Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)

by Steve Richer

  “It is all over the news. Shiloh Kappas is a wanted fugitive. She is also accused of wanting to assassinate this same US senator.”

  Chapter 37

  In the supermarket parking lot, a SUV parked alongside Shiloh’s rental car. A woman got out with a little girl who was about five years old. She instinctively looked at Shiloh and her colorful nurse’s uniform.

  She smiled and kept staring. She nudged her mother and pointed at Shiloh. This was a complication she hadn’t anticipated. The uniform had been meant to make her disappear into the crowd but it was also designed to make children at ease.

  She couldn’t call attention to herself if she was to stay alive.

  She turned on the engine and drove away. She stopped in Balboa Park where she disassembled the phones and threw the components in a series of garbage bins once she had wiped off her prints. She did the same thing with the pistol she had stolen from the cop. Broken into pieces, it looked innocuous enough and nobody would make the connection with her.

  It devastated her to do this. The thing she wanted to do the most was to call Rogan and tell him about her predicament. They say that a problem shared is a problem halved and Rogan’s help would undoubtedly be vital.

  Yet, she couldn’t involve him in this. By all accounts, his life was in danger, that’s why she was here in the first place. The less he knew about everything that was going on and the better he fared. Besides, once she was out of the country she would be able to contact him. She would either tell him everything that had happened or find a way to make it stop.

  Not taking a chance, she altered her appearance a little by tying her blond wig into a ponytail and changing shirts, putting on a soft crimson blouse. After that, she drove several blocks and abandoned the car in Hillcrest, also careful to clean her fingerprints off every surface. She walked half a mile and got into a taxi.

  “Mission Valley, please.”

  As they went north, she instructed the driver to let her off at the Riverwalk Golf Course. From there she moved to the shopping mall on the other side of the street which was her rendezvous point. She went to the parking garage across from the Apple Store.

  She waited.

  It was half an hour before a white minivan appeared, just as promised. Three black men came out and eyed her suspiciously. They were dressed casually, one was in shorts with a San Diego Chargers jersey and the two others were wearing low-riding jeans and Tshirts.

  “You the woman? Victoria?”

  “Yes. You were sent by our Spanish friend.”

  The men exchanged glances as if to make sure this wasn’t a set up. Then the one in shorts nodded. He was the leader.

  “All right, get in.”

  They moved aside and she climbed through the sliding door, the others piling in after her. Once the door was closed, the leader turned to her.

  “Sorry but I gotta do this.”

  Before she could ask what it was that he needed to do, his hands were on her. He frisked her with none of the political correctness of TSA agents. His hands kneaded her breasts and explored her crotch. At the same time, there was nothing sexual about it. He was being thorough.

  While this was going on, the other man who wasn’t driving went through her suitcase, being quite gentle not to disrupt things too much.

  “She clean?” the man in the driver seat asked.

  “I don’t know about clean but she ain’t got any guns.”

  This got a laugh from the guys. A second later, they were driving away.

  “Where are you taking me?” Shiloh inquired.

  The San Diego Chargers fan replied, “El Cajon.”

  “And what’s in El Cajon?”

  “Lady, I got hired to chauffeur you. I ain’t acquainted with the details, all right? So don’t ask any questions.”

  She estimated that they drove about ten miles and soon they came upon an airport. She craned her neck and saw it was called Gillespie Field. It was rather large with several hangars and even a tower.

  More worrisome was a sign that read San Diego Sheriff Helicopter Squadron. Could this be a ploy to turn her in?

  The Chargers fan noticed and smiled. “Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

  They got to a security checkpoint. The man in a private security company uniform was in his 50s, Hispanic. He came to the window.

  “What’s your business here today?”

  “Hey, man. Got a call about us before?” The Chargers fan passed an envelope behind the driver’s head and through the window. “I think you’re expecting this.”

  “Right, it’s you guys. Go right ahead.”

  The security man lifted the gate and waved them through. They drove on toward the runways.

  “Easy, right, lady?”

  “You certainly have everything figured out.”

  “Almost there, for real this time.”

  They got to a private aviation hangar and a sleek white Learjet was parked in front. The minivan came to a halt.

  “This is my stop?” Shiloh asked.

  “It’s as far as we go.”

  She nodded. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll be sure to recommend your services to all my friends.”

  “Peace out, lady.”

  He winked at her as she left the van and seconds later it drove away. She was left stranded in front of the executive jet. But it wasn’t for long.

  A man emerged from the open door and walked down the stairs. Shiloh stared at him and remained on her guard. He was in his mid-30s and his hair was dark blond. From his skin tone and eyebrows she could tell it was dyed and it strangely suited him. He was wearing a finely cut herringbone suit but no tie, simply an open-collared black silk shirt.

  “How do you do, Victoria? My name is Quintana.”

  His English had only a hint of a Spanish accent.

  “Hello,” she said without much conviction.

  “Mr. Vazquez made me promise to make the trip comfortable for you.” He pointed at the luxury plane over his shoulder. “I hope this is satisfactory.”

  “Yes, quite.”

  “Good. We’d better be on our way then.”

