by Steve Richer
“Dios mío!”
Boxer dropped the tray at the entrance and rushed forward, falling to his knees. He moved Shiloh’s hair out of the way and checked her pulse as if that was what needed to be done.
That’s when Shiloh pounced!
She straightened, sitting up, and grabbed the young man in a choke hold. He never saw it coming and she squeezed his windpipe.
“Aaahh!”
The guard flailed, desperately trying to fight off this woman who was attempting to kill him. But Shiloh was well-prepared and she knew how to murder a man this way. She’d done it before.
She didn’t have the right leverage to break his neck so she resigned herself to asphyxiating him. She decided to hold on for four minutes. Then she would search him for anything to help her escape.
She was getting tired but she was determined. He kicked his legs, he was putting up a fight, wanting to stay alive, but she was convinced she was better at this than he was.
Just a little longer…
Then, the extra light that was coming from the hallway diminished. There was a shadow. She looked toward the doorway.
Quintana was standing there.
He was still wearing a stylish suit, his hair impeccably coiffed, and he was impassive. Shiloh couldn’t back down, not now. She had the upper hand, she had a hostage.
“Come untie me or I kill him,” she ordered through clenched teeth.
“Please, you’d be doing us a favor. He’s clearly an incompetent employee if he allowed himself to get caught by you.”
“I’m not messing around here! Undo my shackles or he dies.”
At that, Quintana calmly reached inside his jacket and pulled his .45 from a shoulder holster. He aimed at Boxer and shot him in the face.
His head exploded like a watermelon, blood splattering everywhere, even into Shiloh’s mouth. The young man went limp in her arms.
“There,” Quintana said. “Situation resolved.”
He holstered his gun and then came forward until he could reach Boxer’s ankles. He pulled the body away so swiftly that Shiloh didn’t have a chance to hold onto it. Besides, she was shocked by what had just happened.
“No, no…” Shiloh repeated to herself.
Her one chance at escaping had been obliterated.
Two more guards appeared, standing on each side of Quintana.
“The boss wants to see you.”
The two guards went to her and put zip ties around her wrists behind her back before taking off the steel shackles. Over her head they put a burlap sack that had been improved with several strips of duct tape so she couldn’t see through it.
They frog-marched her out of the cell. She tried to remember how many steps she took, when she went left or right, but the shock of Quintana killing Boxer made her judgment hazy.
Before she knew it, she had gone up a flight of stairs and she was entering what she thought was a casino. There were cheesy electronic sounds, the kind she associated with slot machines.
“Sit her there.” It was Vazquez’s voice.
She was rotated and pushed. She lost her balance and found herself crashing into a couch. A second later, her blindfold was removed.
She was in a game room right out of a men’s magazine. Right out of a man’s fantasy. There were colorful neons running around the ceiling, fancy beer signs on the walls, autographed pictures of celebrities posing with Vazquez. There were big arcade games everywhere, including a few slot machines.
Vazquez walked away from a pinball machine and swaggered over to her. The couch she was on was set up in front of an 80-inch TV. Next to it were several game consoles and games.
“Do you like my man cave, Shiloh? I like games, this is my favorite room in the house. In all my houses, in fact. I have a dozen houses around the world, but this is the one I consider home.”
“Bully for you. You must be so proud.”
“I am proud! I started with nothing and now I have everything I want. I rose from the slums of Juárez and became the leader of my own cartel.”
Shiloh snorted. Of course, drugs. Vazquez was nothing but your run-of-the-mill Mexican drug lord.
“I was going to have you join me here,” he continued. “I thought maybe we could play games together. You have spent two days locked in that dreadful basement, I thought you could use a break but you had to change my mood, didn’t you?”
“I did?”
“I have just been informed that you killed one of the men.”
“Quintana shot him in the head,” Shiloh said, looking down at herself so that no one would miss the blood all over her face and clothes. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You made the wrong choices and one of my men had to pay for your hotheadedness. I wanted to do you a favor and that’s how you repay me? Simply awful.”
“All right, you want to do me a favor? How about you tell me what I’m doing here?”
Vazquez’s expression changed from anger to joy instantly. He smiled brightly and came closer. He bent forward and brought his face to within inches of Shiloh’s.
“You see, my dear, you serve a very important purpose. You are bait.”
Chapter 51
By the sound of it, the police cars were only a few blocks away, probably rushing up Connecticut Avenue. Time was running out!
If Rogan was arrested there was no way he could escape again. Worst of all, there was no way he could get in touch with Shiloh and find out what was happening.
“Move!” Rogan nudged Hephner with the gun’s muzzle to make his point. “You have your phone and wallet on you?”
“Bricks…”
“Show it to me!”
Reluctantly, the former FBI Director pulled his wallet and cell phone from his pockets. Rogan nodded and he put them back in.
“Where are your car keys?”
“Garage.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
He pushed the old man who had no choice but to comply. They went to the garage and Rogan made sure to go first in case Hephner tried to go for a hidden weapon.
