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

by Steve Richer

  “You can answer me, you know. It’s not a trick question.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good, glad to hear it.” Rogan took a chair and rounded the table so he could sit on the same side as Rudd. “We need to talk, you and me.”

  “I want to talk to my attorney. I want my lawyer present.”

  “You have another one? So soon? I mean, you heard about Gerald, right? They told you?”

  Rudd swallowed. “Yes, they told me. His firm recommended someone else.”

  Rogan felt bad about acting like a bully, especially since Gerald Butrymowicz had been shot because of him. Still, he needed the President to be destabilized.

  “I know everything. I know about the faction, I know about you being controlled by the Chamber of Commerce of Hell. I know about your daughter.”

  “Andi! Is she all right? Did you find her?”

  There was a genuine concern in his eyes and again Rogan felt bad.

  “She’s fine. They brought her back after you… did what you did. So now we need to finish this you and I. No more bullshit, no more lies. You need to be upfront with me.”

  The President shook his head. “I have more children, I can’t put them in danger.”

  He was referring to his legitimate children. He had a son who was an executive for an energy company in Houston and a daughter who had recently gotten married to a man who was himself the heir to a ranching empire in Oklahoma.

  “They still receive Secret Service protection, they’re in good hands. Besides, we both know you already played your part. They don’t need you anymore.”

  Rogan glanced at the large see-through mirror. He had asked the FBI Police to turn off all recording equipment and not to allow anyone in the observation room, but he had every reason to doubt they would actually do it. He had to assume he was being eavesdropped on and that’s why he was sitting close to the detainee.

  “Please, don’t make me say anything that can endanger my family.”

  “Chris, stop being an asshole. Stop thinking about yourself.” Rogan leaned closer so he could whisper. “Like I said, I know about the faction and how you conspired to run the world with your buddies. Except they used you to get rich. They’re getting powerful, Chris. How long until they do the same thing to the next President? How long until we lose this country to a bunch of suits on Wall Street?”

  At that, the former President flinched. He was considering the implications.

  “I know about GOPS. They had you kill your wife for a fucking appropriations committee. They had you kill your wife just to make some Navy officer shit his pants, making him sign papers and giving your buddies $3 billion. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let these guys get away with it.”

  Rudd’s eyes watered. “I told them I didn’t want to play along anymore. They said they would make me regret it.”

  “I’m sorry. Now it’s time for some payback, okay? Tell me who the Joplin Initiative is. Tell me who’s behind that consortium.”

  Rogan was whispering because if people were recording this he didn’t want the fact that he knew so much to be exposed. It was also why he was asking the President directly. The other agents upstairs were doing the same, taking the scenic route as part of the investigation, but Rogan wanted the truth directly from the man because it would never make it to court.

  It was already bad that the faction was trying to kill him to keep him from getting too close to the truth, but now that he was in the center of the storm he had to keep his cards close to his vest.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you. They’re probably gonna have me killed in prison anyway. There’s J–”

  “Keep your voice down, please.”

  He complied. “There’s JWO and Associates, Clonmel Analytics Group, the Hyman Bedford Foundation, and Ware-Robinson Engineering.”

  “Now tell me who’s actually controlling these companies.”

  And so he did. Rogan didn’t take any notes for fear they would fall into the wrong hands. He wanted all the pieces before making his findings public.

  “Jesus Christ…”

  Six names. The President had given him six names that were so well known that he didn’t even need to look them up. Jordan MacIntosh was the junior senator from Arizona, Rabulas Trujillo was one of the richest men in South America and some suspected the Colombian cartels were behind his rapid ascension.

  Katrina Heald had been a tech executive before the IPO of her own startup made her one of the most successful women in American business. Yi Liao was a Chinese billionaire with ties to the government while Edward Tedbury was a British real estate mogul. New Zealander Gabriel Barton had sold the financial empire inherited from his father and he was now known as a socialite who didn’t always hang out with choirboys.

  “So you see, Special Agent? This is who we’re up against.”

  “What else do you know about them, or about the faction in general?”

  “The faction is like a snake, always hiding, always moving. The only permanent thing about it is the ship.”

  “A ship?” Rogan asked, coming back from the shock of the players involved.

  “More of a yacht, actually. It’s called The 2679, kind of a joke. It’s because it’s always anchored at these coordinates off the coast of Miami. That’s where faction ventures are run from because they can be in international waters on short notice if they need to. It’s the most secret and important possession of the faction.”

  “Are you ready to give a statement? I can bring some agents in here, people from the Justice Department. We can take all of these people down, Mr. President.”

  Rudd snorted. “I love how naive you are. But sure, bring the Attorney General in here and if I can plead down, if we can make some sort of deal, then okay, I’ll talk. I’ll tell the world everything.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Shiloh was practically skipping like a schoolgirl as she came out of the Embassy of Kazakhstan. She had the evidence that would put these people away for a long time, or at the very least launch some serious worldwide criminal investigations.

