was warm, muggy. If anything, the rain helped to cool him down.

  He was on the beach, on the western side of the island, and that’s where he had chosen to set up his command post. It wasn’t anything to write home about, really. It was just him and Gamma, a map, and an AN/PRC-119 which was a radio with a range of five miles. It had been mounted in Gamma’s backpack, but at the moment it was propped up in the sand.

  Both men were kneeling. They were off to the side, near bushes and thick mangroves. The aide-de-camp had just commented that the rain was nice because it kept the mosquitoes at bay. But more than that, the sound of raindrops covered their approach.

  Gamma was scanning the area, his carbine up at the ready, while Blake inspected his laminated map. He knew it by heart but he did so anyway. He had practiced this mission for weeks and he had planned for every contingency.

  In reality, he thought that the probable success rate would’ve most likely gone up if he had joined the main assault team. He was a seasoned operator after twelve years in the Navy SEALs. But he also believed that a team functioned better with someone overseeing things.

  It had been that way back when he was in the field and it was the same now. Men had a lot more confidence when they knew somebody had their back. There was a calming effect in knowing that backup was only a radio transmission away.

  Blake would have liked to improve his odds even more by having a drone. These machines were incredible. It would have been invaluable to have a so-called eye in the sky to supervise his people, to make sure they wouldn’t be ambushed. Alas, he hadn’t had the budget for a UAV tonight, and with the current weather conditions he wouldn’t have been able to use it anyway.

  “I think we’re looking good, sir.”

  Blake looked up at Gamma. “We’re about to find out.” He brought the radio receiver up and dialed one of his men. “Kappa, come in. This is Alpha.”

  “Alpha, this is Kappa. Reading you five. Roger.”

  “
Give me a sitrep. Over.”

  “Staff house is secure. Over.”

  Even though Blake did his best to display his mastery of the mission, acting as if nothing could go wrong, he was still glad that it was the case. He had to restrain himself from pumping his fist in the air.

  “Copy, Kappa. Encounter any resistance? Over.”

  “Dealt with during assault, but had to deal with a straggler just now. Over.”

  This made Blake straighten up. “Casualties? Over.”

  “Affirmative, sir. Zeta didn’t make it. But I got the tango, Alpha. Over.”

  “Shit,” Blake whispered to himself before thumbing the radio. “Roger that.”

  “More importantly, sir, we’ve taken care of the entire security team. There should only be two men left at the main house. Over.”

  “Copy, Kappa.”

  “I’m moving to my secondary objective now. Over.”

  “Affirmative. Over and out.”

  Blake put the radio down and inspected his checklist while looking for the corresponding markers on his map. Gamma rotated his surveillance angle toward him.

  “Any problems, boss?”

  “Zeta’s dead.”

  Gamma nodded behind his heavily bearded face. “Didn’t particularly know him well, but he seemed like a good guy. The mission isn’t compromised, is it?”

  “Negative.”

  “That’s good, sir. The hard part is behind us anyway. Victory is within sight.”

  Blake offered a curt nod. He didn’t want to seem happy in front of his man, but the loss of Zeta was in no way a Greek tragedy. This wasn’t the military anymore where honor was held above everything else and where one death brought a nation to its knees with grief.

  They were mercenaries. His men were paid well and they knew the risks. They were tools, utilitarian and disposable. And frankly, if the loss of Zeta was what it took to succeed, so be it. Blake was happy that this whole operation could be finished in time for them to escape before the hurricane turned their way.

  He dialed another frequency on the radio. “Beta, come in. This is Alpha.”

  “This is Beta. Over.”

  “Sitrep. Over.”

  “We just breached the main house. We’re proceeding to the main objective. Over.”

  Blake perked up and grinned. “Good hunting. Over and out.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Oliver prayed in his head and he hated himself that he didn’t remember all the words. The Lord’s Prayer and the Hail Mary kept blending in together.

  Give us this day our daily bread. Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

  This didn’t sound right. He knew the beginning of one and the ending of the other. Would God still hear him if he messed up? He wasn’t shot in the back as he ran down the hallway. That was a good sign.

  They followed Paul, turned around a corner, and suddenly came to a halt when he opened a door. He motioned for them to follow him after he turned on a low-wattage light. They went down a staircase.

  “Almost there,” he whispered.

  At the bottom was a nice little welcoming area. It was like any other room in the house, well-furnished and classy. The walls were bright red. There was what looked like a Persian rug as well as a console table with a lamp. On the wall behind it was an oil painting.

  Oliver didn’t know anything about art, but he doubted it was anything expensive because there was nothing else around it. At the bottom of the stairs, they took a left and he understood that this decor had only been to give the impression that the basement was finished. It wasn’t.

  The hallway opened on a larger area. The walls were still painted red, but that was where the interior design stopped. It was like any other basement Oliver had ever encountered. There was a utility room on one side, a workshop on the other. Further down the hall were cases of food and booze and chest freezers.

  “This way!”

  “Where are we going?” Gina asked, not slowing down.

  “Mr. Sabatini was afraid that something like that would happen someday. He had a panic room built down here.”

