Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)

by Steve Richer

  Not wanting to miss an opportunity, Rogan climbed on the desk again. He took aim at the man boldly coming into the bullpen, and fired two rounds into his head just as he was lined up to kill Castro.

  “That’s him!” another assailant said.

  Rogan knew they were talking about him. What the hell?

  Then, more sustained gunfire erupted coming from behind the bad guys. They were caught in a crossfire between the FBI agents and new people arriving on scene. Rogan imagined they were FBI SWAT from another floor or Seattle PD.

  “Drop your weapons!”

  “Get on the floor and now!”

  Nevertheless, these terrorists – or whatever they were – didn’t even flinch. They hunkered down and continued shooting at everyone. One of the men unhooked a small canister from his flak jacket and tossed it into the bullpen.

  Rogan’s eyes grew wide. “Grenade!”

  He bent and took cover. The device went off deafeningly. He staggered for a moment and came to the conclusion that it hadn’t been a grenade but rather a flashbang.

  His ears were ringing and he was unsteady on his feet. Taking deep breaths that burned his lungs, he peeked around the cubicle wall and saw that the attackers were much more audacious now, having nothing to lose. They were running through the bullpen, shooting everything that moved.

  “Ugh!” a woman gurgled as she was shot in the stomach.

  Rogan emerged from his hiding place, extended his arms to get a bead on the masked stranger, and shot him three times in the head.

  Something was nagging at him. The leader had recognized him before. They were here for him which meant that merely being here was putting the entire FBI field office in danger.

  This was all he needed to make up his mind.

  He went to the man he had just killed and ripped a smoke bomb from his chest. He pulled the pin and tossed it toward the other intruders.

  Bang!

  The bullpen becoming hazy with green smoke, Rogan ran for the exit.

  Chapter 40

  The building was in chaos.

  The smoke grenade had made not only the fire alarm go off but also the overhead sprinklers. This was enough to confuse everybody, but mostly the attackers who were showing less and less signs of being professionals.

  Rogan had no difficulty navigating through the smoke and raining water, leaving the bullpen and then the entire area allocated to the FBI. He found his way to the stairwell and joined the throngs of panicking workers as they hurriedly climbed down.

  Moreover, him not wearing a jacket – only a T-shirt – wasn’t out of place. Everybody on the other floors had left their posts without warning and most people weren’t wearing a coat or jacket. He had the pistol jammed in the back of his jeans, his shirt pulled loose to conceal it.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Oh my God, is there really a fire?”

  The chatter going on was precisely what Rogan was counting on. After all, he was technically a fugitive escaping from detention. But not now. At the moment he was just another scared middle-income earner fleeing for his life.

  There were more gunshots, some flashbangs. Just from the sound of it, Rogan knew that the cops were gaining the upper hand.

  On the way, Seattle PD officers were climbing up, fighting against the surge of people going down. Nobody gave him a second look. He privately wished them well since they had no idea what they were up against.

  Finally, he reached the ground floor and followed the crowd into the lobby. There were more police officers there to herd everybody out.

  “This way, please,” a grizzled officer said, directing traffic with his arms. “Quickly, go into the street. Go, go!”

  Rogan kept his head down but still noticed that there were two bodies near the entrance, paramedics working on them. They were the security personnel which the assailants had dispatched first upon entering.

  There was no time to stay and observe. Rogan continued to follow the others into the street. Police cars were blocking both 3rd Avenue and Spring Street, creating a large perimeter. In fact, they were still busy cordoning off the area.

  Even better, it seemed like no one had any idea what to do with everybody who was escaping. It would probably not occur to them until later to check each person to make sure they weren’t escaping criminals blending into the crowd.

  For the time being, it was perfect.

  Rogan walked west on Spring and panted, mostly theatrically like he was some poor schmo who had just gone through a terrible ordeal. He climbed up the hill, continuing to act and not even realizing how cold it was. Nobody stopped him when he ducked under the yellow police tape.

  Traffic had backed up all the way to 5th Avenue. He picked up the pace and went around the Seattle Public Library, down to Madison Street. There he got into a cab.

  “The Space Needle, please.”

  “You got it!”

  Rogan had no business there but not knowing the city very well it was the first thing that popped into his head. Besides, all he wanted to do right now was to get away and think about things.

  Rush hour had begun, people doing their best to leave downtown and go home. This was compounded by the emergency situation at the FBI field office, roads being blocked and traffic getting rerouted. It didn’t matter, he wasn’t in a hurry.

  Rogan pushed the gun down his pants so it wouldn’t fall out and then went through his pockets. He had Nadine Shoemaker’s ID badge which could come in handy in spite of the mismatched photograph. He also had her phone and $67.

  He leaned back against the corner where the seat met the door and window. It was his first peaceful moment in a while. The radio was on a news station and the reporters didn’t know squat.

  “Can you believe this?” the driver asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Yeah, terrible.”

