The President Killed His Wife (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 1)

by Steve Richer

  Synopsis

  The President has killed his wife... on live TV, during the State of the Union address!

  FBI agent Rogan Bricks is a recluse with a murky past. Just an ex-soldier happy to be low-profile. While he's shocked watching from his mansion in Alaska, he's not particularly distressed. He's never cared about politics anyway.

  But everything changes when he's personally summoned to Washington to lead the investigation.

  Why him? Why is his life suddenly in danger from assassins? And why is everything starting to point toward a conspiracy?

  * * *

  The President Killed His Wife

  By Steve Richer

  Copyright © 2015 Steve Richer

  The cover art for this book makes use of licensed stock photography. All photography is for illustrative purposes only and all persons depicted are models.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Also by Steve Richer

  Counterblow (Rogan Bricks 2)

  Terror Bounty

  The Kennedy Secret

  The Gilded Treachery

  Never Bloodless

  The Atomic Eagle

  Sigma Division

  The sequel is out! Get the new Rogan Bricks thriller Counterblow now

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  Chapter 1

  It was with a smile that Rogan put the crabs into the boiling water. The TV was on and he was looking forward to catching up on old episodes of Leverage this evening. He needed something light and fluffy. First there would be some game shows while he prepared dinner, but as soon as this was over he would crash in his plushy screening room and turn his mind off.

  In the meantime, he had to work on his crab cakes. His talent for cooking had come quite unexpectedly. For years he had been content with takeout and going to restaurants, but after a while this got old. He had dated a chef for a few months and while their relationship had been destined to fail from day one, she had taught him the basis of cooking and he’d discovered it was actually fun.

  It was definitely a welcome relief from his daily life and he kept at it. As long as it wasn’t too difficult or didn’t call for 30 different ingredients he would never use again, it was right up his alley.

  “Come to me and prepare to die,” he said to the stalk of celery before chopping it.

  When he’d had bought this gigantic house, about a mile from the ocean and offering majestic views of the swelling tides, the kitchen had been his priority. He’d had high-end appliances flown in from Seattle. As always, money was no object. The house was built on a bluff, a luxurious combination of logs and stones, rustic and yet classy.

  He glanced at his Rolex to make sure the crab wouldn’t be overcooked and then fetched French shallot from the refrigerator. The golden retriever looked up expectantly – always hopeful this meant a piece of steak was coming his way – but Rogan purposely ignored him.

  With the seafood still cooking, he took the opportunity to get some mayo, breadcrumbs, and sriracha in order to mix into the crab cakes. He’d never done this particular variation before but he couldn’t fathom it being disgusting.

  The dog complained at being left out. Rogan had chosen wisely when he’d named him Glut, short for Glutton. That beast could eat just about anything.

  “All right, all right. You promise you won’t beg for more later tonight?”

  Glut cocked his head to the side as if they both knew this was a useless pursuit.

  “I don’t know how you can do this to me. Try to be sincere for once, okay?”

  Rogan got a biscuit from the pantry and crouched to let the dog eat it out of his hand. He petted him at the same time. It never ceased to amaze him how a grown man could love a furry little thing so much.

  “Okay, that’s enough now. It’s my turn to eat.”

  The dog walked out of the kitchen but didn’t go far, stretching his length on the floor by the long granite table, right next to the heating vent. Smart move. It was early February in Alaska, after all.

  After washing his hands, Rogan went back to preparing his dinner. The crabs were ready by now and it was time to get messy. He switched the TV channel, hoping to be in time for Family Feud, but instead he found some reporters yammering about something or other.

  “Weird…”

  He wondered if there was some sort of news events before realizing the TV screen was filled with an image of inside the US Capitol. Then he remembered what was going on: tonight was the State of the Union address. He rolled his eyes and switched channels but found the same thing everywhere except MTV. He had stopped watching MTV when they had stopped playing music.

  So he let go of the remote and attacked the crabs, hammering at the shells. He wondered what kind of bullshit the President would spew tonight. Lies, lies, and a few more lies to top it all off. That was how politics worked and he was glad it was a world away from him.

  “Mister Speaker, the President of the United States!”

  Rogan mechanically looked up at the TV while Congress burst into applause. President Christopher Rudd headed toward the Speaker’s rostrum and it took an eternity as he paused to shake hands, give hugs, and even kiss some of the women’s cheeks. And what the hell was that? Was he signing autographs?

  “Fucking politicians. Glut, don’t ever run for office, you understand me?”

  The dog barked in agreement.

  Rolling his eyes, Rogan picked the meat from the carcass and put everything into a bowl. It was too soon to add the egg and the mayonnaise, still way too hot, so he decided it was a good time to get a beer and some chips, the side dish of champions.