  “Yes!” Clifford said as if he just remembered it. “It has everything in there. We could survive a nuclear war for years in there.”

  They zigzagged through the surplus furniture, canned food, and cases of whiskey. Neon lights on the ceiling gave the place an eerie glow.

  “It’s right at the next corner,” Paul said.

  This made everyone run faster. Oliver stopped praying when he saw the safe room. It had a vault door, all stainless steel and three feet wide. By the sheer layout of the house, the panic room would probably be spacious enough for all of them. And luxurious too.

  Paul grabbed the handle and, at the exact same time, the lights went out.

  “What’s happening?” Oliver asked, his head swiveling for no reason in the complete darkness. “What did you do?”

  “Power’s been caught off.”

  “Well, open the door. There has to be flashlights inside.”

  “The door won’t budge,” Paul said. “Electromagnetic seals. It doesn’t work without power. But…”

  “What?”

  “The emergency generator should’ve kicked in. These men thought of that too. It’s a trap.”

  They were sitting ducks. It was only a matter of time before the killers upstairs came down and killed them all.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  To do a job properly it helps to like it.

  Epsilon loved his work. Working with explosives was his calling. Unlike other people he knew, or knew about, he didn’t get off on the explosion itself, although he wouldn’t ever turn down the opportunity to witness something blow up.

  No, what he enjoyed was putting the bombs together and setting them in place. He couldn’t get enough of the thrill of knowing that he was the master of other people’s destiny. He could kill scores of people with the little contraptions he made. A part of him had once wondered if he should get psychiatric help.

  But on the other hand, where was the harm in taking pleasure in your work? Besides, it wasn’t like he deliberately went around placing bombs everywhere. He wasn’t a psychopath. He was a craftsman.

  “Clear,” Rho said as he dropped to his knees and scanned the perimeter.

  Epsilon was disappointed that he didn’t have to blow up the so-called power station. There hadn’t been any guards either. The place was a cinderblock bunker on the eastern shore, right at the bottom of the hill. It was filled with huge, industrial generators and it was also where the tidal power generator linked up.

  There were chain-link fences, but no security aside from two cameras which had been easy enough to circumvent. After coming ashore, all Epsilon, Rho, and Lambda had had to do was cross the island and cut the power. It was just a matter of flipping a few switches.

  But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have fun tonight.

  He hurried next to Rho and picked up his radio. “Alpha, this is Epsilon. Come in.”

  “This is Alpha. Sitrep? Over.”

  “Alpha, mission completed. The power is out. Over.”

  “Copy. Proceed to secondary objective.”

  “Roger that. Over and out.”

  He tapped Rho on the shoulder for him to take point and the three men scurried away into the rain, weapons at the ready. Now it was time to play with explosives.

  Chapter 17

  Orland didn’t stare at the rifle that was pointed at him. It was only a second away from being fired and he knew it. There was no sense keeping him alive when this terrorist and his people had already killed Alex.

  Without hesitation, Orland bowed and started to cry.

  “Please, no!” he begged while sobbing. “Don’t kill me, please. I didn’t do anything. I don’t want to die.”

  From the corner of his eye he saw two things. One, Bill was surprised by this reaction as he himself held both hands up in surrender. And two, the attacker had understandably been prepared for a number of scenarios, except
this one.

  The rain was a blessing. It covered Orland’s face and made it impossible to see that he wasn’t shedding real tears. He took small steps toward the gunman.

  “I give up,” he pleaded. “I’ll do anything you want. Please, sir… I have a family. They depend on me. Please don’t do this to them.”

  By now Orland was only a yard away from the man in black who didn’t know how to deal with this. It was perfect.

  Faster than he even thought possible, Orland whipped his right arm to the side and grabbed the rifle by the muzzle. He pulled and jerked upwards.

  The stranger’s eyes grew wide, aware that everything had just gone haywire. He didn’t have time to pull the trigger, though, because Orland’s left hand was already on top of the weapon, grabbing the optical mount for leverage. He twisted and yanked the rifle from his grip.

  Then, not taking the time to flip the carbine and use it the way it was intended to, Orland immediately struck the man in the forehead with the stock. The sling was tight and didn’t give him a lot of room to work with, but it was enough to knock the guy out. He collapsed on the muddy ground.

  “Jesus Christ…” Bill swore.

  Orland didn’t pay attention to him. He unslung the weapon so he could shoulder it properly and aimed it at the attacker. He was on the ground, completely unconscious.

  “How did you do this?” Bill asked. “I thought you were crying. I thought you were losing it.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Where did you learn how to do this? Were you a soldier or something?”

  Orland shrugged. “I just grew up in a tough neighborhood.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Bill muttered again.

  He came closer to the lifeless body and nudged him with his foot. The guy was definitely out cold.

  “Stop it. That’s not a nice thing to do. Next thing you know, you’ll be drawing dicks on his face.”

  “You have a Sharpie?”

  Orland ignored him. He crouched next to the man and pulled out spare magazines for the rifle, which he pocketed. Then he drew the attacker’s pistol, handing it to Bill.

  “You know how to use one of these things?”