by Steve Richer
This was no longer a wild goose chase, going to interrogate some half dead fisherman who was making up stories. Well, not unless he was delusional. Rogan didn’t think he was though. There was no other explanation as to why he’d been found floating in the middle of the sea with no wreckage around him, which the Coast Guard had confirmed.
So he had some serious investigation ahead of him and it would likely lead outside of the state. That meant involving more agents as well as multiple federal agencies. It was a long way from what Rogan considered an adequate working environment.
Shit.
He headed for the stairs when he saw two men come up. One was a black giant of at least six-foot five while the other was white and considerably shorter. However, they both had buzz cuts and they were built for powerlifting.
At first, Rogan thought they looked like lumberjacks, or maybe Coast Guard personnel because of the haircuts. But there was something else, something in their eyes. They were alert, like they were on a hunt.
Rogan had seen that look a million times in Iraq and Afghanistan during his time in the Marine Corps. God knew he’d sported that expression himself every time he’d gone into combat.
They spotted him looking and their bodies went rigid as if they knew they were doing something wrong and they had been caught. The white guy muttered something and the other nodded.
In a flash, they opened their already unzipped jackets and reached for handguns.
Chapter 6
“FBI!” Rogan shouted at them. “Don’t move!”
He didn’t take the time to pull his badge to make the whole thing official though. If these guys were pulling out their weapons, he sure as hell would do the same.
He threw his trench coat open, sending the tail billowing behind him, and he drew his Glock 22 service pistol. He was only a fraction of a second behind them.
“Guns down, federal agent!”
These guys either didn’t speak English or they weren’t keen on following orders. They raised their black pistols and both men started shooting.
Rogan threw himself to the side, hoping the wall would offer a modicum of protection. Simultaneously, he lifted his Glock and squeezed off some rounds.
If he could scare them long enough for him to call in some reinforcements he would be all right. But the men didn’t back down. No, they ran forward!
Right then, a nurse – the one who had forced him out of the hospital room before – rounded the corner toward her station.
“Get down!”
She didn’t comply. Instead she turned around and ran away screaming, both hands on her head as if she feared shrapnel.
The men kept coming, shooting their way along. The floor tiles exploded around Rogan. He was too exposed. It was only a question of time before they got a bead on him.
It was only a question of time before he was shot to death.
Rogan pushed himself up to his knees and then ran toward the nurses’ station. It would offer some cover and he’d be in a position to call for help.
Just as he crossed the hallway and got behind the counter, the two would-be killers – that’s what they had to be – dashed forward, still firing toward the FBI agent.
“What’s happening?!”
Looking to his left, he realized there was a nurse cowering on the floor, her knees pulled up to her ample chest. She was trembling and on the verge of tears.
“Stay down,” Rogan told her. “I’m FBI. Don’t make a noise and I promise everything will be okay.”
He felt his body liquefy. He was covered in sweat. He hadn’t been in one of these situations since last winter and he’d been certain these things were behind him. Apparently, life had another surprise in store for him. Maybe he’d been meant to die all along.
But he refused it. That’s not how he wanted to go down.
His heart racing, he took a moment to wipe his hands on his pants before popping up from behind the counter. He pulled the trigger three times, until his magazine was empty.
But the men ducked and ran toward Rusty’s room.
So that’s what it was about!
It was all so clear now. These guys were part of the so-called terrorists who had attacked the fishing boat. They had realized one of the crewmen had escaped and now they were back to finish the job.
He couldn’t let that happen. Even if Rusty hadn’t fallen back asleep, he was in no shape to fight these guys off. He had to get to him.
Slamming a fresh magazine into his gun, Rogan sprinted out from behind the counter, toward Rusty’s room.
The killers were just getting inside and the FBI agent acted on instincts. He stopped in his tracks, ceased breathing, and extended his arms to get a steady aim. He squeezed the trigger three times in fast succession.
The first bullet splintered the doorframe and the black man spun on his heels to cover his buddy. But he wasn’t fast enough. The next two rounds caught him straight in the chest. He was thrown back, visibly dead on the spot.
Still, the remaining killer was now in Rusty’s room.
Rogan ran ahead, speed his only ally. The door was wide open, held by the black man’s corpse. He leaped inside and at this precise instant he caught movement coming from the side.
The smaller white guy was attempting to ambush him but Rogan had anticipated this. He dipped to his right and with his left arm he swept away the pistol that was aimed at his head. A shot rang out.
“Fuck!”
It was so loud, so close to his head, that he wondered if his eardrum had been punctured. He lost his breath and he felt unsteady on his feet. Yet he couldn’t falter now.
The killer countered by punching him just as Rogan was turning and lifting his Glock. If he could hold still for half a second, he could put an end to this situation.
Only this assassin was well-trained. He put his entire weight into ramming the FBI agent back against the door and as a result Rogan dropped his pistol which bounced off the dead body, ending up in the hallway.
“Ugh!”
