Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)

by Steve Richer

  Rogan rolled his eyes. “Come on, I was just messing with the guy.”

  “Take your hand away from your weapon,” Chen ordered.

  “You’re not gonna write me up for this, are you? Nothing happened that concerns you.”

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The game has changed, Bricks.”

  “Come again?”

  Chen turned to Nadine. “Arrest this man, please. Put him in restraints.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bricks, I have a warrant for your arrest. It’s signed by the US Attorney’s Office, Western District of Washington.”

  Rogan shook his head and instinctively took a step back as Nadine and two other agents came his way.

  “What’s this bullshit?” He turned to Cooley. “You slimy cocksucker, it’s you, isn’t it? You can’t get what you want through legal ways so you arrange for these backhanded shady little tactics?”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t smart enough to think of this one, Bricks. I have nothing to do with this.”

  The CIA officer grinned but there was no way he could conceal his confusion.

  Rogan was spun around and an agent disarmed him while another frisked him from head to toe.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Special Agent Bricks,” Chen began. “This warrant orders the federal government to arrest and charge you under Title 18 section 1117, conspiracy to commit murder.”

  Rogan’s heart skipped a beat as the handcuffs closed around his wrists behind his back. This was impossible, the CIA had to be involved somehow.

  “I didn’t fucking do this! Who am I supposed to be involved in killing?”

  “A United States senator named Patrick Stoll.”

  “Who? I never even heard of this guy!”

  No one answered him as they led him out of the room.

  Chapter 35

  It had been an eternity since Shiloh’s heart had beaten so fast. It was stress and fear and the knowledge that her life was hanging in the balance. One false move and she was liable to get killed. By now she was considered armed and dangerous by the authorities.

  Cops most likely had standing orders to shoot her on sight.

  “Right here is fine,” she told that cabbie.

  They pulled to the curb, she paid, and got out. She started walking north along the sidewalk but as soon as the taxi disappeared, she changed directions and headed south. She crossed the street and returned to her motel.

  She got in from the side, being careful to avoid contact with other patrons, and went straight to her room. She made a conscious decision not to touch too many things – she didn’t want to have to wipe every surface all over again as she had before.

  “Bloody hell, what’s going on?”

  She paced around the room for a minute to gather her thoughts. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She remembered her SERE training: survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. She might as well have been in the middle of Moscow or Tehran.

  San Diego was now hostile territory.

  She went into the bathroom and cleaned the makeup off her face. It was the last distinguishing mark that associated her with the events at the Conroy Hotel. She washed everything off and then dried herself.

  She pinned her hair correctly again and found a blond wig among her things. This one was styled rather long with bangs obscuring half her face. Perfect. Next she removed the stolen suit and slipped into hospital scrubs. She kept the same espadrilles because they were comfortable and weren’t ostentatious.

  She gave herself a once over in the bathroom mirror. With the multicolored uniform she looked like a nurse who worked in the pediatric ward. She was the very image of the inoffensive, anonymous pedestrian.

  She once again cleaned up after herself so she wouldn’t leave any fingerprints or hair follicles. When she was satisfied, she closed her roll-along suitcase and left for good.

  She walked two blocks to the closest major boulevard and hailed a cab. She headed back downtown.

  Halfway there, she saw a familiar sign on a small shopping mall and told the driver to let her out. She headed on foot to the electronics store.

  “Can I help you?” a cheerful young man in a blue polo shirt asked.

  “I’m looking for prepaid phones. My kid brother is in college and our mom is desperate to stay in touch with him. I’m seeing him off right now,” she added, pointing at her suitcase.

  Shiloh smiled just enough to be polite and not betray the urgency of her shopping. She initially had wanted to dismiss the salesman but since the store wasn’t busy she was afraid that he would notice what she was doing anyway. He’d remember her being rude and she didn’t want to be remembered.

  “Right this way.”

  They headed for a display case with various phone models and she let him do his sales spiel, again acting as if everything was normal. When he was done, she picked two inexpensive flip phones as well as a charger capable of plugging into a car lighter.

  She paid using one of her fake ID credit cards and left. She found another taxi and asked to be taken to Market Street. On the way, she unwrapped her new phones and assembled them. Neither was working, the battery was too low.

  Once on Market she kept her eyes peeled. When she recognized the intersection, she had the cabbie drop her off and she walked the rest of the way to her rental car.

  Again, her heartbeat was on overdrive. She was only a few blocks away from the Conroy Hotel and the area had to be crawling with cops. She told herself to calm down, she looked totally different from earlier. They didn’t have her fake names, they wouldn’t be able to track her car. She was safe.

  For now.

  She plugged in the first phone into the lighter so it would charge and she drove away from the downtown core. No sudden turns, not too fast, she just wanted to put some distance between herself and the crime scene.

  A little after 11, she called a number she had committed to memory.

  “This is Dispatch.”

  “I have a Yankee Zulu Protocol,” she said evenly.