  At long last, the President reached the House Clerk’s desk and from the podium he took two envelopes which he handed to the Vice President and the Speaker who were behind him. The applause continued and Rogan figured this was all part of the dog and pony show.

  “Members of Congress,” the Speaker announced to the crowd, loudly over the continued applause. “I have the high privilege and distinct honor of presenting to you the President of the United States!”

  “Jesus, get on with it,” Rogan said before gulping his Sam Adams.

  As the cheering went on, he made sure the stove burners were off and he turned on the built-in fryer. The crab cakes would be assembled and ready soon.

  “My… my f-fellow Americans.”

  Rogan frowned. Was the guy drunk? Weren’t heads of state supposed to be self-assured when addressing the public? This was turning out to be more interesting than he would’ve thought.

  “Uh, my… my fellow, fellow Americans…”

  The guy didn’t seem too well and Rogan’s instincts kicked in. By now he could tell when something was wrong and this was more stress than illness. He put down his beer and came closer to the TV.

  The President turned his head away from the microphone and said something to someone off-screen. There was chatter through the crowd as people wondered what was going on and President Rudd took a few steps away from his podium, still talking and motioning to someone.

  In a flash, a much younger man came running toward him. Rogan recognized him as a Secret Service agent, his head swiveling, looking for threats. But Rudd smiled comfortingly, i
n the process letting everyone know there was no danger.

  The President leaned into his bodyguard and whispered in his ear, and at the same time he pressed his body against his.

  “What that hell?” Rogan muttered when he saw the President’s hand swing up.

  From there, everything happened at once and yet Rogan had an idea of what was going on before it was even done, simply by looking at the man’s stance.

  The President drew the Secret Service guy’s firearm and simultaneously pushed on the man’s chest so he tumbled backwards. This gave him the time he needed to rotate back forward, gun in hand. While the crowd was in shock, Rudd aimed the weapon up at arm’s length and fired over half a dozen times in quick succession.

  Congress exploded in panic, in cries and yells. What the fuck had just happened?! There was confusion and the President was tackled by three people, one of which was the House Clerk. The camera shot was so close that it was impossible to see what the President had fired at.

  Rogan wanted to believe that the man had seen a menace up in the gallery and had heroically taken it down. But that made no sense. The House Chamber was under heavy guard, especially for the State of the Union. There were probably more security personnel in attendance than actual politicians.

  Glut was barking while reporters came on the air, stupidly describing what everybody had just seen as if they had a special insight.

  Suddenly no longer hungry, Rogan turned off the fryer and finished his beer. Was this an act of terrorism? In this day and age, jaywalking was practically considered an act of terror as far as the government was concerned. In any case, he had to get ready to go to work.

  They were still displaying images of the Washington elite fleeing but otherwise there was nothing to see. The network’s senior anchor finally took the microphone.

  “At this point, details are sketchy but… uh, we’re getting confirmation… Again, this is filtering through from information gathered on social media… but a congressman… From Illinois, is that right, Jim? Yes, a congressman from Illinois has written on Twitter that the First Lady has been shot. The First Lady… oh God. The First Lady is dead.”

  Chapter 2

  As Rogan walked into the FBI’s Anchorage field office – a depressing low-rise brown building which looked like a warehouse and had very few windows – he realized he wasn’t the only one who’d figured he’d better show up just in case this was a national emergency of some sort.

  “Hey, Bricks! Can you believe this shit?”

  Horace Moore looked at him while shaking his head, running his hand across his hairless pate. There was a rumor that he was currently the oldest field agent in the Bureau.

  “No,” Rogan replied, getting closer, deeper into the bullpen. “Any news about what’s going on?”

  “Just what they’re showing on the news over and over again. President got a piece from the Secret Service agent, shot his wife. They’re not saying anything more and now they have a blackout on the pictures. Almost 40 years I’ve been here, I’ve seen some weird shit, but this takes the cake.”

  He scratched his scalp again and sank into his chair. The morale around the office was definitely low and no one would fault him for not wearing a tie tonight. Rogan had left his at home as well.

  Even though it was past seven o’clock agents kept filtering in. It was a small field office, with some special agents detached to outposts in Fairbanks and Juneau, so the atmosphere was intimate, collegial.

  The next person to show up was Gary Nero. At 25, he was still new on the job and officially Rogan’s probie though neither of them liked the arrangement. The kid was the only one wearing a suit tonight.

  “Did you guys see that?!”

  “See what?” Rogan asked. “Did something happen?”

  “On TV! The President!” He looked between the two other agents incredulously. “Oh, you’re messing with me.”

  “We would never do that, Gary.”

  “Yeah yeah yeah…” He walked away while making a jerk-off gesture but five seconds later he was back. “You guys really think something’s going on? I mean, the country isn’t under attack, is it?”

  “Horace, was the country under attack the last time a President shot his wife?”

