Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)

by Steve Richer

  It was getting late and whether or not the fugitive was apprehended the restaurant idea was shot. Rogan would probably have to settle for a fast food burger. And no Chablis.

  The sounds of the city were loud. Rush-hour had ended but cars and trucks and ships could be heard in the distance. Still, it wasn’t enough to drown out the engine of a plane getting closer.

  “Heads up!” an FBI agent in SWAT gear said to everyone around.

  Rogan followed the man’s gaze and binoculars and sure enough a small plane was coming in from the north, losing altitude. He spoke into his walkie-talkie, making sure everyone was alert. The state police had a chopper hovering nearby, ready to swoop in just in case the pilot wanted to bolt.

  The SWAT leader handed the binoculars to Rogan who impatiently observed the plane. It looked like a Twin Otter from pictures he’d seen on the Internet. In spite of the darkness he could tell it was bright orange. The angle was not optimal to make out the tail number but everything pointed to this being the rogue aircraft identified by Seattle TRACON.

  Rogan gave back the binoculars and drew his pistol. It was a rather stupid, premature gesture but it helped him focus. Next he concentrated on controlling his breathing.

  The plane touched down about halfway through the empty lake and came toward them.

  “November Six-Eight-Niner-One-Seven,” the SWAT leader confirmed. “It’s our guy.”

  “It’s our plane anyway.”

  Firmly settled on the water, the aircraft veered starboard, aiming for Kenmore Air Harbor.

  “Look alive, everyone! We only have one shot at this.”

  The SWAT team went first. They scampered toward the FBO – the main building – remaining out of sight, weapons at the ready. For their part, Rogan and Castro continued to observe from behind the car.

  Rogan squinted. The binoculars had been left nearby but the approaching plane was too close to use them. It taxied past them and turned around, ready for a quick getaway.

  At last, the plane came to a halt at the end of the pier. The engine was cut off and a door swung open. The pilot came out and busied himself tying up the aircraft. Then another man came out. He swiftly put on a knit cap but there was no mistaking the blond hair, it was Hargrove.

  Neither man had luggage and they came down the pier. If they were armed, shit was about to go down. People would be killed.

  When they were by the shore, even with the building, the SWAT team swung into action, rushing ahead with their carbines pointed forward.

  “FBI!”

  “Freeze, now!”

  The pilot panicked and turned around, running back toward the Twin Otter. Two agents ran after him. Hargrove stopped in his tracks, a dejected expression on his face.

  “Get on the ground!”

  In a matter of seconds, both men were tackled, frisked, and cuffed. Rogan admired the handiwork as he stood up and holstered his weapon once more.

  Hargrove noticed him as the SWAT guys marched him to the waiting vehicles.

  “Hey, Rusty. Miss me?”

  Rogan sat shotgun in the SWAT team’s big black Suburban. The pilot was in another vehicle. Castro was driving the rental back to the office and Rogan knew that the interrogation could wait. Technically, there shouldn’t even be an interrogation, not after Cooley getting involved.

  But Rogan had questions.

  He undid his belt and turned sideways on his seat. “How was the flight, Rusty? By the way, did you pick that name or did it come preinstalled on the fake ID you bought?”

  “Man, lick my nuts. I want a lawyer.”

  “And I want a pet giraffe, we all have our dreams, kid. There’s no law against friendly conversation, is there?”

  Hargrove avoided his gaze and looked straight through the windshield, defiantly. He was halfway between being pathetic and amusing, Rogan thought.

  “I saved your life back in Alaska, you could show a little gratitude.”

  “Thanks, now fuck off.”

  “I’m not sure you would have said that yesterday when I was fighting two South African gentlemen on your behalf. You know they were there to kill you, right? They weren’t there to chitchat or do your nails or partake in the always important fantasy football draft. They went into your hospital room to make you stop breathing. So you better show some goddamn courtesy, Calix.”

  That actually registered with him and he blinked. He opened his mouth to speak before deciding otherwise.

  “Kid…”

  “A lawyer. I want a lawyer.”

  “I’m not even sure I can do that,” Rogan said with an exaggerated pout. “Some people have requested your company. And these people have more clout than the FBI.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re a smart man, you figure it out. I’ll give you a hint though: it has something to do with the weapon of mass destruction you were selling to Russia.”

  “I wasn’t selling anything to Russia! I was just…”

  “Just what? Arranging transport? I’m sure that’ll go over well at your trial. Then again, we both know there’s not gonna be a trial. We’re talking about a secret biological weapon being sold to a foreign government. We’re talking about intelligence agencies getting involved. The CIA isn’t really big on trials, so I hear.”

  Hargrove was rattled by this and bristled. “Whatever. I still want a lawyer.”

  “So you’re not gonna tell me who hired you to smuggle the virus out of the country? Even if I could pull some strings and make sure you weren’t waterboarded?”

  “Fuck. Off.”