  She was using her regular British accent so he would know who was calling. Yankee Zulu Protocol referred to an operation gone sideways with the agent left exposed.

  “Then I suggest you follow the procedure.”

  The first step of this procedure was to sever all ties to known associates and calling him was the one thing she couldn’t do.

  “Barth, you and your procedure can get stuffed. There’s no more faction.”

  “Then why are you calling me? And stop using my name on open channels.”

  She ignored him. “I want you to put me in contact with Vazquez.”

  “Negative.”

  “You don’t want to get on my bad side, Barth. Not today.”

  “Kappas…”

  “Listen to me very carefully. I’m sure you already know what’s going on. There’s major blowback with this mission you hooked me up with. It was an ambush, the authorities are after me.”

  “You knew the risks.”

  “Don’t give me this bullshit, Barth. It’s not very becoming for someone as smart as you are. You put me in contact with Vazquez, you’re essentially responsible for everything that’s happening to me. I’m holding you liable for this.”

  “Listen, Kappas…”

  “No, you listen. You know me, you know what I did. Do you really want me to take out my wrath on you?”

  There was a pause and Shiloh could swear she heard the man swallow. That was always a good sign as far as she was concerned.

  She continued. “Put me in contact with Ricardo Vazquez.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.”

  “And I’m afraid this is a major load of bollocks. You very well know I met with Sulkin yesterday and you also know that it was so I could meet Ricardo Vazquez. You claim innocence but you always know everything. Don’t make me mad, Barth. Today is not the time to make me
mad.”

  “Give me ten minutes and call me back,” he said dryly.

  The phone went dead and she hung up. She drove around until she found a supermarket and parked in the lot, away from other cars. She blended right in.

  After the ten minutes had lapsed, she called again, using the same phone. In the meantime, she’d been charging the other.

  “Do you have it, Barth?”

  He gave her a phone number which she committed to memory.

  “Consider us even,” he said. “I don’t ever want to speak to you again.”

  He hung up before she could reply. It was fine by her, for the time being. She removed the battery, followed by the SIM card. The last thing she needed was to be traced here. She would dispose of this phone soon.

  She took the second phone and dialed the number.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Vazquez?”

  “Who is this?”

  “You know me as Victoria.”

  It was several seconds before the Spaniard spoke. “Us speaking again isn’t wise.”

  “Did you set me up?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I went to our mutual friend to do the deed,” she said, trying desperately to hold back the fury in her voice. “He was expecting me. There were police officers there to arrest me. They knew why I was there.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “So the only explanation is that you planned this. You alerted the police. But why?”

  “I swear I don’t know anything about this,” Vazquez replied.

  “Forgive me if I’m skeptical.”

  “Victoria – or whatever you’re really called – if I wanted to strike against you I would’ve chosen one of a thousand easier ways. Now, this can only mean one thing.”

  “What?”

  “The threat against you and Mr. Bricks has just been elevated. There are more forces at play here.”

  That was certainly not good news, Shiloh thought. “Such as?”

  “I can’t say more over the phone. But I can assist you to avoid detection. Do you want me to help? I can get you out of the United States. What do you say?”

  She didn’t have a choice. If she stayed here she’d eventually get captured and there was nothing she’d be able to do.

  “Okay. Get me out of here.”

  Chapter 36

  At least he wasn’t locked up in a holding cell, Rogan thought. Instead, they had set him up in an interrogation room. It was roomier although there was no bed and he was probably constantly observed through the two-way mirror. The upside was that he didn’t feel completely like a criminal.

  “Are you enjoying the show?” he said tauntingly toward the mirror.

  He had no idea if people were behind it but it gave him something to do. He was pacing through the room, his jacket draped over a chair. The first hour was the worst when he didn’t have anything to do and wondered what was going to happen. Uncertainty was terrible for stress.

  Then some agents he didn’t know came every half-hour to deliver coffee and water, the empty cups and bottles now perfectly lined up on the table. The only information he got out of them was that people from Washington were flying in to interrogate him.

  “You know that time is money, right?” he barked again. “I’m losing precious time so I’ll be billing the Bureau for this, mark my words.”

  He flipped the bird at the mirror just to make sure his point came cross clearly. He glanced at his watch, it was time.

  He cleared some space and got down on the floor. He started doing push-ups which was awkward since he was still handcuffed. He had found a routine that kept him from going insane. He sat and drank for a while and then he exercised. Earlier he had jogged around the table for ten minutes and now it was time for something a little more extreme.

  Anything to channel his anger.

  What the fuck was going on anyway? He was being accused of conspiring to assassinate a US senator and it made absolutely no sense. He had never heard of the man – he wasn’t even interested in politics.

  So it had to be a case of mistaken identity. Given time, he’d be able to clear this up. The alternative was much more terrifying. What if he was being framed? If that was the case, he was doomed.

  Was it because of somebody he had arrested before? Somebody who wanted to turn the tables on him? Was it somebody who wanted to get back at Shiloh by going through him?