  He took over her luggage and motioned for her to go aboard.

  As she climbed the steps, something started to gnaw at her. Why had this escape been so easy to organize? One call to Vazquez and he already had a Learjet waiting for her?

  Furthermore, everything spoke of complicated tradecraft. The henchmen picking her up in the minivan, the security guard getting paid off, this guy Quintana greeting her with a private jet? This was shady, professional.

  So if Vazquez was connected and had the resources to pull this off, why had he needed her to kill the senator in the first place?

  Chapter 38

  Rogan had fallen asleep. He’d sat down, laid his head on his folded arms, and he had drifted off. It was the simplest way to not only make time pass by faster but also to forget his worries, if only for a little while. When he woke up, impossibly groggy, he glanced at his watch. He’d only been out for less than two hours.

  Shit.

  He rubbed the cobwebs from his face and wiped the corners of his mouth. Thankfully, he hadn’t drooled too much all over himself. He looked at the sea of empty cups and bottles on the table and it came back to haunt him. He needed to take a leak but it could wait a little longer. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of being at their mercy.

  He stood up and walked slowly around the table, stretching his legs and making circles with his neck, working out the kinks. He rubbed his wrists as best as he could. The handcuffs were loose but still tight enough to be uncomfortable.

  All this he could tolerate. Not knowing what was going on, however, was another matter.

  The door to the interrogation opened and Nadine Shoemaker came in, leaving the door cracked a smidge.

  “Please, no more coffee. I’m about to beg one of you to take me to the head.”

  “Oh, okay. Just say so when you have to go and I’ll have somebody escort
you.”

  “Awesome. Make sure it’s somebody with really big hands so they can hold my Johnson for me.”

  She shuddered. “Too much information.”

  “Speaking of information, any news?”

  “The people from DC will be here in the morning after all.”

  “DC, uh? I’ve always been a Marvel guy myself.” She didn’t get the joke so he continued. “Do you know who these people are anyway?”

  “Senior agents, so I’m told. In any case, they’re Bureau.”

  “So reassuring.”

  “We can’t keep you here overnight, Rogan. You’ll be transferred to FDC SeaTac after dinner.”

  She was referring to Seattle’s Federal Detention Center, a nifty state-of-the-art prison in southern King County which looked like a modern hospital instead of medieval Shawshank.

  “You’re telling me I’ll miss the food fight and nightly shiv party in the cafeteria? Bummer.”

  “Chen thought it was the least we could do for one of our own, no matter what you’ve done.”

  “I didn’t do anything, Nadine.”

  “It’s not up to me to decide. So it’s why I’m here. What do you want for dinner? I’ll have somebody get it for you.”

  Rogan nodded, impressed. He sat on the edge of the table and crossed his ankles, considering his options. It was midafternoon but he figured they needed to organize this well in advance.

  “Let’s see, I’m thinking beef carpaccio on arugula with a slice of lemon and Parmesan cheese. I’d like to follow this up with a course of pasta, either seafood linguine with a creamy garlic sauce or baked rigatoni bolognese with spicy sausages. And for dessert…”

  “Stop messing around. Fried chicken or pizza?”

  “Well look who’s a terrible hostess!”

  She sighed impatiently. “Give me your order so I can clear it, okay?”

  “You know I’m innocent, right?”

  “No, I don’t know anything about you. You flew down from Alaska or God knows where and you took over all our assets.”

  “I did my job,” he shot back. “I found my fugitive and got down to the bottom of my investigation.”

  “And now you’re under arrest.”

  “Wrongfully accused.”

  “It’s not my problem, Rogan. Chicken or pizza.”

  “Chicken, extra crispy. You think you can get me a beer with that?”

  “Don’t push it.”

  Rogan lifted his hands defensively. “Fine, be that way. Make it a soda, anything as long as it’s not diet.”

  The woman nodded and just as she turned back toward the open door, there was a loud pop.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  There was another one, this time even more booming. Closer.

  Rogan straightened up. “That’s a gunshot.”

  Right then, more shots were fired, people evidently responding in kind.

  “Oh God, what’s happening?”

  Two more shots were fired, followed by unintelligible shouts. Then the staccato of automatic gunfire.

  Nadine drew her pistol and looked left and right. She peeked into the hallway before turning back to Rogan.

  “Is this you?”

  “What?”

  “Are they here for you? It’s your people springing you from this place?”

  “No!” Rogan said, shocked that she would think such a thing. “I’m telling you, I’m innocent.”

  The sounds were getting louder. Rogan understood what was going on even if he was still within the confines of the small room. Attackers were coming in, fighting their way farther into the building.

  The gunmen were firing short bursts, controlling their shots. FBI agents were much less composed and seemed to shoot back haphazardly.

  Nadine was fidgeting, balancing herself from one foot to the other, her eyes not keeping still. She kept glancing out the door but the interrogation room was deep inside, at the end of a long corridor which began in the main bullpen. There was nothing to see.

  “I have to go out there,” she said, attempting to psych herself up.

  For his part, Rogan was thinking more rationally, trying to make the pieces fit together.