  She understood that if the faction fell she would also lose her job but she was confident enough in her skills to be able to find other employment. Also, she didn’t think she was criminally implicated with these people. Just like her old line of work with British intelligence, she had always succeeded in skirting the law.

  She was genuinely surprised at how much she was looking forward to stopping these people. Only a few days ago she had been dedicated to her work of protecting her superiors and their interests, but seeing Rogan again had changed everything. She didn’t know what that meant for the future but helping him, protecting him, became paramount.

  As she walked down the sidewalk to her car, she pulled out her phone and called him. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Victo… Shiloh?”

  It was lovable how he still had trouble adjusting to her real name.

  “I got it,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I got the files, I have everything.”

  “Wonderful. Meet me in Dupont Circle. There’s this great little brewpub on…”

  She didn’t hear the rest. A man and a woman came around the corner and as she stepped aside she felt a presence behind her. Before her instincts kicked in, a taser was pressed against her neck and triggered.

  50,000 volts of electricity went through her body and she went limp.

  Chapter 43

  “Hello?” Rogan said. “Shiloh, are you there?”

  He was pacing just outside the conference room upstairs and between the guys talking around the table and the heating kicking in it was difficult to distinguish what he heard on the phone. It sounded like a gasp, maybe a yelp, and what seemed like a muted punch.

  “Shiloh, what’s going on?”

  He ultimately pulled the phone away from his ear and noticed that the call had been terminated. He swiped through his recent contacts so he could cal
l her again when the phone buzzed. He was getting a text message.

  Sorry, dropped the phone. It’s broken. Meet me Mitchell Park, by tennis court.

  This was weird, her tone was different than how she’d spoken to him, so joyful and optimistic. He began typing a reply.

  What’s wrong with the brewpub?

  The reply came several seconds later: New info. Need to talk URGENT. Come quickly.

  Something was definitely not on the up and up. Was she being overheard? Was that why she couldn’t talk openly? Was that why she was changing the meeting location? His heart started beating faster.

  He opened the conference room door and poked his head in. “Yo, Gary! Get your coat, you’re coming with me.”

  “Okay, where?” the young agent said as he stood up and grabbed his parka.

  “I’m taking you to get your first blow job, from a woman, I mean. Get a move on.” The kid brightened up for a moment until he realized it was a joke. Rogan turned to the others. “Does one of you have a car I can drive?”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The Dodge sedan careened out of the parking garage, making the other cars screech to a halt as they merged with traffic.

  “If we’re driving this fast,” Gary began. “It means it’s important, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Shouldn’t we have backup?”

  Rogan ignored him and stepped on the gas. They went faster still and flew through red lights as they headed north. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the road ahead. Something was wrong, he could feel it.

  He glanced at the GPS to make sure he was going in the right direction. Mitchell Park was small and not exactly a tourist destination, just a regular neighborhood park in Kalorama.

  In due course, he got onto S Street and slowed down. He looked left and right, it was hard to see in the park because of the raised embankment. He turned right on 23rd Street and drove 30 feet before he spotted Shiloh’s Ford.

  “This is it,” he said.

  “This is what?”

  He parked on the curb. Aside from a few other cars, the street was deserted. Barely any traffic, no pedestrians. Rogan opened his coat and lifted his sweater to clear his pistol.

  “I really think we should get backup if this is a gun situation.”

  “Shut up, come with me.”

  They stepped out of the Dodge and walked toward Shiloh’s car. Gary also reached for his weapon.

  Rogan took his time, flexing his fingers around the butt of his firearm to improve his reflexes. His index was inside the trigger guard, ready for anything.

  “Stay sharp,” he whispered.

  Coming closer to the Ford, he saw the passenger door was open. It wasn’t exactly ajar but it was as if someone hadn’t closed it all the way, like it hadn’t clicked in. And there was something on the ground.

  He took his time, dreading the worst-case scenario.

  When he was next to the car, he saw what was on the ground. It was her phone.

  “What the…”

  Just as he bent to pick it up, the passenger door flew open and hit him in the head. He lost his balance and fell on the cold hard sidewalk. He felt pain instantaneously explode through his head.

  Taken off guard, Gary stepped forward and raised his weapon.

  “Stay right there, don’t move!”

  Rogan turned his head up to see what was going on before getting back on his feet, and right then a black van came to a stop next to the probie. The door slid open and without a single word being said, there was a muzzle flash followed by the hushed discharge of a suppressed weapon.

  “Ugh!”

  Gary’s eyes went wide as two bullets pierced his chest. He was thrown backwards into the dead grass of the park embankment. His body rolled back down onto the sidewalk, lifeless.

  It had been a trap after all, Rogan thought. His head throbbing, he got to his knees as he lifted his gun. He would shoot whoever was in that van, it was the only way to survive.

  But in the commotion he had forgotten the car door and who had opened it. Just as he remembered, he glanced sideways and saw that Albert was crouching in the car, ready to spring on him.