“The keys, where are they?”
“There.”
There were a series of neat hooks on the wall by the light switch and the keyring was hanging from one of them. It took half a second for Rogan to match it to the Cadillac sitting on the concrete.
“You’re driving.”
He tossed the keys to Hephner and he made it so that they both got into the car together, never taking the gun off of him.
As the old man made the engine purr, Rogan did a cursory search through the glove box and dashboard; there were no concealed guns.
“Let’s get out of here. Not too fast, not too slow.”
“Right,” Hephner replied.
“You know that if you try anything I won’t lose any sleep after I blow your brains all over this pretty car. You’re aware of that, right?”
“Crystal clear.”
The garage door went up and they drove out sensibly.
The silence was deafening now and Rogan had to resist the urge to look back. Finally, as the Cadillac turned off this crescent-shaped street, red and blue police lights were visible in the mirrors.
The DCPD cars came to a screeching halt in front of Hephner’s house. Rogan sighed in relief. They were off the hook. For now.
“Head for the Beltway.”
They drove leisurely through the neighborhood and headed south toward the heart of Washington. After a minute Hephner was chuckling.
“What?”
“You used to be hot shit, weren’t you?”
“Very hot,” Rogan shot back. “My girl will tell you I still I am.”
“You were one of our best agents. I may have had ulterior motives when I gave you the President investigation, but I needed someone good and you fit the bill.”
“Is this going somewhere, Tommy? Buttering me up for a hand job?”
“A seasoned veteran like you, a hot shit FBI agent like you would know that we’re not gonna
get very far. My phone, my car, they’re not from the Stone Age. LoJack, GPS technology, any of this ring a bell?”
Rogan said, “It has crossed my mind but I also know how slow these investigations can be. First, officers will assess that you’re missing. Then a detective has to sign off that it’s a legit kidnapping, which won’t be automatic. They’ll have to sit down with your maid for a while first.
“After that, somebody will come up with the bright idea of tracing your car but it’s not something they do every day. You’re no longer Director of the FBI, you’re no longer a priority. They might need to get a court order to get AT&T to trace your phone. Nobody gives a shit about you, Hephner.”
“You’re a wanted fugitive! They’re gonna come after you.”
“Honestly, I’m kind of looking forward to it. Being a fugitive means that they’re already convinced I’m a bad dude. Makes it way easier for me to kill you. I mean, they already want me for murder anyway, so who cares? Besides, I won’t need you that long.”
He looked down at the Glock long enough for Hephner to follow his gaze.
“I don’t know anything, I swear. I’m out of the loop, Bricks.”
“I believe you. But you’re gonna help me find out some things.”
Rogan reached forward and rummaged through the old man’s pockets, producing his phone.
“Shiloh told me about how the faction worked. She told me about Dispatch, the guy who knows everything and everybody. I want you to call him for me.”
“No way, I’m out!”
“I’m sorry, did I lead you to believe you have a choice in the matter? Dial the number right now. On speaker.”
Hephner gulped and took the phone when it was offered to him. He dialed and seconds later it was ringing through the car’s Bluetooth system.
“Dispatch.”
“This is Thomas Hephner.”
There was a pause. “You were told never to call this number again. Goodbye.”
“Wait!” Rogan shouted. “My name is Rogan Bricks. My girlfriend is Shiloh Kappas. I think she’s in danger and needs help.”
“Bricks. I know who you are. A fugitive.”
“A desperate man.”
“Despair leads to people getting caught. As I said, goodbye.”
“I know who you are, Barth. I know about you and your whole system. You’ve been fucking people over for a long time so now it’s time to do something good for once. Look, I’m just worried sick about her. She needs help, I need to find her. I won’t ever call you again. Hell, I’ll forget I ever saw your phone number.”
There was only the faint sound of breathing on the other end of the line.
“Please,” Rogan begged softly.
“All right, one piece of information and it never comes back to me. Deal?”
“Deal, I swear.”
“On Tuesday, she met with a man named Sulkin in Toronto. It was so she could be put in contact with one Ricardo Vazquez, at his request. That’s all I know.”
“That’s all you know?”
“Yes,” Barth said.
“Thank you.”
The line went dead and Rogan hung up.
Hephner was still driving steadily. The highway was visible in the distance.
“You got what you wanted from me? Will you let me go now? Or are you going to kill me?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Rogan spat back.
“What if I gave you a piece of important information?”
“It depends on what it is.”
“You have to promise to let me go first, Bricks.”
The car was silent for long seconds. They only heard the tires on the asphalt, I-495 getting closer and closer.
“It has to be good information.”
Hephner nodded. “Vazquez did business with the faction sometimes. He wasn’t a member but oftentimes we had converging interests.”
“So?”
“So it stands to reason that Shiloh is with him, no?”
“Thank you, Sherlock. I got that far by myself.”
“But I know his secret hideout, his base of operation.”
“Where?” Rogan asked, hope finally returning after three days of anguish.
