Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)

by Steve Richer

  Rogan nodded. “Do you know what happened?”

  “That’s the FBI building and some terrorists stormed the place. Apparently they killed at least six people, with another half dozen injured.”

  “Damn…”

  “I was here almost since the beginning, I got as much on video as possible. Well, outside the building anyway. I saw the cops arriving in droves.”

  “You shot it all?”

  Her enthusiasm was kind of morbid but he could tell she had a future as a cable news reporter. She was certainly cute enough.

  “Yeah, everything! I’m so going to make the Dean’s List.”

  “Say, could I take a look at that video?” She looked at him suspiciously and he cranked on the charm, smiling and cocking his head to the side. “Just for a second?”

  “Uh, okay.”

  She called up the video and gave him the phone. He fast forwarded and indeed saw the Seattle PD patrol cars arriving on the scene, officers blocking the streets. Then a SWAT team showed up in a truck. He slowed down as injured people were carried away by paramedics. There was no footage of him leaving the building.

  More importantly, there was no sign that Castro had left yet.

  “Thanks,” he said, giving her back the phone.

  “It’s wild, right? They say all the terrorists have been killed. Oh and apparently the FBI had a prisoner disappear on them. Some people are talking, they say maybe this was a jailbreak.”

  “Awful, I hope they catch him.”

  He nodded goodbye and walked away. He went across the street and found a cafe with windows offering a good view of what was happening. He went inside and ordered a Coke and a sandwich before sitting by the window.

  And he waited.

  It took two hours before Rogan spotted Castro coming out of the building. He almost missed it too, boredom making him lose focus. But he had seen Castro getting into a cab which was the important part.

  Rogan took his time and hopped on a bus. Time wasn’t as meaningful now because he knew where his makeshift partner was going. He suffered through the multiple stops, people coming and going, employees from big companies like Amazon or smaller startups bitching about their day to one another.

  As night fell, Rogan reached his destination and disembarked from the bus two blocks away from his hotel. He walked the rest of the distance to the Days Inn and just as he expected there was a police car parked out front.

  There was the unprecedented situation of the FBI being under attack but it would’ve been too much to hope for the powers that be to overlook the fact that a prisoner had escaped during the ordeal. Covering all the bases, they had dispatched a cop to stake out Rogan’s hotel, where he had all his belongings.

  He stopped across the street and crouched behind some bushes next to a tiny Chinese restaurant. Rogan scoped out the situation. The police officer was out of his car, standing in the lobby. It wasn’t an especially impressive show of force but it definitely kept him from going inside, especially since this was the only point of entry for someone without a key.

  But he had an idea.

  Rogan crossed the street, keeping his head down so that the hat would hide his face. He went to the hotel parking lot but stayed on the left side. He scanned the ground until he hit pay dirt: an old two-liter soda bottle. He picked it up.

  He had trouble making the muzzle of the Glock pistol fit into the bottleneck so he used a pebble to crack it open. He wedged the gun barrel in tight. Any other time, this would be a terrible idea – and he wasn’t even sure if it would work – but he only needed this device for one shot.

  Here goes nothing, he thought.

  He went to the farthest edge of the parking lot and crouched behind a pickup truck. He chose his target carefully: a rather new Volvo on the other side of the lot.

  He aimed at the Volvo over the bed of the truck. He controlled his breathing, gently applying pressure against the trigger. He fired!

  The homemade sound suppressor kept the noise from being too loud but the bottle shattered and ended up in the pickup truck. He didn’t mind because his goal was reached. The bullet pierced the Volvo’s window and the car alarm went off.

  This wasn’t lost on the cop and he ran out of the lobby, a hand on his sidearm. Once outside, he paused and swiveled to follow the source of the alarm. When he located it, he hurried toward the Volvo.

  This was what Rogan needed.

  He left his cover and crossed the parking lot as quickly as he could. He went inside and slowed down as to not be questioned by the receptionist. And again, he kept his head down.

  He turned, found the stairs, and went up. He thankfully remembered Castro’s room number and knocked.

  “You!” the Colombian said, taken aback by the visitor.

  Rogan pushed past him and closed the door behind him.

  “I’m happy you made it out alive, Andy.”

  “Several people did not. And everyone is looking for you. This is not looking good, Rogan.”

  “I know, believe me.”

  “Why did you come here? The police are looking for you.”

  “You’re the only person I can trust,” Rogan said calmly. “I saw you shooting back at these guys, you’re not with them. And you’re not with the Bureau officially either.”

  “I know that!”

  “And I know that I’m not with these bad dudes either. So we’re on the same side.” Rogan put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Can you help me?”

  Chapter 43

  Castro exhaled, his eyes riveted to the frayed maroon carpeting. He took a few steps and sat on the edge of the bed. Rogan stood there watching him, his hands on his hips. His life was hanging by a thread and he hated that he had to rely on the kindness of others for his survival.

  “I don’t know if I can help, Rogan. I am nothing here, not a policeman, I have no authority.”

  “Look, I know you believe me. I know you’re aware that I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You escaped custody.”

