Murder Island (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 3)

by Steve Richer

  “You hired me because you want a job done right.”

  “But did you have to kill everybody?”

  The voice belonged to Renna. Raymond put a hand around her shoulders and pulled her to him. They were both wearing jeans and T-shirts now. He kissed her forehead. She looked up at him and then he leaned to kiss her on the lips. It began as a peck and evolved into a deep kiss.

  “Yeah, Blake,” Raymond picked up. “I never told you to kill everyone. Many, but not everyone.”

  “Again, you hired me because you want a job done right. It’s my operation and I’ll carry it as I see fit. I’m still alive because I don’t take chances. But if you want to back out now…”

  “No, no, it’s fine. It was a bit brutal, that’s all.”

  Renna cringed. “I hate dead bodies. Disgusting. And they smell.”

  Oliver couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. Raymond was behind everything! This was significant because he knew where Gina and the others were. If he knew, he could send his goons to finish them off. Going by this Blake person, it wasn’t a far-fetched scenario.

  He had to warn them.

  Oliver turned around, getting his bearings. He was in a bedroom, it seemed. More importantly, there was a patio door, which meant a balcony. If Sabatini had been able to get down from the third floor, he definitely could do it from the second.

  Not even attempting to breathe in case he inadvertently made a sound, Oliver waddled away from the door. The floor was tiled and his shoes were leather-soled. To stay quiet, he walked on tiptoes. He could still hear them talking, but he couldn’t focus on what they were saying exactly.

  The door was made of tempered glass so he gathered his strengths because it would be heavy. However, it didn’t budge. It was locked. He felt through the darkness for the latch and moved it in every direction before it clicked.

  And it clicked loudly.

  “What was that?” Blake asked.

  Fuck.

  Oliver had to speed up. He slid the door enough to let him through, but this had the unintended consequence of making the squall audible. He might as well have announced himself with a bullhorn.

  “Over there!” Raymond shouted.

  There were footsteps, men running, as Oliver exited to the balcony. Now he could only hope that there was a pipe running along the wall like at that other place before.

  “Hey, you!”

  Someone was calling to him. Oliver didn’t even glance back. Instead, he looked at the wall. All he needed was some sort of foothold. There wasn’t. The gutters weren’t running down here.

  He didn’t feel the intensifying wind or rain against his skin. His eyes settled on the horizon, on the garden shed. He could see Gina standing behind it, peeking around the corner. She was mumbling a prayer or something, encouraging his escape.

  “Stop!”

  This time, Oliver couldn’t help himself and peered inside the room as he swung over the glass balcony railing. It was the bearded man. He had a rifle propped against his shoulder.

  “I said stop.”

  Oliver hazarded a glance down. He could jump. It was what, ten feet? He could manage ten feet. He would jump a hundred feet if it was to escape a gunshot.

  But he wasn’t fast enough.

  Just as he let go of the railing, the man fired three times. All three shots hit Oliver in the sternum.

  Chapter 23

  Blake joined Gamma on the balcony and looked down.

  “I got him, sir.”

  The man who had been running from them had been shot three times, center mass. The heart had been ripped to shreds. On top of that, he had fallen to the ground and smashed his head against a large decorative rock. The rain was sending hundreds of rivulets of blood flowing away from the body.

  “He’s dead, all right,” Blake said before going back inside.

  Raymond walked past him and went to the balcony to see the corpse himself. Then he returned.

  “Who is he?” the former Navy SEAL asked. “I don’t remember him from the dossier you sent. He a new security guard I don’t know about?”

  “No way,” Raymond spat, shaking his head. “That was Oliver Graves.”

  “And? Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Remember when I said things were becoming complicated this weekend because my dad was flying in some people?”

  “I do.”

  “That was one of them.”

  “Mr. Sabatini, I think it’s time you tell me what we’re facing here.”

  Raymond waved the comment away. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. Your father was supposed to be here and he’s not. We encounter far more resistance than anticipated. It’s definitely not nothing.”

  Blake’s tone of voice was firm, menacing. He took a step closer to his employer, but didn’t conceal the menace in his voice. A second later, Renna came into the room. The other mercenaries followed.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Who was it?”

  “Oliver. He’s dead now.”

  She pouted. “That’s a shame. He was cute.”

  “Mr. Sabatini, speak. Are these people a threat?”

  “A threat? Raymond repeated. “These people are wimps! They’re nobodies.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” As Blake said that, his men fanned out. It was a show of strength and they were used to doing this maneuver. It never failed to intimidate people. “Who are they?”

  “There’s a banker, a lawyer, an accountant, and Graves was some financial analyst. Like I said, they are no one important.”

  “Let me tell you something, Mr. Sabatini. I’ve lost contact with three of my men. One could be attributed to a defective radio, but all three means that something happened.”

  Beta shifted on his feet. “Boss, maybe there’s a security man that’s unaccounted for.”

  At that, Blake pulled out a sheet of paper from inside his vest. He unfolded it and read a list out loud. “Have there been any changes to this list of security personnel, Mr. Sabatini?”

  “No, it’s just like I said.”