  “What kind of world are we living in? These terrorists are everywhere now. Jesus…”

  Rogan nodded noncommittally and looked out the window hoping it was unambiguous that he didn’t want to have a conversation. He didn’t want to have to explain that these guys weren’t terrorists.

  He went through every scenario in his head. This wasn’t random, not after everything that had happened. So who were these guys and why had they done this?

  If past actions were indicative of future events, his first instinct was to think about the CIA. After all, they’d had the British hire mercenaries to assault an American civilian fishing vessel. Storming the FBI field office wasn’t much of a stretch.

  But there was no motive. Cooley already had Hargrove in custody, his job was done. And if for some twisted reason he wanted to eliminate Rogan, he would have done so a lot more covertly. A secret meeting in a parking lot, an anonymous bullet to the head disguised as a mugging gone wrong.

  On top of that, the commandos hadn’t seemed cut from the same cloth as the South African private military contractors in the Bering Sea. From the way they were dressed, the mismatched weapons, they’d been more like vaguely organized criminals than a genuine hit squad.

  So who then?

  “Awesome,” the cabbie said with an enthusiastic laugh. “Good news at last!”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you just hear the radio? The cops are reporting that all the bad guys are dead. It’s over.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” Rogan said. “Great.”

  He went back a little in time. Instead of focusing on the armed men attacking the building, he considered the other major anomaly. He’d been arrested on a trumped up charge. He grinned, this was the key to everything.

  Yes, everything had been a set up to get to him!

  He saw something coming up on the left. It was identified as Westlake Center, a shopping mall.

  “Say, you can drop me off here.”

  “But the Space Needle is still a long ways off.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  The car pulled over, he paid, and left the car. He crossed the
street to the four-story, glass-enclosed building and went inside. Again, he was happy to be anonymous, losing himself in the crowd.

  He ducked into a store that didn’t seem to be too expensive and purchased a windbreaker that was on sale. It was dark blue and nondescript. Most of all, it was different from his bomber jacket which would render difficult making a connection between him and his older self if his colleagues were looking for him.

  He continued walking through the mall, keen on getting himself a hat to conceal his identity even more. As he did so, he returned to thinking about the assault.

  He’d been accused of conspiring to kill a US senator and this got him arrested. It also made him stationary. This had to be the plan of whoever was behind this. What better way to ensure him being at one place than to have him arrested?

  So with him locked away and unable to leave, he’d been the perfect target. Someone wanted to take him out and they had sent men to do the job.

  Who wanted to take him down though?

  The faction? Most had dodged the authorities unscathed so it made no sense for them to come after him. But there was one person who had every right to be pissed at Rogan: former FBI Director Thomas Hephner.

  This guy had the means and connections to make life miserable for Rogan. He’d lost his job, his reputation, and a possible fortune because of him. It had to be him behind everything. He wanted revenge.

  Rogan walked by a kiosk in the middle of the open space and noticed that the salesman was busy talking a woman into buying a pink fedora. Thankful for the distraction, Rogan went to the other side and grabbed a Mariners ball cap from a shelf. It was so casual and quick that no one noticed.

  He marched toward the exit, putting the hat on after removing the tag and curling the blue bill. With his appearance somewhat altered, it was time to focus on more pressing matters.

  What was going on with Shiloh?

  He had to find out, he had to make sure she was all right. There was only one person he trusted to help him. Andres Castro.

  Chapter 41

  The Bombardier Challenger 850 executive jet was a thing of beauty. Appointed with wall-to-wall luxury, spacious, it was the best way to fly. In the commercial version, it could seat 50 but the man had had it configured to be one of a kind.

  The rear section was a bedroom with its very own en-suite. It was perfect to make a transatlantic flight pass by faster – and it wasn’t only for sleeping. The stewardesses he employed were expected to offer much more personal services.

  One such attendant had refused to do more than serve beverages. Once he’d reached his destination, he’d had her strapped underneath the fuselage and had ordered his people to fly as high as the plane could go. He’d been assured that she’d suffered an agonizing death.

  The middle section of the jet was configured into two distinct lounging areas. The first was more formal with a couch and bucket seats around a mahogany table. But the second section was his favorite. It was his entertainment center which featured a big screen TV, plushy seating, and his favorite console and games.

  That’s where he was at the moment. In his big hands was a black controller and he was mashing the buttons, his eyes never leaving the screen. He was on Level VI of the Xigru Planet campaign, fighting the alien invaders.

  “Die…” he muttered.

  He jumped toward the proton cannons and fired at the monsters swarming his space station. He swept from left to right, hitting the B button to sustain fire. He was being shot in return and his health was going down.

  Nevertheless, that was how life worked. You were always vulnerable, always liable to get taken down. The idea was to be faster than your competition, to kill them before they killed you. Those who understood this as the secret of life had it made. You could then accomplish anything.

  This reminded him of the situation at hand.

  He turned to his two bodyguards, both of which were sitting nearby, always maintaining line of sight.

  “Have we got any news?”

  “Let me check, sir.”