“Do you promise to let me out of the car?”
“Yes, I promise.”
The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, each gauging the other’s sincerity.
“All right,” the old man began. “Vazquez owns a place called the Casanova Ranch. It’s in Ciudad Juárez.”
Chapter 52
The frenzy had somewhat abated at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, as much as it ever would anyway. The investigation into the Seattle attack wasn’t even close to being wrapped up but the urgency was diminishing. The media was backing down, a hurricane in the Caribbean becoming a more interesting story.
Vanstedum cynically thought that the reason the pressure had lessened was that all the perpetrators were dead. The public at large had its closure. There was no longer an invisible bogeyman out to get them. Of course, this was superficial, the more astute observers knew that the whole thing wasn’t what it seemed. It couldn’t be as simple.
But this was the 21st century, this was a social media culture of short attention spans. World events mattered as long as they trended on Twitter. The next day it was something else.
In spite of everything, Vanstedum was an actor on the Washington stage and he had to abide by these rules. Politicians still demanded answers, even if it was in closed committee hearings.
So for the first time in days he had a bit of free time where he didn’t have to direct operations from the crisis center. He was now in his office, hunched over his desk and trying to come up with a coherent narrative that would satisfy his superiors as well as any low-level congressman who’d ever stumble upon his report.
The chain of events had become rather clear. They knew who the so-called terrorists were – petty criminals plucked off the streets. They had traced their movements as they converged to the FBI’s field office in Seattle. Hell, they had even managed to run down where most of their weapons had come from.
But they had no motives. Somebody had to be financing this but the money they’d found was cash and the trail had gone cold. They were nowhere near close to finding who was behind everything.
And then there was the situation with Special Agent Bricks. How in the hell had he found himself in this mess?
A few phone calls had sufficed to learn that Senator Stoll had received an anonymous tip about him being the target of an assassination plot. The information was credible. After all, he was on the Senate Judiciary Subcommittee on Oversight, Agency Action, Federal Rights, and Federal Courts as well as the Finance Subcommittee on Energy, Natural Resources, and Infrastructure. To the right people, he was a prime target.
Although Vanstedum argued to his people that Bricks wasn’t an assassin, his case was tenuous. He was former military, special ops to boot, his girlfriend Shiloh Kappas herself former British intelligence. The fact that they had both escaped police custody sealed their fate as far as the Justice Department was concerned.
Jesus, Vanstedum thought. Just the fact that he was considering defending them would jeopardize his career. He was for all intents and purposes taking the side of known terrorists. Heads would roll.
He leaned back into his chair and racked his brain for the vaguest vocabulary possible. Washington 101: write wordy reports but never be too clear.
His phone rang and he answered. It was his secretary.
“Yes?”
“Sir, I just had a call about you.”
“About?”
“Well, here’s the thing. The person said you have a meeting at the Dudley Foundation, at The Jefferson Hotel, but I don’t have anything on the schedule about this.”
The Dudley Foundation. Mr. Dudley. Another CIA meeting?
“Thanks,” Vanstedum said. “I’ll have to step out for a few hours.”
He hung up, stood, and left the office.
The Jefferson Hotel was a small, classic place halfway between Foggy Bottom and Logan Circle, only a few blocks from the White House. Dating back to the 1920s, the building had a historic architecture and presence.
The Assistant Director for Counterterrorism settled in the bright lobby, staring up at the beautiful skylight which made the black and white decor enchanting. There was no sign of Sarah Utley or any of her goons. So he waited.
“Jason Vanstedum?”
He turned toward the voice, finding an emaciated man in his 40s, his hair thinning and unkempt. He had a long gray raincoat which certainly didn’t help make him more appealing. In fact, he didn’t look as if he belonged in a hotel like this.
“You’re not Mr. Dudley.”
“My name is Cooley, we spoke briefly before. We need to talk.”
They headed into the bar – it was called Quill – and found a remote table away from everyone else. The rich earth tones made the place cozy and warm, the wood and leather giving it old-world charm. They each ordered a scotch for appearances but Vanstedum had no intention of drinking his.
“What is this about? I’ve had just about enough theatrics from your colleague. And you weren’t too forthcoming the other night either.”
“I got wind that you’ve been sniffing around for answers, thinking the CIA has been somehow behind everything that’s been happening lately.”
Vanstedum sighed. “Look, I’ve already been told to back off and that’s what I did, all right? I’m not poking around anymore.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Excuse me?”
“This whole thing has been a shit storm from the beginning and I sure as hell don’t like getting caught right in the middle of it.”
Cooley took a long swig of his drink.
“What are you saying here, Mr. Cooley?”
“Nothing is what it seems, it’s much more complicated than how it appears and I for one am not happy I was duped.”
“How? What’s going on?”
“I love my job,” the CIA man began. “It’s not easy, it’s not something everybody can do, but I like my duties. So I thought I was working in the interest of national security but… Maybe I wasn’t.”