  “Love the eloquence, dude. You’re wasted as a smuggler, you could have been a poet. The thing that you should know is that I don’t actually need you to talk. There is enough evidence against you for me to hand you over to the CIA with a clear conscience. In the course of 24 hours I already found out how your operation works. I know about Mandrake giving you the paperwork. I know about your plans to move to Panama. I know about the virus, obviously. But there’s one thing I’m still wondering about.”

  Rogan stared at the detainee until the young man looked back.

  “What?”

  “Why did you call the FBI? I mean, you escaped the mercenaries in the open sea. You bravely jumped into the Arctic water and by some miracle you were rescued. Yet you insisted on spilling the beans about what happened and calling the FBI. Why? You could’ve had a cup of hot cocoa and slip away unnoticed.”

  Hargrove pondered this. He looked down at the floor and shook his head. This time however it wasn’t in defiance, he was looking for a proper way to explain. Then he met Rogan’s eyes again.

  “I was scared, man. These guys were obviously pros, way out of my league. If they could find our boat in the middle of the ocean then they could find me anywhere. I figured the feds could get them off my back and I could still escape afterwards.”

  “That was gutsy, kid.”

  “Between losing my business and losing my life, the choice wasn’t hard to make.”

  Rogan nodded, impressed. “I hope it was worth it. Your life is about to get pretty miserable and there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  Chapter 29

  The motel room air-conditioning rumbled loudly and Shiloh went to turn it off. The air was cool enough anyway. The TV was the sole source of illumination, playing a second-rate syndicated game show where the prizes weren’t even worth the embarrassment of participating.

  Shiloh was barely paying attention to it but the banality of it kept her tethered to the real world. Back home, Rogan served that role but here, so close to her old life of danger and mischief, she needed something to remind her that life wasn’t always about political machinations and murder.

  She’d gone over her plan for the last several hours. She’d been so involved in this that she’d eaten an entire pizza by herself before realizing she may have had three slices too many. This always happened to her before an operation, getting lost in her head.

  She st
ripped down to a long T-shirt and was sitting in bed when her phone rang.

  “Hello?” she answered neutrally as she recognized the Washington DC area code.

  “Ms. Staples? How are you? This is Linda Ramos from Senator Stoll’s office. We spoke earlier.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Shiloh did a quick run-through of her persona: Denise Staples regional director for the Southwest Long-Haul Truckers Association.

  “I know it’s late, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Of course not!” Shiloh said with mock enthusiasm, using her best Midwestern accent. “Besides, it’s even later in Washington. The senator isn’t making you work at night, is he?”

  The woman laughed dutifully. “Politics isn’t nine-to-five, that’s for sure. Listen, I was able to speak with the senator and he’d like to meet you for breakfast to discuss arrangements before committing to speaking at your event.”

  “Discussing arrangements? I can send a package of our material for him to review if he wants. I could also send a partial payment?”

  “Don’t worry, this is very routine when it comes to Senator Stoll. He likes to meet people before making promises. He’s been burned once before, going blindly to a conference that wound up being about convicts rights which didn’t sit well with voters.”

  “I’m sorry again about this being last-minute but should I be worried? If I need to make other arrangements and find another keynote speaker before tomorrow night…”

  “This is just a formality, Ms. Staples. He wants to meet you, maybe get a few key points to work into his speech. What do you say?”

  “Uh, sure,” Shiloh replied with a shrug.

  More than anything, she was convinced Stoll wanted nothing more than a chance to negotiate for more money. That was his style.

  On the other hand, this might be the opportunity she’d been waiting for. It was a slight deviation from her plan but maybe she could do the deed right then.

  “Great! The senator has a suite at the Conroy Hotel, it’s just off Market Street.”

  “He has a hotel suite? I thought he had a home in San Diego.”

  “He goes to the Conroy when he wants to get some work done, it’s a working procedure.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Let me give you the room number.” She did. “Would meeting him for a 9am breakfast work for you?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Shiloh could see the pieces of her new plan falling into place.

  Rogan swallowed the last of his Dr Pepper – something he drank once a year to remind himself why he hated it. He wasn’t too fond of the chemical cherry flavor but today it was surprisingly not bad, a nice complement to the Chinese food they were sharing in the mostly empty FBI situation room.

  There were only a handful of agents still on duty now, including Nadine Shoemaker, who was going through the surveillance footage from the industrial park.

  “Do you want more of this?” Castro asked, presenting his carton of chow mein.

  “Thanks, I’m stuffed.”

  He was cleaning his hands with one of the provided wet naps when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He smiled when he recognized the number.

  “Hey, sweetheart.”

  “Evening,” Shiloh said. “Are you in bed at the moment?”

  “Why, you’re in the mood for phone sex?”

  At that, Castro’s eyes widened, making Rogan chuckle. He stood up and walked away, finding a distant corner.

  “I could be convinced.”

  “And I could be arrested. I’m at the office.”

  “Anchorage?”

  “No,” he replied. “Still in Seattle. We caught our fugitive so I’m coming back in the morning. What about you? Are you in New York? Or Chicago? Or Paris?”

  “I’m in a motel room watching a dreadfully boring TV show.”

  “And here comes a gold star to the lovely Briton for finding a way to not answer.”