  Blake passed the list over to Beta, who nodded.

  “My men had been briefed with their identities and locations. Red Team took out the staff house and assured me that every security guard has been neutralized. Something isn’t kosher, Mr. Sabatini. There’s someone else messing up my operation.”

  “Look, I have no idea who it is, okay? Besides, for the money I’m giving you guys, I’m sure you can take care of this easily. I mean, you are professionals, right?”

  Blake squinted. “Don’t you ever question my professionalism.”

  “Okay, okay, chill out!” Raymond said, putting up his hands.

  “Yeah,” Renna added. “Chill out. You guys are no fun.”

  “Do you know how logic works, Mr. Sabatini?”

  It was Raymond’s turn to bristle. “Now, don’t start busting my balls. I’m the one paying your salary.”

  “Logic says that if all your employees are dead, if all your security personnel have been eliminated, then one of your four guests is leading this resistance.”

  “It’s impossible, they’re all office types.”

  “Humor me,” Blake replied. “Do you have names? Pictures?”

  Raymond held his own for a few more seconds, but eventually produced his phone. He had taken some pictures of the guests, as well as a few notes.

  “We have Gina Maldonado, the accountant. She has to weigh a buck twenty soaking wet. No way she can take out your people.”

  “Next.”

  Raymond flipped through his phone. “There’s Oliver Graves whose not gonna bother anyone no more. I mean, he used to work on Wall Street. The most damage he could’ve ever done was on a racquetball court.”

  “Next,” Blake ordered.

  “Bill Swank, the lawyer. The guy is three hundred pounds and not exactly limber. Complains all the time, scared of everything.”

  “That doesn’t me
an anything. Could be a front.”

  Raymond snorted. “You haven’t seen this guy. Definitely not a menace.”

  “And the last one?”

  “The banker, Orland Lush. Some Ivy League asshole.”

  Blake twisted his neck so he could look at the phone. He frowned. “This is him?”

  “Yeah. I know the type. He’s probably hiding somewhere, if he hasn’t had a heart attack already.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Blake muttered.

  “What?”

  “Hasn’t anybody ever told you not to make any assumptions, Mr. Sabatini?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  Instead of answering, Blake continued to stare at the image of Orland Lush on the small screen.

  “What is it, boss?”

  “I know him. I know who this is. This man isn’t who he pretends to be.”

  It was Raymond now who was stunned. “What?”

  “This man’s name isn’t Orland Lush. I’ve seen him before.”

  “What are you talking about? Where have you seen him? How come you know him? He’s a goddamn banker!”

  “He’s not,” Blake said softly, still staring at the image to make sure it really was the man he thought it was.

  “Boss?” Beta asked quietly.

  “Article in the Navy Times last year, March or so. Know what I’m referring to?”

  The executive officer nodded, lost in thought. “Seems familiar.”

  Raymond looked at Renna who was just as confused as he was. “What’s happening here? Who is he?”

  “This man was an officer in the Marine Corps.”

  “Yeah,” Beta said as pieces fell into place. “Force Recon, I think.”

  “That’s right. He was awarded the Navy Cross.”

  Gamma swore under his breath. “Jesus Christ…”

  Blake turned to his men to appease them. “It’s okay, let’s not lose our heads over this. We can handle this.”

  “So what if he was a Marine?” Renna commented. “These guys are a dime a dozen nowadays. Our gardener back home was a Marine.”

  “But he’s different,” Blake said. “They did an article on him because he’s the one who handled that thing with the President and his wife. He’s FBI now.”

  “Motherfucker…” Raymond moaned.

  “His name is Rogan Bricks.”

  Chapter 24

  Rogan held on tightly to the carbine, keeping his gaze a hundred feet ahead. A jungle patrol was a lot like driving, you needed to look into the distance to anticipate enemy contact. He didn’t think there would be any tripwires around here.

  Whoever had said that the hurricane would miss the Bahamas had been wrong. It was coming their way. It was already here, on the edge of it anyway. The winds had to be close to fifty miles per hour now.

  The pistol was shoved in the back of his pants, protected by his blazer. He was wet from head to toe, but at least here under the tree line the rain and wind were less intense. Bill was following five feet behind. He steps were loud and not restrained. This was a concern, but if they went fast they wouldn’t be in danger for long.

  “I can’t believe your name isn’t really Orland Lush,” Bill said, disappointment seeping into his voice.

  Rogan had decided to tell him his real name. It was the last thing one should do in an undercover operation, but he figured that normal rules didn’t apply anymore. The thing had been blown wide open with the arrival of these mercenaries. Staying alive was a lot more important than keeping the integrity of the FBI’s information-gathering mission.

  And to be honest, he was beginning to think that using the fake name would eventually trip him up. Your instincts are sharper when you respond to your own name. With killers surrounding them, neither of them could afford the niceties of a pseudonym. A split second of hesitation could very well mean the difference between life and death.

  “Orland Lush was such a cool name. I should’ve figured it was fake. Then again, Rogan Bricks doesn’t sound much more real. It sounds like a construction company. ‘Good morning, Rogan Bricks Contractor and Landscaping. How can I direct your call?’ Geez…”

  “Keep your voice down,” Rogan ordered.