  Rogan groaned. “Oh sure, become a top ten fugitive and suddenly you’re a bad guy. Seriously, you know I didn’t have a choice. If I’m to prove my innocence there’s no way I could’ve done that locked inside a jail cell.”

  “But what can I do?”

  “For starters, you’re independent. You don’t work for Uncle Sam, you have a lot of leeway.”

  “I am a guest of this country,” Castro said. “I was invited here, something very much like a diplomatic mission. I am nothing but an observer.”

  “An observer with some kick-ass access.”

  “I am not certain I want to make American enemies for myself.”

  Rogan nodded and went to the table and two chairs by the window. He rotated one of the chairs and sat down.

  “I understand your predicament, buddy. How’s Nadine by the way?”

  “She was still conscious when they took her to the hospital.”

  “Any news?”

  “They say she is going to be all right.”

  “That’s great to hear,” Rogan said.

  The subtext wasn’t lost on his Colombian friend. The reason why Nadine was alive was because Rogan had rescued her. He had dragged her to safety and instead of fading away, using the commotion to escape, he had actually joined the fight and killed some of the attackers.

  “Even if I wanted to, I don’t know how I could help and…”

  There was a firm knock at the door. Rogan straightened up, on his guard, ready to pounce. He held up his hand so Castro would shut up.

  Another knock.

  “Agent Castro? SPD!”

  This situation was clear: the cop from downstairs had realized that the car alarm situation hadn’t been mere vandalism. He had to suspect something shady was going on, perhaps thinking that Rogan had come to eliminate Castro for some reason.

  “Go answer,” Rogan whispered as he headed to the bathroom.

  The younger man stood up, uncertain, and went to the
door.

  Rogan held his breath as he stood behind the bathroom door, his fist closed securely around the knob so that the door wouldn’t swing back and reveal him through the mirror.

  “Yes?” Castro said.

  There was a slight hesitation in his voice but the cop didn’t know him, he probably wouldn’t pick up on it. Nevertheless, Rogan had to be prepared to strike if things went sideways.

  “Excuse me for disturbing you. Did you hear the gunshot a few minutes ago?”

  “A gunshot? I have heard a car siren…”

  “Yeah well, I think someone fired a gun and that made the alarm go off.”

  “Why would someone do this?”

  The cop grunted. “Man, you know how that works. Could be some sort of diversion.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know why I’m downstairs. There’s a fugitive on the lam staying at this hotel. A friend of yours too, apparently. He might be trying to sneak back in.”

  “I see.”

  Rogan bristled. He realized he was still holding his breath. Maybe Castro was in the process of selling him out, maybe he was doing the whole wink-wink nudge-nudge routine.

  It would be so easy for Castro to betray him. In fact, it was probably the right thing to do as far as he was concerned. He was here on the goodwill of the US government. Why would he antagonize it?

  “Have you seen this guy, Rogan Bricks?”

  Slowly, he reached for the gun in the small of his back and curled his fingers around the grip.

  He waited, listened to the long, drawn-out silence.

  His freedom was hanging in the balance.

  “No,” Castro said at last. “I have not seen him. Do you want to come in and verify for yourself?”

  From the sound of it, Castro shifted, moving out of the way so the police officer could come in. Christ, Rogan thought about the chair which he had turned. Could this be enough to tip off the cop?

  The man in uniform took a step forward and he was about level with the bathroom. Rogan saw the shadow through the crack.

  Everyone was silent.

  Could he do it? Could he shoot the cop if he had to, if it was the only way not to get caught? At the very least, he’d have to knock him over the head, rendering him unconscious. To hell with the consequences.

  “It’s fine,” the officer said. “You hear anything, you call it in, all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good night.”

  “Yes, good night,” Castro said a second before closing the door. He whispered, “He is gone.”

  Still suspicious, Rogan eased out from behind the door and came out of the bathroom, still clutching the pistol. The cop was nowhere in sight. However, he couldn’t leave anything to chance.

  He went to the door and looked out through the peephole. The hallway was deserted. Careful not to making noises, he let go of the gun and put on the chain lock.

  “Thanks,” he said to the Colombian agent.

  The younger man nodded and sat back on the bed. For his part, Rogan leaned back against the dresser.

  “I don’t know how I can help more than I already have.”

  “Look, I sold my watch so I have a little cash. The thing is, I can’t really show myself in public. Sooner or later a bus driver or cabbie is gonna recognize me. I’m sure I’ll be all over the news after the reporters get over the shock of Seattle’s own OK Corral.”

  “Rogan…”

  “If you could just get me a rental car, some disposable phones, anything that can’t be traced back to me directly.”

  “I can be traced back to you.”

  “Barely,” Rogan replied with a dismissive wave. “I’m being persecuted over here, this is a set up. Didn’t you tell me you joined the Army and police because you wanted to stop the violence, the corruption?”

  “Yes but…”

  “It’s exactly the same thing, Andres! There’s some disturbingly shady people out there manipulating things and I’m caught right in the middle. We can’t let them get away with it, can we? Isn’t that what you stand for?”