  “Rogan…”

  “I know, I know. You can’t say anything and I shouldn’t pry.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

  “It won’t change my answer, darling.”

  He glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “I love when you call me darling in that sexy voice of yours, you know that? Sounds so sophisticated.”

  “I miss you.”

  “So now you know I’ll be home tomorrow. What about you? When are you coming back?”

  “Most likely tomorrow night as well. One final thing to take care of, then I’m flying home.”

  “And you’re certain you can’t tell me what that final thing is, Shiloh?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “I’m sure you could but have you considered that perhaps I don’t need help?”

  “Don’t need or don’t want?”

  “Rogan, please let’s not start a fight.”

  He took a deep breath and nodded to no one. He knew that she needed to do her own thing, that staying home all the time was driving her up the walls, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

  She was putting herself in harm’s way and she thrived on it. In contrast, the prospect of her getting hurt sickened him. But the worst part was that she was keeping secrets from him. This did nothing to quell his worrying.

  “Imagine how cool it would be if we were working on the same case,” he said to defuse the tension.

  “You want me to join the FBI?”

  “I could join the private sector. We could be modern-day Simon and Simon.”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea who Simon and Simon are.”

  “I’m positively shocked at your lack of culture, young lady. We’ll need to do something about this.”

  “Oh you’ll take over my education, will you?”

  Rogan lowered his voice. “Absolutely. I’m thinking you in pigtails and schoolgirl uniform, I’ll be the headmaster with a firm hand and…”

  “Agent Bricks?”

  He followed the voice to the other end of the room. Nadine was looking at him from her workstation.

  “What’s up?”

  “We have something.”

  Nodding, Rogan focused on the phone again. “Sweetheart, I have to go.”

  “Another student to discipline?”

  “I wish, believe me.”

  “Wanker.”

  “Talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

  “I love you, Rogan.”

  “Not as much as I do.”

  He said goodbye and hung up. Immediately, he rushed over to Nadine.

  She said, “We think we have the person who provided the virus to Hargrove.”

  Chapter 30

  “Look at this,” Nadine said, pushing up her glasses.

  Rogan crouched by the desk so he was level with the computer screen.

  “We rewound the surveillance videos from all the cameras of Taikuv Electronics around their warehouses. September 28, that’s the last time Hargrove’s Camaro can be seen.”

  “Makes sense,” Rogan said. “He left Seattle on the Crystal Goose on September 30.”

  “Okay so we saw Hargrove meet with this vehicle, just before midnight.”

  On the screen in black and white, a pale Buick pulled up alongside the Camaro, in the opposite direction so that the two drivers could speak to each other without having to disembark. Because of the downward angle and the glare on the windshield they couldn’t see the driver.

  “License plate?”

  “Working on it,” the technician manning the controls said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

  The chubby guy was good, flipping through camera angles and video frames quickly, rewinding and fast forwarding when necessary, not wasting any time. Then a license plate filled most of the main screen.

  It was blurry and the technician did a screen grab before pasting it into Photoshop software on another screen. He clicked his mouse, hit a couple
of keys on his keyboard, and the image cleared up enough to be decipherable.

  “I call that a touchdown, good job.”

  Nadine hurried to another terminal and called up the DMV search function.

  “Janalyn Taibbi, proud owner of a 2013 Buick Verano, Champagne Silver Metallic.” Then she switched search functions. “Oh boy, we have a file on her.”

  Rogan arched his eyebrows. “We do?”

  “She has a security clearance, she’s been vetted by the FBI. She works for Beem Archwood Biotech.”

  Before the other agent had finished talking, Rogan was already on his phone searching for Beem Archwood Biotech.

  “Medical research company,” he said. “They have government contracts. I’d say she’s our gal.”

  “I’ll get a warrant and arrange for her to get picked up first thing in the morning.”

  Rogan remembered his earlier conversation with his boss. The CIA was applying pressure and by morning he had to drop the case quietly, as if nothing had happened.

  “Forget morning. Get Seattle PD on it, have her arrested right now. I want her in this building before sunrise.”

  Janalyn Taibbi was a night owl. She had never really thought so until she got to college and discovered that studying organic chemistry at three o’clock in the morning was when she felt the most alive. Ever since then she had reserved her most important work for after the sun had set.

  “I gather you’re not coming to the bed, babe?”

  Curled up on the couch, she looked up at her husband from the 400-page document.

  “I just want to finish this first, okay?”

  He laughed. “Like I haven’t heard that before. Good night.”

  He kissed her on the forehead.

  “Good night.”

  It was technically morning – right after midnight – but this time she didn’t correct him. Nevertheless, they’ve been married 19 years. Shouldn’t he stop being surprised at her schedule?

  She watched him leave the living room and counted her blessings at being married to him. Her husband was one of the most respected surgeons in all of Seattle and he was easy on the eyes to boot.

  Even after 19 years she still thought she didn’t deserve him. He was tall and handsome and athletic while she was a short, dumpy nerd. That was why she was determined to climb the rungs at work, to at least be his equal professionally.