  Rogan twisted to shoot at him but Albert was faster. He’d been ready for an ambush all this time. He lifted his taser and squeezed the trigger. Two stun probes shot out and got Rogan in the face.

  He was paralyzed instantly, he dropped his gun, and everything went black.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  It was painful for Rogan to open his eyes. It was as if every fiber in his body was bruised. Regaining consciousness was at once dumbfounding and encouraging because he was still alive. Yet there was so much soreness.

  He was completely disoriented and opening his eyes, something that took over a minute to perform, didn’t offer much help. He was blinded, completely sensitive to light. Then he focused on one body part at a time.

  His arms were up, there was pressure around his wrists. His hands were tied up above his head. Only it hurt too much to simply be about the binding.

  Next he concentrated on his legs. He was barefoot and his feet weren’t touching the ground. He was vertical, hanging straight by his wrists, hence the aching as his body weight applied pressure to his ligaments. He tried swinging his legs but it only served to make pain shoot up his arms.

  And then there was the cold. He realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt either and the room was freezing. It wasn’t as cold as outside but it was damp and unheated which somehow made it worse.

  Just as he eventually managed to look around, he was punched in the stomach.

  “Fuck!”

  The pain was excruciating and this told him it wasn’t the first time he’d been struck. They had been going at it for a while before he came to. He turned his head and found Albert, the FBI traitor, standing next to him. He wound his shoulder back and this time punched him in the face.

  Rogan tasted blood which he spat out. He ran his tongue inside his mouth and found a few cuts. Yes, he had definitely been hit many times while he was passed out. How nice.

  As he caught his breath, he looked around, beyond his captor.

  They were in some sort of old warehouse, or perhaps a basement. There were sweating brick walls, a dirty concrete floor covered with the fine rubble from a crumbling building, and lighting came from a battery-operated floodlight on a yellow tripod.

  “Where’s Shiloh?”

  With a businesslike attitude, Albert jabbed him in the stomach before delivering an uppercut to the face. Rogan saw stars from that one, his vision became blurry. This made no sense, why didn’t they just kill him already?

  “What do you want?”

  Albert was about to punch him again when high heels resounded loudly on the floor, echoing through the room.

  “Stop. Don’t use up all the fun now.”

  Blood dripping from his mouth, Rogan lifted his head only to feel it roll back, not an ounce of strength left in his body. He followed the incoming footsteps. A woman in a grey business suit was coming.

  She was middle-aged with a smart professional hairdo, bobbing just above her shoulders. There was something familiar about her although she had been different the last time he’d seen her. Then it clicked and she saw it.

  “You recognize me, don’t you, Special Agent Bricks?”

  “You’re Marjorie Simonsen.”

  She was the wife of the US Secret Service agent whose gun the President had stolen to kill the First Lady.

  “We have some things to talk about,” she said with amusement in her voice.

  Chapter 44

  Rogan momentarily forgot his physical agony. He looked at the woman and did his best to understand how she fit in this. She had never been on his radar, she’d simply been the wife of a minor player. The last time he’d seen her she had been wearing yoga pants and she had castigated him for interrogating her husband.

  “Just who the hell are you?”

  “That question you alrea
dy know. Asking questions you already know the answer to earns you a punch.”

  Without hesitation, Albert sent a fist crashing into his ribs. Rogan roared in pain, his body swinging down from the ceiling like he was a piece of meat in a butcher shop.

  “Now do you want to ask a more precise question? One at a time, if you will.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Well, you know about the faction now, obviously. I’m just a hanger on, a junior member. I have connections mostly because of my real day-to-day career at the Treasury Department.”

  “Your husband was part of this too?”

  Simonsen nodded to her henchman and he punched Rogan on the jaw. It knocked a tooth loose and he spat it out along with a splotch of blood.

  “You knew the answer to this question also, Agent Bricks! My husband was just a victim of circumstances as you already determined yourself.”

  “Circumstances you arranged.”

  She smiled and shrugged coyly. “Maybe a little bit. Do you have another question?”

  “My partner, Gary Nero.”

  This time it was Albert who replied. “Dead.”

  This news filled Rogan with adrenaline, newfound energy. His first instinct was to struggle, anything to fight back against these two, but it was a lost cause. Instead he decided to bottle up his rage.

  “Next question.”

  “Why am I here? Where’s Shiloh Kappas?”

  “These are two questions and therefore a violation of the rules of this game. Albert, please.”

  The thug grinned, got into a fighting stand, and pounced. He sent two punches to his gut with his right hand and finished with a rabbit punch, the left fist landing squarely on the side of Rogan’s neck.

  The federal agent was out of breath and strived to inhale. The woman came closer, putting her face only inches away from his.

  “You smell nice. I love when a man smells… manly. You want to try your question for a second time? Or both questions together if you want to do this again.”

  “Where’s Shiloh Kappas?”