  “What…” Castro began, his voice fading away. “I am not saying I will help but why do you need these things? What will you do?”

  Rogan’s eyes bore into a spot on the carpet, seeing nothing but his anger sharpening. “There’s somebody I have to pay a visit to.”

  Chapter 44

  Shiloh was watching TV aboard the Learjet. She gave up on a sitcom halfway through it and switched channels. She was surprised that CNN was available at 30,000 feet.

  She crossed her arms and sank into her seat as she settled in to see what was going on in the world. She wasn’t surprised in the least when the news anchor displayed a dated picture of her in the top right corner.

  “Shiloh Kappas is still at large after escaping authorities in San Diego. SDPD spokesman Sergeant Diana Pierce explained that Kappas eluded capture at the Conroy Hotel after she barged into US Senator Patrick Stoll’s room, in all likelihood there to assassinate him.”

  “Bollocks,” Shiloh spat.

  “Thankfully, suspicion had been on her already and police officers were there to catch her in the act. Once she was confronted, she attacked the officers and avoided arrest by escaping through the laundry chute. A statewide manhunt is underway.”

  Her picture disappeared from the screen, replaced by footage of emergency vehicles and cops walking back and forth in front of a modern skyscraper. The caption read Seattle FBI Attack.

  “In a shocking twist,” the reporter continued, “CNN has learned that the terrorist attack against Seattle’s FBI field office is in fact linked to the attempted murder of Senator Stoll.”

  Shiloh sat up and leaned toward the television, confusion setting in.

  “Sources have told our Seattle affiliate that the authorities believe the heavily armed gunmen who raided the FBI facilities may have been there to aid in the escape of one Rogan Bricks.”

  An old picture of Rogan filled the screen. Shiloh remembered it was the official portrait he’d taken upon graduating the FBI Academy.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered to herself.

  “The man, himself a federal agent, had been arrested earlier today for also conspiring to assassinate Senator Stoll. While the gunmen were all killed during the attack, Bricks managed to escape from his holding cell and is currently at large. You may remember Bricks as the FBI agent who was the lead investigator of the mysterious murder of the First Lady by President Rudd last winter. He is a ten-year veteran of the Bureau, as well as a former Marine, and…”

  Shiloh tuned out the reporter. She already knew her boyfriend’s personal and professional history. What was going on? How was Rogan mixed up in all this?

  She turned to Quintana. “I need to make a telephone call.”

  “I don’t think this is a wise idea.”

  “Did you just bloody see this? There’s a major conspiracy in the works! First they set me up and now they frame Rogan? Some sort of attack in Seattle? I need to call him, to see if he’s all right.”

  Quintana nodded calmly. “I understand your concerns but we are trying to help you right now. It’s best for both your sakes if you stay dark for the time being.”

  “But…”

  “Until you’re safely out of the country, it’s the best course of action for everyone.”

  Shiloh opened her mouth to reply but the man was making sense. His job was to protect her, to escort her to Spain. Once she got there, she’d be in a better position to gather information. Perhaps she could even enlist some old acquaintances to help her.

  She turned away from Quintana and focused on the news again for a few minutes. They were evidently doing a special broadcast about the events in Seattle and she absorbed everything with the attention to details that had been ingrained in her since her first day in the intelligence business.

  She kept thinking about Rogan. It made sense not to call him but he was a fugitive. That meant he was also on his
own which was a fate worse than her own. She had to reach out to him somehow.

  She hated herself for not having left word about herself. He had to be worried sick, just like she was. There was always their secret e-mail account they could contact, leaving word for one another just like the time-honored drop boxes spy would use in the Cold War.

  On the plane was one steward, a young man of about 25 in a crisp uniform. She had seen him checking his messages on his personal phone just before taking off. She’d noticed that he stored the phone in his right pocket.

  She undid her belt and stood up. This caught Quintana’s attention.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “No, I’m just using the loo.”

  She went aft near the small galley where the lavatory was also located. The steward jumped to his feet.

  “Yes?”

  “Just going to the bathroom,” she said.

  Next came the crucial part.

  There wasn’t any turbulence but she deliberately lost her footing until she fell against the young man. He caught her instinctively.

  “Oh, sorry!”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you for catching me. So chivalrous.”

  She smiled brightly, almost flirting, and went into the cramped lavatory. Feminists the world over would most likely hate her for using her charms and acting dumb, but it had worked. She had deftly stolen the phone from the steward without him realizing it.

  She took a break to admire her handiwork, congratulating herself; she still had it. But something was nagging at her.

  The sun had almost completely set and it had been normal that outside the windows the sky was getting dark. After all, they were going east, in the opposite direction of the vanishing sun.

  What troubled her was that the cabin had been brighter just now. More light was coming in from the right hand side. This could only mean one thing: they were going south.

  They were no longer going to Spain.

  She did her best to cast aside her worries. Maybe it was just the pilot trying to circumvent an incoming storm. Yes, this had to be it, she told herself.

  That’s when the bathroom door was yanked open!

  Quintana was standing there, staring at her as stoically as usual. “What are you doing?”