  Being in the dark was downright excruciating.

  The first thing he’d done after being locked away in the interrogation room was call Shiloh. Maybe this was a set up but the FBI was doing things by the book and had let him make a phone call.

  Only Shiloh hadn’t picked up. He had called every one of her numbers, even the secret emergency ones he knew by heart. He’d left messages in the hopes that they would make their way to her.

  Still, it wasn’t adding up. They were emergency numbers for a reason. It was their failsafe so that they would never be out of touch if hell ever broke loose which wasn’t so far-fetched given their recent misadventures and her former career.

  So why wasn’t she picking up?

  As Rogan decided he was tired of doing push-ups, the deadbolt turned. He was getting to his feet when the door opened. The person who came in was none other than CIA employee Cooley.

  “Bricks, don’t stop on my account.”

  “What’s going on? You offer special waterboarding discounts locally now?”

  Cooley smiled and remained in the doorway. He wasn’t so much blocking the exit as he was dropping in for a few seconds on his way to someplace else.

  “Just wanted to pay my respects before flying out to DC.”

  “I’m touched. Really, Cooley, it’s heartwarming. I think I would have considered suicide if you hadn’t stopped by.”

  The older man nodded with a grin, humoring him. “I suppose you can guess that I had my people call your people. We have Hargrove in custody and we’re flying him out.”

  “You got what you wanted and still you had me arrested. That’s goddamn cold, man. I know you guys don’t play by the rules but what you’re doing to me is just plain shameful.”

  “That’s really not me, Bricks. I swear. I admire your convictions, the way you were standing up for Hargrove, I truly do.”

  Rogan slow-clapped. “Bravo. You must have aced Lying 101, head of the class. Why did you do it? To discredit me further? Is that it? You already have your man, for Christ sakes!”

  “I’m sorry you don’t believe me. There’s nothing I can do about that. But it’s the truth, I have nothing to do with this. The CIA did not have you arrested. I hope it turns out all right for you. Take care.”

  Cooley nodded goodbye and walked away. Virtually at the same time, Rogan punched one of the empty coffee cups off the table and it was flung against the door as it closed.

  What if it was the truth? What if the CIA had nothing to do with it? Rogan told himself that he needed to start thinking laterally.

  He hurried to the door and banged loudly. “Hey, I want another phone call!”

  It took more than 30 seconds of banging before someone came to check up on him.

  “What is it?”

  “I want the phone again. Please.”

  The man left and returned a couple of minutes later with a cordless phone.

  “Thanks. And can you remove the bracelets? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

  The agent left again, without taking off the cuffs, and Rogan sat down. He racked his brain for the long-distance phone number and finally dialed.

  “Assistant Director Vanstedum’s office?”

  “Hey, hi. This is Special Agent Rogan Bricks. I need to talk to the boss right now, it’s super-duper urgent, I’m talking life and death here.”

  “Agent Bricks…”

  “Trust me, he’ll want to take this call.”

  The woman paused. “Just a moment please.”

  The moment stretched into several minutes.

&n
bsp; “Bricks?”

  “How are you doing, sir? I don’t know if you’re aware of it but I’m in a little bit of a pickle at the moment.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” the Washington bureaucrat said with an exasperated sigh. “What have you done this time?”

  “Actually, nothing.” He told him about capturing Hargrove, about the CIA demanding custody of him, and ultimately the trumped up charges seeing him detained. “Something is going on here, sir.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Exactly. You haven’t heard anything about this?”

  “Definitely not,” Vanstedum replied. “I’ll make some inquiries right away though.”

  “I appreciate it. I never quite envisioned becoming a convict as a viable career option. Call me crazy.”

  “What are they telling you, Bricks? Any details?”

  “A big bag of nothing. They say that Bureau people are coming from Washington but they’re hazy on the specifics. They also claim that I should be taken to court soon to be arraigned, which I would love so I can post bail, but so far nothing’s happening.”

  “Okay, hang tight. I’ll make some calls.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Apparently.”

  They said goodbye and hung up. Suddenly, Rogan wasn’t too fond of Seattle anymore.

  He slumped in his chair and methodically inspected each plastic bottle and paper cup, looking for something to drink although it was more out of boredom than actual thirst.

  Several minutes later, he had another visitor, this time Andres Castro.

  “You’re here to take my phone away, Andy? You guys are afraid I’ll MacGyver it into a laser beam and escape from this place?”

  He didn’t so much as crack a smile at the joke and came closer.

  “Last night, you have told me that your girlfriend is named Shiloh, yes?”

  At that, Rogan sat up straight. “What’s this about?”

  “This isn’t a common name to me so I remembered it.”

  “Castro, what’s going on?”

  “Her name is Shiloh Kappas?”

  “Yes, goddamn it. Tell me what’s happening!”

  Castro cowered, like he was embarrassed at what he had to say. He produced his smartphone and browsed to a specific website. It was CNN. An old photograph of Shiloh was front and center.