  The man nodded and the younger man made a phone call. That was how you answered a question. If you didn’t know the answer, you inquired. One of his employees had recently paid the price for failing to grasp this. He still got goose bumps thinking about dealing out that punishment.

  He still got an erection from it too.

  The bodyguard hung up. “The plan is on schedule, sir. Rogan Bricks has escaped.”

  “Yes!” the man shouted with unabashed glee. “This day is getting better and better.”

  “You planned it perfectly, sir.”

  “I feel like celebrating. Go get me the new stewardess. I want her on her knees in front of me right now. If she so much as blinks, you know what to do after we land.”

  He licked his lips and threw a plasma grenade at the alien monsters.

  Shiloh’s plane was much smaller. The Learjet which had been provided by Mr. Vazquez was in fact made by the same company, Bombardier, but this model was more about transportation than entertaining.

  And it was fine with her.

  She was just glad to be flying out of the United States. She still had no idea what was going on. What’s more, the man who was with her, Quintana, wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t saying anything of value anyway.

  It reminded her of an operation during her first year with MI6. For over two weeks she had been tasked with running surveillance over an asset in the Czech Republic. She would have been perfectly happy to do this by herself but since she was a rookie she had been assigned a partner.

  The guy had been old enough to be her father, maybe even her grandfather. She had expected him to make a pass at her over these 14 days; this would’ve been something she could have handled, either diplomatically or with brutal strength.

  But none of this had happened. In fact, nothing had happened at all except the tedium of day to day surveillance. In those two weeks her partner hadn’t addressed her more than three times and in every case it had been about planning meals.

  That’s how she felt now, alone and uncertain. Receiving the silent treatment from someone who obviously had answers was threatening to drive her mad. And it would be bad form to assault him.

  “Mr. Quintana?”

  “Yes?” he replied from his seat across the aisle from her.

  “Can you at least tell me where we’re going? A general idea would suffice.”

  It took a moment, as if he pondered whether or not he could reveal this information, but then he spoke.

  “Spain. We’re going to Spain.”

  Chapter 42

  Rogan needed cash. Between the taxi and the windbreaker, he was tapped out. It was the only reason why he’d stolen the hat. Short of turning tricks or risking exposing himself by going into a bank – not that he had his debit card on him anyway – he had an interesting prospect for funds.

  On his left wrist was a Rolex Yacht Master.

  Getting out of the mall, he hopped on the monorail. He didn’t know exactly where he was going but he told himself to never stand still because that was a surefire way of getting caught.

  Heading north along 5th Avenue, he pulled out his new phone – Agent Shoemaker’s – and did a search. Shit, he was heading the wrong way.

  He got off at the next stop and hailed a cab. He gave the Middle Eastern driver the address for a pawn shop. Even though the place was near the art museum and close to the water, there was nothing high-class about the joint.

  “Park on the curb and leave the meter running, all right?”

  “No no no, you pay!”

  “I’m going inside to get money,” Rogan said. “Hang tight.”

  “No no no!”

  It was too late, Rogan was already getting out of the car and entering the pawn shop.

  He found a surly employee behind the counter, greasy hair and stained shirt completing the stereotype.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m selling this.”

  Rogan took off
his watch and laid it on the counter.

  “You got paperwork?”

  “I don’t,” the FBI man replied, knowing that he actually did have the original box and the owner’s card back home.

  “It’s not stolen, is it?”

  “No, I just need the cash. Problems with the wife, you know how it is.”

  “Tell me about it.” He grabbed a jeweler’s loupe, pressed his eye to it, and inspected the Rolex. “I’ll give you a grand.”

  “It’s a Yacht Master! I paid $16,000 for it! This watch could buy three kidneys on the black market in the Philippines.”

  “Your problem. Blame the economy. I’m offering a grand.”

  “I’ll settle for five,” Rogan said evenly. “It’s in mint condition, you can easily sell it for ten.”

  The clerk paused and looked at the watch again. “Listen, without the paperwork… maybe… I can do twenty-five hundred. Cash money, take it or leave it.”

  Rogan agreed and ten minutes later he was leaving with his pockets brimming with $20 bills. The taxi was miraculously still there.

  “You son of bitch! You don’t pay, you not do that no more!”

  “I have your money now,” Rogan said, flashing a few bills to appease him. “Now I have another ride I need.”

  He had the man bring him back south and he got off on Seneca Street, overpaying so that that cabbie wouldn’t remember him for the wrong reasons.

  Rogan walked all the way back to the FBI field office a few blocks away. The area was still cordoned off and a crowd had gathered for what had become the biggest show in town.

  He nudged past people, getting to the yellow police line so he could study the scene. A young woman was next to him, snapping photographs with her phone.

  “Take any interesting pictures?” he asked her.

  The blonde turned sideways long enough to acknowledge him and returned to her photography. “You have no idea! So much action, this is great.”

  “Great?”

  “I know, I’m a terrible person. But I’m a journalism major at U-Dub, these’ll make an amazing term project.”