Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)

by Steve Richer

  “Agent Bricks, are you okay?”

  “I’m dandy, thanks for dropping by.” He rolled the assassin off him and sat up as he rested. “What brings you here? Meatloaf Monday at the cafeteria?”

  “I heard the shots,” she replied as she checked the second dead body for a pulse. “Who are these guys?”

  “I’d put good money that they’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses. Aside from that, I have a theory going.”

  “The terrorists from the boat?”

  “That gets you a bingo.”

  Rogan stood up and glanced at Rusty; he was asleep again and he envied him. Something was warm on his face and he put a finger against his cheek. It came away covered with blood.

  “Here,” Lelana said, handing him a box of tissues. “Did he jab you with the needle?”

  “No, it didn’t break the skin.”

  Actually, Rogan wasn’t sure. He hurried to the bathroom and looked at his neck in the mirror. There were no puncture wounds that he could see, which was a relief. The gash on his forehead wasn’t deep. His hearing was back to normal too. He cleaned the blood off his face and hands but there was not much he could do about his clothes.

  When he came out of the bathroom, the cop was on the phone calling her officers. He bent down and picked up his gun, holstering it.

  Lelana hung up. “My people will be here in a minute. You think we should get a forensics team from Anchorage?”

  “It’ll be easier to just fly the bodies back. I mean, I understand you have to do a report about this shooting and all, but processing these guys is gonna be a priority.”

  “I understand but the state police will want to investigate the officer-involved shooting.”

  Rogan was itching to rummage through these killers’ pockets but he didn’t want to get the woman in trouble. He’d wait until some of her colleagues showed up to witness the crime scene, they would take a few pictures, and then he would get to work.

  In the meantime, he called his boss, SAC Patton, to tell her what had happened.

  “Jesus, Bricks,” she sighed with exasperation when he was finished. “You have a knack for finding trouble, don’t you?”

  “It must be my winning personality. So I’m inclined to believe this kid. His boat was attacked, the pirates realized they’d left somebody alive behind, and they came back to finish the job.”

  “So are we marking this as terrorism? Do I have to call Washington?”

  Taking a deep breath, Rogan waited before replying, recalling everything he’d learned so far.

  “No, it’s not terrorism. It was a hit.”

  “You’re talking contract murder, Bricks?”

  “Somebody wanted these guys dead. Terrorism is to scare the masses. You don’t scare the masses by killing a handful of fishermen in the middle of the ocean. This was a hit and a very professional one, Wendy.”

  “All right, I trust you. What’s your plan?”

  He smiled because she had enough confidence in him not to take over the case as was her right.

  “They tried to take out Rusty Brandt and they didn’t succeed. That means they’re gonna try again. The kid said there were seven or eight who attacked them which means there are more out there. He needs to be moved into protective custody right away.”

  “I’ll put in a call to the Coast Guard. I’ll have him flown in to Anchorage and have the US Marshals handle his protection.”

  “All right. Now it’s just a matter of finding who these guys are and why they did it.”

  “You have any leads?”

  Rogan looked at the corpses and the one handgun he could see. “Yeah, I may have something. I’ll get back to you.”

  Just as he hung up, four KPD officers arrived on the scene, jogging with a hand on their firearms. They were all men in their late 20s and early 30s.

  “What the…”

  “Are you all right, Sarge?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Let’s start taking pictures, guys. I want you to document this before we search them. This is Special Agent Bricks with the FBI. He needs you to do this quickly.”

  “And I want guards posted outside,” Rogan said. “Nobody comes in without being checked out.”

  Two of the cops nodded and left the room again, speaking into their radios. Rogan guessed he was monopolizing the entire police force but he didn’t care. This was important.

  They made fast work of snapping photographs of the crime scene and taking statements from both Lelana and the federal agent.

  “You’re good to go, Rogan.”

  “Thanks.”

  He rolled the black man onto his back and searched his pockets. He found a wad of money, spare magazines, but no wallet or ID. He opened his shirt collar and found no dog tags, just a cheap crucifix.

  Next, he inspected the pistol although he didn’t touch it so he wouldn’t contaminate the fingerprints. It was black and resembled a Beretta.

  “Ever see one of these?” Lelana asked, looking over his shoulder.

  “It’s a Vektor SP1. Standard issue for South African military.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “You just know this offhand?”

  “I know a lot of things.”

  He wasn’t in the mood to explain that he’d been in Marine Force Recon, that he had received a Navy Cross for distinguished heroism in combat, as the citation put it. As a special operator, he’d been trained in foreign weaponry.

  Between the guns and accent, he was certain these men were from South Africa.

  So what were they doing in Alaska?

  Chapter 9

  “How are you feeling?” Rogan asked Rusty as the Coast Guard helicopter descended over Anchorage.

  The kid was white as a ghost and frankly he didn’t blame him. Between recovering from hyperthermia, having witnessed a massacre, just missing getting killed by two assassins in his hospital room, and his body still pumped full of drugs, he’d had a harrowing 24 hours.

  “What’s gonna happen?”

  “US Marshals are waiting for us on the tarmac. They’re gonna take good care of you. You’re going to Alaska Regional and you’ll be under their protection around the clock.”