The assassin still had his gun though and so Rogan lurched ahead, pushing it as far away from him as possible. Another shot was fired but this time Rogan was prepared. He dug his fingers into the man’s wrist.
“Aaahh!” he shouted with pain.
Rogan kicked him in the stomach with his knee, followed by a second time. The killer lost his balance and he had the foresight of latching onto the federal agent.
Both men fell to the ground and the pistol careened away until it was out of sight under Rusty’s bed. It was out of reach.
“Who are you?” Rogan asked through gritted teeth, more out of desperation than actual interest.
The other guy punched him in the face and was swiftly back on his feet. Rogan was reeling, still off-balance and with pain throbbing through his jaw.
He climbed to his feet just as the killer turned his attention to Rusty. He propelled the man forward, attempting to knock him out against the wall, but the assassin was ready.
He put his hands up to protect him and knocked the yellow sharps disposal container off its mount above the bed. It crashed against the floor and a dozen used syringes spilled out.
“The fuck is going on, man?” Rusty drawled, heavily sedated and barely moving in his bed.
Rogan couldn’t lose the momentum. He knocked the guy forward again, shoving him into the wall. He followed it up with rapid jabs into his kidneys.
“Aaarrrggghhh!” he roared, not so much from pain but from rage.
He turned around and parried Rogan’s hits, striking back. He was well-trained, Rogan caught himself thinking as he was punched in the face and then in the stomach, knocking his breath away.
The two of them traded blows while searching for an angle. Rogan didn’t carry a backup piece, he’d never really seen the need for it, but now he would’ve given anything for some type of weapon.
“I got you,” were the killer’s first words.
Rogan detected not only an accent but arroga
nce on his part. Why was he so arrogant? What did he know that the FBI agent didn’t?
Right then, the killer reached inside his coat. Shit, this guy really did have an advantage! Rogan couldn’t let him get away with it.
He jumped forward but the stranger was prepared for it. He dodged him and pushed Rogan to the floor, stamping him in the head at the same time.
This was the most painful punch so far and blood trickled from his forehead down into his eyes. His vision was blurry and his head felt two times its actual size. And the son of a bitch was coming for him!
Without ceremony, the small guy straddled Rogan’s waist and reached for something on the floor. The government man knew it was ominous but somehow he couldn’t fight back. He couldn’t bring himself to.
The killer straightened up again and went for Rogan’s throat. He was holding a used syringe.
“No…”
You’re not dying today, he shouted to himself.
Rogan looked left and right. He located the two discarded weapons but they were out of reach, the closest was at least five feet away. And since he couldn’t see the black man’s gun he figured it was underneath his body. Useless.
“I said no!”
He brought his two hands to the assassin’s wrist, anything to slow him down. Nevertheless, the man was strong and Rogan was weak and injured.
The sharp syringe needle was coming closer and closer…
Chapter 7
Shiloh closed her eyes as the steaming water cascaded over her body. She was holding the soap bottle but decided against using it for now. She liked the Zen sensation of being immobile under the showerhead. She leaned against the tiled wall and thought about where she was in life.
She loved Rogan but the truth was that she missed her old self. Worst of all, she was afraid that she would wake up one morning and resent him for having made her abandon her former lifestyle.
Of course, that wasn’t exactly the truth. He wasn’t directly responsible. She was in charge of her destiny, of the choices she had made. It wasn’t simply a question of determining what mattered most to her.
She had been recruited by British intelligence while attending the University of Oxford. She had done well for herself, rapidly climbing through MI6, if not in rank then in importance. She had a knack for espionage and covert operations. It thrilled her.
At 25 years old she was already running her own missions and some of the more senior officers didn’t take too kindly to the breach of protocol.
One January, she’d been in East Jerusalem in order to arrange an arms deal. The idea was to funnel money away from a Hamas-affiliated cell, make them come out in the open, and at the same time identify a Ukrainian gun supplier. Only Shiloh’s superior didn’t trust her and had called in an airstrike right before she could achieve her goal.
In addition to not learning the identity of the arms dealer, 19 innocent people had been killed.
It was then that she realized she didn’t work well with others. She gave her notice in order to work in the private sector. She joined a Hong Kong-based firm mostly staffed by Westerners and for a year things went swimmingly.
She was given leeway and she thrived even though her missions were somewhat routine. She was involved with K&R cases where she would evaluate risks, negotiate ransom demands, and supervise hostage exchanges. She worked with corporate executives, providing personal security to billionaires from all walks of life.
It was then that she was recruited by the faction.
They were a group of mostly rich and powerful men who’d been running their own agenda for decades. Naturally, she was cautious at first, she didn’t want to work for criminals. But soon she saw that the faction’s goal was to keep the world stable.
They took a global look at the world and moved the chess pieces accordingly. If they encouraged a certain war to take place it was to curtail a worse one. If they ordered somebody killed, it was to prevent the world from falling into chaos.