  “Gee, Bricks, I’ll have to rack my brain about this one for a smidge. Let me think.”

  The kid rolled his eyes, being the butt of the joke once again. “Fine, I’ll go to my desk and see if we have any reports coming in.”

  Rogan watched him go. Although he didn’t say so, he admired the fire in his belly. His life had definitely been a roller coaster and there had been a point when he had been as eager as his young partner. Those days were gone.

  That’s why he had requested a transfer to Alaska five years ago. He liked taking it easy. His days were filled investigating minor corporate fraud, the odd bank robbery, pimps bringing out-of-state strippers to sell into prostitution to oil workers. It was a good, quiet life.

  Taking a cue from his partner, he went to his cubicle, removed his parka, and sat behind his desk. He considered retrieving the bottle of Jim Beam hidden in the back of the drawer but decided against it. For some strange reason, he thought the world was about to shift and he wanted to be clear-eyed for whatever would occur.

  The dispatcher reported in a bunch of cranks who had called in the last hour. Most of them were so far-fetched they didn’t even need to be looked into. Lizard people were finally revealing themselves, it was the first sign of a Bible prophecy, each one was better than the last.

  When nothing happened for another 20 minutes, Rogan decided to go home. They’d just have to call him back to work if he ever was needed, which he doubted. This would turn out to be some old guy having a mental breakdown, only it happened on national TV. He stood up and grabbed his coat when Special Agent in Charge Patton came out of her office.

  “Special Agent Bricks, could you come in here please?”

  “What did I do?” he said in an innocent-child voice.

  Nevertheless, he didn’t let her repeat. He dropped his coat on the chair again and walked through the bullpen amid the searching gaze of his colleagues.

  “Take a seat, Rogan,” the tall woman said as she closed the door.

  She was older than he was, in her mid-40s he guessed, and he had a sense she’d been going places before getting assigned to Alaska. But she was strong-willed and he’d never seen her gripe. He was confident she would rise up again from whatever misdeed she had committed.

  “What’s going on?”

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “I’m gonna go with, hmmm, let’s see… You’re organizing a poker night and you’re looking for a new player.”

  “Can’t you ever be serious?”

  “Serious is boring. Besides, I’m an excellent dealer. Butterfly Fingers is what they used to call me in college. No, wait, that was one girl who called me that and for totally different reasons.”

  She didn’t even crack a smile while she went around her desk and sat down. Rogan picked up on it.

  “Wendy, what’s happening?”

  “Just got off the phone with Washington, the Director himself.”

  “Director? I hope it was Steven Spielberg, he’s my favorite.”

  “Director Hephner has personally asked for you. You understand? It wasn’t his secretary on the phone, it was him. Himself.”

  Rogan frowned and leaned forward on the chair. “He asked for me for what?”

  “You’re to go to DC by fastest means available, his words. It’s about tonight, the President.”

  “Not sure I’m following you here, Wendy.”

  It was her turn to lean forward, staring at him across the desk. “The Director of the FBI has personally requested you to head the investigation into what happened with the President’s shooting.”

  Chapter 3

  Once he had gotten over the shock of the demand, which made absolutely no sense as far as he was concerned, he requested N
ero to come along with him. Just because he didn’t particularly like him personally didn’t mean he didn’t find him useful.

  “The Director didn’t say anything about anyone else, Rogan.”

  “I don’t care. He’s coming. If they don’t want the kid around I’ll pay for his ticket back home myself.”

  And with that, he left his superior’s office. SAC Patton handled transportation herself while Rogan told his partner to go home and pack.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Field trip. Now go fill a small suitcase, enough for a few days, and go say goodbye to your goldfish, or whoever keeps your bed warm at night.”

  He didn’t say more and headed home. While he was packing and talking his neighbors into dog-sitting Glut, he wondered why he had been chosen. Were they assigning cases by lottery now?

  He drove to Ted Stevens Airport and Gary met him at the general aviation area. Before long they were being ushered into a Dassault Falcon 100 jet.

  “Here,” Rogan said, handing a couple of Dramamine pills to his partner.

  “It’s okay, I don’t get airsick.”

  “That’s not the point. The moment we’re in the air, I want you to chase these down with a miniature bottle of vodka. It’s to make you sleep.”

  “But…”

  “Don’t argue with me. It’s nine o’clock, we have nine hours of flying ahead of us, and DC is three hours ahead. We need to be able to hit the ground running. Take the damn pills, Gary.”

  The young man looked even younger in this instant as he nodded. His cheeks were red from the bitter cold and he looked like a teenager at his first job. He swallowed the pills and a few minutes later they took off.

  “What about you, Rogan?” he asked before gulping the booze, wincing. “You’re not taking any?”

  “I can sleep on demand. It’s an old Marine thing. Now close your eyes and go to sleep.”