  “Is it over?”

  “For you it is, Rusty.”

  The young man nodded and leaned back into his seat. The Coast Guard flight crew was curious but to their credit they didn’t ask any questions. They clearly knew that this guy had been rescued at sea the night before but they had no idea why he was being transferred so soon out of Kodiak. The less they knew the better, Rogan judged.

  He held on as the red HH-65C Dolphin chopper got ready to land. He trembled with the rest of the passengers but his mind was somewhere else. Specifically, he was mad that Sergeant Lelana Abeita hadn’t allowed him to take the killers’ bodies back to the mainland with him.

  She didn’t want the shooting incident investigation to be flawed so state troopers were coming to officially take over the case. She promised that she would send everything she discovered as soon as possible, whether it was fingerprints or autopsy reports.

  Then again, Rogan didn’t know why it bothered him so much. He had no intention of handling this investigation. From what he knew, this pointed to evidence having occurred outside of Alaska. It wasn’t his business.

  A few moments later, they were on the ground and it took nearly 15 minutes to pass Rusty Brandt over to the Marshals who insisted on having the proper paperwork signed along with a summary of events.

  “Thanks!” Rusty shouted over his shoulder.

  Rogan nodded and watched him disappear into a black SUV. The US Marshals definitely had nicer cars.

  He then headed off the tarmac toward the parking area and quickly recognized Horace Moore waiting for him behind the wheel of his dirty Crown Victoria. He got into the passenger seat.

  “I’m gonna take a wild guess that you’re here waiting for me?”

  “I was waiting for a stewardess actually but you’ll do, Bricks.”

  Moore was ancient by
FBI standards. He was the oldest serving field agent in the Bureau. No one was under the impression that he could physically chase a bank robber through the streets but he was a good investigator and, more importantly, he always followed orders blindly.

  “Care to take me home?”

  “It would be my pleasure if it wasn’t for the fact that the boss will have my ass if I don’t bring you to her right now.”

  “And what a fine ass we would lose,” Rogan said. “All right, take me to the office.”

  It wasn’t long before they reached the brown brick headquarters on East Sixth Avenue. It looked like an elementary school. Moore stopped the car in front of the entrance.

  “You’re not coming in?” Rogan asked.

  “It’s happy hour at TGI Friday’s. Can’t miss that. You’re welcome to join me after you’re done here.”

  “TGI Friday’s, uh? So tempting. I think I’ll take my girl over those 17 delicious appetizers.”

  “Your loss!”

  They said goodbye and Rogan went inside. It was past five o’clock and therefore the place was almost empty. How had his day turned out like this? What did it mean that he was looking forward to ripping out carpeting instead of coming to work?

  I’m getting old, he thought.

  Special Agent in Charge Wendy Patton poked her head out of her office. “Bricks, please come inside.”

  He acknowledged the middle-aged woman with a wave and went to his cubicle to remove his trench coat. This reminded him that it was covered in blood. He was looking forward to sending the FBI a bill for a new coat.

  “What’s up?” he asked when he entered his superior’s office and closed the door.

  “What’s up? You’re really asking me this?”

  “I love our conversations, Wendy.”

  She was fuming at his tone and he sat down across the desk from her, holding back laughter.

  She took a deep breath to settle herself. “Tell me everything that happened.”

  “I already told you everything on the phone, boss.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “I was going to my desk to write you a fancy report and everything. I know how you love my flowery prose. I’ll add extra adjectives just for you.”

  “Rogan, please get on with it.”

  With a sigh, he crossed his legs and arms, leaning back into the chair. “Professional bad guys with sophisticated equipment reach a fishing boat in the middle of the Bering Sea, they kill everyone except the greenhorn, Rusty Brandt. He jumps into the water to save himself. He gets rescued by the Coast Guard. This morning he starts talking about what happened and a few hours later a couple of goons show up to waste him. Unfortunately, I happened to be there. We fight, they die, and now I’m here having this lovely chat with you.”

  She’d been taking some notes while he spoke and she continued to write. This annoyed him, he was getting hungry.

  “Like I said, I’ll write all this in my report. Unless you’re making your grocery list? If so, can you write down chocolate chip cookies please?”

  She dropped her pen and looked back up. “I need you to stay on the case, Rogan.”

  “That’s a big fat negatory, thank you very much. The state police is investigating the incident with the two hitmen in Kodiak and the fishing boat sailed out of Seattle. I’m afraid if there’s any FBI involvement it shouldn’t come from this office. I suggest Seattle. Now if you excuse me, my girlfriend and my dog are waiting for me.”

  He stood but stopped when his boss glared at him. “Sit down, Rogan.”

  “You’re jealous of my girlfriend, aren’t you?” he joked, knowing fully well that she was happily married.

  “I need to consult someone on this.”

  She turned to her computer and typed something before clicking her mouse. Then she turned her computer screen so that Rogan, who was sitting again, could see. The Skype software was ringing.

  Rogan groaned when it was answered by Jason Vanstedum.

  “Good evening, Special Agent Patton. Bricks.”

  “Thanks for receiving my call, Assistant Director.”