Working with British intelligence, Shiloh had learned that this was how the real world worked. It wasn’t pretty but that’s how it was. Burying her head in the sand wouldn’t change anything and so she went along, cashing sizable paychecks in return.
The work was right up her alley until she was charged with a mission that would change her life forever. She was tasked with seducing a young FBI agent called Rogan Bricks who was starting his career in Salt Lake City.
The man was everything the faction wanted in a new member. He was extremely rich through shrewd investments and his seed money had been obtained illegally, as they had discovered.
A small plane belonging to a drug cartel had crashed near Rogan’s Texas foster home when he was a teenager and he hadn’t rescued the man inside. Instead he’d chosen to pull out two large suitcases from the burning wreckage. They’d been filled with money and diamonds.
Plagued with guilt, he had tried to spend everything through partying and risky investments but it had only served to make him wealthy. To make amends, he had devoted his life to being a good man, attending Harvard and then joining the Marine Corps after the September 11 attacks.
That’s what the faction wanted, a man who had everything in his favor to become somebody powerful. The fact that the source of his money was illegal would give them leverage over him. Shiloh had therefore been sent not only to seduce him but to evaluate him.
She had prepared for every eventuality but she had not been prepared to fall in love with him.
Her mission was to last two months and she had begged and lied so she would stay longer with him. Everything had been fake – her name, her past, her accent, and ultimately their marriage – but she hadn’t faked her love for him.
Eventually, her superiors had had enough and pulled the plug on the operation. Even her fatal car accident had been simulated. She could have told him everything but since she didn’t think he was a candidate for the faction, he didn’t have the ambition to become a major player on the world stage, she had decided that ignorance was bliss. Rogan was better off not knowing about the cabal secretly running the world.
It had been all the more ironic that he’d been the one to bring it down.
The President had killed his wife during the State of the Union address and Rogan had been put in charge of the investigation. What he had uncovered was that an offshoot of the faction had been manipulating assets to line their pockets.
That’s how Shiloh had gotten back into his life. She had responded to the President’s distress signal and had saved Rogan’s life. Afterwards, she had helped the authorities expose the faction and dismantle it as best as she could. Few people were behind bars at the moment but they had been neutered as a group.
The experience had made her understand that she couldn’t live without him and nor could he. Consequently, she had given up her fast-paced career to be with him in Alaska. She had loved every second of the last six months. Being with Rogan, not having to lie anymore, it was pure happiness.
Everything had been forgiven. They made love every chance they got, they talked constantly, intimately. Even though he had given away his fortune, they were still comfortable, especially since she had savings of her own. She couldn’t ask for more.
Except that boredom was beginning to manifest itself.
She didn’t want to bring it up. She didn’t want to ruin what she had with him. However, he wasn’t stupid, far from it. He was bound to figure it out soon. She was getting cabin fever, she missed the action. On the other hand, being with Rogan was worth it. She decided that she could handle it.
The water starting to get cold, Shiloh finally lathered her curves with shower gel and cleaned up hastily. She had to get a job, even if it was something unsatisfying like a sales clerk. Remodeling the basement wasn’t cutting it as far as keeping her occupied.
She wrung the water out of her dark hair, dried up, and padded naked through the master bedroom. She picked jeans and a knockoff Disney sweatshirt from her closet when her ph
one rang. She picked it up from the nightstand.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Shiloh. This is Dispatch.”
She stopped dead in her tracks. She suddenly became aware of how cold the room was, her nude body getting covered with goose bumps instantly.
“There’s no longer a faction so there’s no longer a Dispatch.”
“Don’t make this difficult. Some of us need to work for a living.”
“How did you get this number?” she asked. This was a new phone.
“Irrelevant. A business opportunity has presented itself. I need you in Toronto tonight.”
“I can’t, this life is behind me.”
“This life is never behind us, you know that. I’m texting you the instructions.”
She could have said no. She could have hung up.
But she didn’t.
Chapter 8
Panic was beginning to set in. No, it wasn’t beginning – Rogan was succumbing to it completely. His strength was drained, his entire body ached, and the needle was now pushing against his skin.
His neck tight, his mouth quivering, he decided he wasn’t going out like this. Adrenaline surged out of nowhere and he pushed back on the assassin.
“Huh!”
The man was astounded by the sudden regain of energy and he almost tumbled backwards. But he didn’t.
He remained astride Rogan, he wasn’t going anywhere. He switched his grip on the syringe, flipping it over. The FBI agent knew what that meant.
He was about to be stabbed and there was nothing he could do about it.
The killer pulled back his shoulder to gather force and he swung down in a precise arc.
Bang!
A shot resounded through the hospital and the guy’s head exploded, blood spurting out all over Rogan. Another shot was fired into the man’s back as he crashed onto him, the syringe falling half an inch from his face. He was dead.
“Rogan! Are you all right?”
Out of breath, he looked over the corpse’s shoulder just in time to see Sergeant Lelana Abeita hurrying to him. She surveyed the room, pistol at the ready. She then holstered it.