  The silence lasted all of six seconds.

  “You think going to the marina is the right thing to do? You don’t think they have someone guarding it?”

  “We’re about to find out, aren’t we?”

  Rogan spoke with more confidence than he possessed. He didn’t know anything, really. He was following logic and procedures. They weren’t equipped to go on the offensive against a superior fighting force so they had to hide, evade, and escape.

  He especially didn’t have much faith in Bill and his capabilities. At the very least, he wanted him off the island, for both their safety. Clearly, the storm created less than ideal conditions to sail out. Nevertheless, they didn’t have to go far away.

  The first option was to take a boat to the Jersey Devil anchored off the shore. This was the best scenario because the yacht would be stable, even in a hurricane. Failing that, riding the tender—or any other boat—out to sea would keep them out of harm’s way. With himself at the helm, Rogan was sure that he would keep them from becoming a shipwreck despite the weather.

  “So just who in the hell are you, Rogan?”

  “Not now.”

  “Screw that. Too much is going on, okay? Don’t leave me in the dark.”

  “Bill…”

  “No, man. There are too many questions at the moment and it’s making me seriously uncomfortable, okay? You’re in a position to answer some of these questions.”

  Rogan shook his head. “I’m not.”

  “Bullshit. That’s bullshit, okay? Remember that I’m a lawyer, I know a thing or two about bullshit. Give me some answers, man.”

  Rogan didn’t say anything. He looked in the distance. There was so much darkness out there that it was hard to tell where they were precisely. Still, from the way the wind blew and the rain fell, they had a few hundred yards before they got to the marina.

  “Come on, man. You’re no banker. Bankers don’t take out—kill!—people the way you did.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “So?”

  “I served in Afghanistan and Iraq. United States Marine Corps.”

  “That explains so much. Then you became a banker?”

  “FBI, actually.”

  “FBI?”

  “But I quit recently. I’m a private citizen now.”

  “Okay, so what the hell are you doing here? You’re not FBI, you’re not a banker, you had a fake name. I’m not following.”

  Again, Rogan had to make an executive decision. Did he keep the charade going or should he stick with the cover story? The choice was easy at this point.

  “I’m a nice guy, Bill. That’s what I am. Some FBI agents came to see me asking for a favor and I said yes. Retirement was a little boring, to be honest.”

  “So you are FBI. Jesus, getting the truth out of you is like pulling teeth from a rabid polar bear. What’s the deal anyway? Why did you infiltrate this island?”

  Rogan shrugged, figuring that secrecy was a moot point now. “The FBI has been trying to nail Sabatini for a while. They had a new angle now, trying to get him on a RICO charge. They built this great cover story for me, gambling debts, the whole nine yards, and I was sent in to get as much information as I could on him. Because so far they have jack shit.”

  “That’s disconcerting,” Bill muttered.

  “The FBI’s plan is mostly by rebound. If they can’t get anything against Sabatini directly, they’re hoping to have enough against him to make him roll over some of his competitors. Either way, it’s a win-win for the Justice Department.”

  “And therefore a lose-lose situation for Sabatini. So you think all these killers are after you? You think Sabatini found out the feds were onto him and decided to eliminate you?”

  “No way. That’s not his style.”
>
  “You know his style now, Rogan?”

  “Don’t you? The guy built his entire empire while flying under the radar. He’s smart, that’s how he’s operated for so long. That’s how the Justice Department never pinched him for anything. I saw that this weekend. Sabatini isn’t Scarface.”

  Bill groaned. “Then please explain to me why I saw you kill these people. Tell me why there are guys with freaking machine guns roaming around.”

  Rogan remembered the last part of his meeting with Agents Krause and Khoury. Before they had parted ways, they had shared a theory with them. Even though they didn’t know much about Sabatini’s operation, they had crossed paths with his son Raymond. Rumors and secondhand information, mostly.

  “I was told…”

  “What?”

  Rogan sighed before deciding to speak. “This is unconfirmed, the information was only tangential, but it was believed that Raymond is the ambitious type. The FBI guys told me to watch out for him.”

  “That little punk? Why?”

  “Because they thought it was possible that in the near future he could be making some type of play. Maybe an alliance with another organization, maybe trying to gain more power within his father’s.”

  “Wait a minute… Are you saying…”

  “Yeah,” Rogan said. “I would bet a set of crisp, limited edition dollar bills that Raymond is planning a coup.”

  “Oh man. Father against son, that’s some real Shakespearean shit.”

  “It’s going to make for some pretty tense Christmas parties, that’s for sure,” Rogan quipped. “Now keep quiet, we’re almost there.”

  The vegetation cleared up and the rolling waves became unmistakable. They were approaching the marina.

  Chapter 25

  No words could escape Gina’s lips. Of course, she knew that she had to remain quiet, but deep down she wanted to scream at what had happened to Oliver. Yet she was paralyzed.

  “He’s not dead,” she finally whispered, spying from around the corner of the garden shed.

  Paul put his hand on her shoulder. “He is, Ms. Maldonado.”