  “Hey,” Rogan said lamely, waving at the camera mounted on the monitor.

  Jason Vanstedum had been the Special Agent in Charge of the Washington field office when the presidential case had unfolded. Rogan had butted heads with him although in the end he had turned out to be an okay guy. He had since been promoted to Assistant Director for Counterterrorism.

  “Rogan, I contacted Assistant Director Vanstedum this afternoon when you called me.”

  “This is a waste of time. There is no terrorism involved. It doesn’t concern him and it doesn’t concern me either.”

  “Hold on a second,” Vanstedum said, his face coming closer to his camera and therefore filling the screen. “You’re saying it wasn’t terrorism? A team of armed men board a fishing boat, kill everyone, and scuttle the vessel, and it’s not terrorism?”

  “It has all the markings of a hit, sir. These men were from South Africa.”

  “Come again?”

  He told them about the South African weapon and accent as well as his theory about contract murder.

  “So you see, there’s no need for involving Counterterrorism in this. If you guys take this over, all you do is create widespread panic because we all know this is gonna leak to the media. There’s nothing more that cable news networks love more than a good terrorism story. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

  Vanstedum pondered this for a moment. “I agree. We need to keep this low profile until we find out more.”

  “Excuse me?” Rogan asked, sliding to the edge of his seat. “Did you just agree with me? What’s next, flying pigs?”

  The senior man ignored him. “I’m giving you the case, Bricks. Go wherever this leads, you’re acting on my authority and the budget that goes along with it. When you know more, if you can confirm this isn’t terrorism, then we’ll reassess. Another reason I want you to look into this by yourself is that we may have a mole.”

  Rogan rolled his eyes. “Not that shit again!”

  “We don’t know,” SAC Patton said. “Those… hitmen, they knew where to find Mr. Brandt within hours. We can’t take any chances, that’s why I called Assistant Director Vanstedum. It’s better to keep this to only a few players for the time being.”

  “I respectfully decline the offer,” Rogan announced. “Find some other unlucky stooge.”

  “Not my problem, Bricks. You’re stuck with this.”

  The screen went dark and so did Rogan’s thoughts.

  Shit.

  Chapter 10

  Rogan was seething as he drove home. He didn’t think of himself as lazy but he had to admit that he wasn’t ambitious. Then again, what was wrong with a quiet life solving simple cases? Not everybody had to be vying to become Attorney General someday.

  He supposed that it was because of what he’d been through before, all the money he’d had. And there was his combat experience too. Anyone who’d gone through this ordeal knew how comforting boring could be. Boring was safe.

  And now he’d been assigned this case? What bothered him the most was that it was just this side of complicated. His working theory was that the fishermen had been killed by people hired to do so. This was routine enough, as far as murder went.

  However, the fact that these were foreigners, and professionals at that, meant that he would most likely run into a dead end at some point. The case would never be closed. It was a waste of time.

  He decided that he would tackle this in the morning. In the meantime, he would go home and cook something nice in order to relax. This had become his hobby and he was taking it more and more seriously.

  Let’s see, what should I make tonight?

  Chicken with homemade pesto? He knew that he had some chicken thighs in the freezer but he wasn’t sure if he had any fresh basil left. He could always substitute it with spinach. Yes, that would be a nice spin on it. Spinach, olive oil, Parmesan cheese, maybe so
me hazelnuts to change things up a little.

  He drove faster as he began to salivate, his problems vanishing.

  He would pick the chicken off the bone and sauté it first. Then he’d add the spinach pesto and he would stir in some cream cheese, making it velvety. He could serve this over fusilli pasta with garlic bread on the side. No, scratch that garlic bread. He wanted to have fun under the covers with Shiloh tonight so garlic was out of the equation.

  Just as he turned the corner and spotted his house, he saw that a yellow taxi was parked in front. Out of nowhere, he became scared and worried. Anything out of the ordinary was cause for concern. Shiloh had a car, she didn’t need a cab. Did that mean they had visitors? If so, who?

  He thought about checking his weapon to make sure it was loaded when he realized he was overreacting. A threat wouldn’t have taken a taxi. They certainly wouldn’t have parked out front.

  Rogan drove around it and pulled the car into the driveway. The cabbie was still in the taxi which was running. He turned off the engine and entered the house.

  On the console table in the foyer was Shiloh’s purse and next to it was her wallet and passports.

  “Sweetheart?”

  He took off his coat and hung it in the closet, doing so silently so he would hear a clue about what was going on. He walked further into the house and right then Glut came running.

  “Hi, boy!” he said to the dog, petting him all over which never failed to delight the golden retriever. “How have you been? Chewed any good shoes lately?”

  Several seconds later, as Rogan considered sitting down on the floor to play with the dog in earnest, Shiloh came down the stairs. She was carrying a small suitcase.

  “Hey,” he began with a mild frown as he straightened up. “What’s going on?”

  “Hi, luv. I just have to…” Her voice trailed off as she noticed the blood on his shirt. “What happened to you?”

  “Oh, this. Bad day at the office. I had a run-in with the stapler.”

  She set her luggage on the floor and hurried to him, inspecting not only his clothes but also the cuts and bruises on his face.