  “Stay here, it’s the safest place.”

  “My friends are getting shot out there! I have to go.”

  “Please, Nadine. Think about it! Pull out your phone and call for backup. Then uncuff me.”

  She continued to dither, panic taking hold. She had a profound loyalty to the people and a strict sense of duty. These would win out every time over the safest course of action.

  At last, she pulled out her cell phone and tossed it to Rogan who caught it in midair. “You call backup, I have to get out there. I have to!”

  “No, don’t!”

  It was too late, Nadine was already running out of the room. At least she didn’t close the door behind her which meant Rogan wasn’t a sitting duck.

  Without missing a beat, he dialed 911 and told the operator that the FBI field office was under attack, that they urgently needed help.

  “No, wait!” Nadine screamed.

  Pocketing the phone, Rogan rushed to the doorway and looked down the corridor. There was a three-shot burst and he saw Nadine get thrown back against the wall, her body slumping until it rested in a pool of blood.

  Chapter 39

  It was the fog of war. Rogan was perfectly aware that everyone who came back from Iraq or Afghanistan – and probably every on conflict in history – suffered from one form or another of PTSD. Some, like him, were lucky enough to bury it deep enough to keep on living somewhat normally.

  Now the memories were rushing back. Gunfire, screams of agony. Fear.

  He remembered what a grizzled gunnery sergeant had told him during his first deployment: “Everybody’s scared shitless, kid. What are you gonna do about it? You gonna wait here to die or are you gonna try to improve your odds a little?”

  Rogan grabbed a metal chair and ran out of the interrogation room, using it as a makeshift shield. He ran down the hallway, clearing his mind of anything that didn’t relate to his five senses.

  When he reached the end, the bullpen opening in front of him, he got a glimpse of what was happening. Agents were spread out among the cubicles and the attackers were at the other end of the room.

  Shots whizzed by his head and he threw himself to the ground, dropping the chair!

  He caught a split-second flash of what these assailants looked like. They weren’t wearing any uniforms, just regular khakis and jeans. There were ten men that he could see and they were wearing bandannas covering their faces. They had carbines and Uzis. They wore body armor.

  So far they were halted in their advance. While they weren’t heavily armed, it was only a question of time until they made an incursion through the bullpen and killed everyone.

  “Rogan…”

  He looked down at Nadine. She had been hit in the right shoulder as well as lower on her torso. She was in bad shape but still alive.

  “Keep pressure here,” he ordered, putting her hand on her worst bullet wound.

  She closed her eyes and winced at the pain. He sympathized, felt bad for her, but now wasn’t the time for bedside manners.

  Without warning, he cumbersomely grabbed her under the shoulders and dragged her along the floor to the relative safety of a nearby cubicle. Bullets continued to fly through the office.

  “Ow!” she shrieked.

  He ignored her and dropped her next to a filing cabinet. He absentmindedly looked outside and saw two dead FBI agents lying on the ground, their service weapons next to them.

  Fuck, what was happening?!

  He unceremoniously went through Nadine’s pockets until he found her keys. He cycled through the ring and found the key he was looking for. Three seconds later he was slipping off his handcuffs.

  Next he rummaged through her things again, taking her badge, ID card, and her money as an afterthought as it fell out of her pocket; his had been conf
iscated. She hadn’t let go of her Glock and he made her fingers tighten around the grip.

  “You hold onto this and shoot any motherfucker who comes your way, all right?”

  She nodded faintly. “Thank you, Rogan.”

  “Hang tight. Remember, you promised me fried chicken.”

  He winked and then dove out of the cubicle.

  He scampered across the gray industrial carpet to the closest dead agent and kneeled next to him. Glancing at his face, he wasn’t even sure if he had personally met him since arriving in Seattle. Rogan felt this was particularly coldhearted but as rounds flew by his head, he had better things on his mind.

  He picked up the pistol from the ground and squeezed off a few shots to give himself some breathing room. Then he took the momentary respite to steal the two extra magazines from around the corpse’s waist.

  He shot twice more – emptying the gun – as he ran for cover inside the next cubicle.

  “Aaah!” a man screamed at the other end of the room, getting shot.

  Rogan reloaded and climbed on the flimsy desk in order to peek over the division. Everyone was well entrenched; the bad guys trying to come in and FBI agents fighting among the cubicles, shooting back blindly for the most part.

  “Where’s the goddamn backup?” somebody shouted.

  Turning to his left, toward the windows, Rogan noticed that Castro had also picked up a weapon from a dead agent and he was shooting at the strangers.

  For an instant, the two men glanced at each other. Nothing had to be said. They were engaged in a battle against a common enemy. But standing still was a death sentence.

  Rogan left his spot and dashed ahead down the aisle, pacing himself and not firing more than three times to cover his escape.

  Because that’s exactly what he wanted to do, escape. As much as he wanted to help his fellow agents, reinforcements were on the way and they didn’t need him. The safest place for him was outside this building.

  “Yo,” one of the attackers yelled to his men. “Left flank!”

  One of the men in body armor rushed forward, firing with his M4 carbine, and headed to the left.