Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)

by Steve Richer

  “What are you doing? Can I have a little privacy here please?”

  His eyes dropped to the phone and without hesitation he wrenched it out of her hands.

  “Hey!”

  “I said no phone calls.”

  “Fine but tell me why we’re heading south then? Tell me what’s going on?”

  At that moment, the steward appeared. She barely had time to register that he was holding something before he thrust it toward her.

  Her survival instincts kicked in and she simultaneously backed up and lifted her foot to defend herself. But the bathroom was too small to get any leverage. She had no chance to fight them.

  The flight attendant had no difficulty jabbing the needle into her neck.

  She lost consciousness within seconds.

  Chapter 45

  The FBI’s Strategic Information and Operations Center was spread over 40,000 square feet at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. It was a series of high-tech rooms to maintain situational awareness and oversee tactical operations.

  At the moment, Assistant Director for Counterterrorism Jason Vanstedum was walking through one of the larger SIOC control rooms. The front wall was made up of a series of large plasma screens which could simultaneously display TV footage, live feeds from agents in the field, and database results.

  In front of this were several rows of long desks, each with workstations that had phones and multiple computer terminals. There were two dozen agents, most with their jackets off and their sleeves rolled up. It was early evening and everybody without exception had worked through dinner.

  Vanstedum had had his assistant order up pizza and sandwiches but for one he hadn’t eaten a bite. It wasn’t so much that he wasn’t hungry but it was the stress. A terrorist attack on his watch was unacceptable. The future of his career was being played out tonight.

  On the left-hand side of the room was a cluster of agents talking animatedly to one another. He headed toward them.

  “ITOS-I, what’s the news?”

  The Counterterrorism Division was split into four branches but at the moment only two mattered to him: Operations Branch I and Analytical Branch. Operations Branch I was itself divided in two.

  A woman from International Terrorism Operations Section I – ITOS-I – turned to her boss.

  “I have no chatter from al Qaeda whatsoever. All sources abroad are reporting the same thing.”

  Vanstedum spun on his heels toward another group of agents huddled in front of computer screens. “ITOS-II?”

  International Terrorism Operations Section II specialized in other Middle Eastern terrorist organizations such as Hezbollah, ISIS, and Palestinian groups.

  “There’s nothing on our radar either, sir.”

  At last, Vanstedum went to the right-hand side of the room. Here the men and women appeared to be cut from a different cloth than the others. They didn’t have the polished look and the swagger of the others. They were from the Analytical Branch.

  “Guys, tell me you have something.”

  A mousy woman with steel-rimmed glasses shrugged as she turned toward her superior.

  “It’s not registering, nothing is making sense.”

  At last, this seemed like a promising conversation, Vanstedum thought. He came closer.

  “How do you mean? What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing jives with any information we have. It doesn’t jive with any known faction or their goals.”

  “Specifically?”

  “Specifically, there’s nothing to be gained by doing this for any Mideast terror network. Too small-scale, too specific with their target.”

  Vanstedum exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. His stomach grumbled but he ignored it.

  “What about homegrown groups? Antigovernment, white power, that sort of thing?”

  “Again doesn’t jive with what we have, sir.”

  She handed him a sheet of paper, some sort of preliminary report diluted to the essentials. He began reading it when he sensed a hurricane swoop into the SIOC.

  He turned toward the entrance and saw a fat man come in with two assistants. It was Paul Tuccillo, the Executive Assistant Director of the FBI National Security Branch. His boss.

  Bracing for an unpleasant conversation, Vanstedum stepped away from the analysts and walked to meet Tuccillo. He was in his 50s, his hair a yellow shade of silver, and he was never seen not wearing a double breasted suit which pinned him as more of a politician than an FBI man.

  “Jason,” he said, extending his arm for a handshake.

  “Sir.”

  “I need answers, Jason.”

  Vanstedum sighed and shrugged. “I wish I had better news, sir. We have a bunch of facts but no motives, no specifics.”

  “Damn it, you know how it works at this level. Stop thinking like a field agent and start thinking like a politician. This is Washington, this is world stage stuff.”

  “I know, we’re working on it.”

  “I need results, Jason. I need anything. The Director is breathing down my neck and the Attorney General is breathing down his. And then there’s the White House whipping everybody into a frenzy. So here I am, breathing down your neck. What do you have so far?”

  “Casualties number seven, three agents and four civilian employees, including the private security in the lobby. We also have five wounded, two of which are still critical.”

  “Christ…” Tuccillo mumbled.

  “All attackers were neutralized by our people and Seattle PD who got on the scene at the end of the shootout.”

  The older man turned to his people, clearly expecting them to memorize everything and take notes for him.

  “We know anything about these terrorists?”

  “That’s the thing,” Vanstedum said again. “They weren’t terrorists.”

  “They shoot up an FBI field office and they’re not terrorists? Come on!”

  “We’re fingerprinting as fast as we can but so far it looks like they were petty criminals. So far, three of them have rap sheets, one of them in California, the other two in Montana.”

  “What kind of records?”

  “Armed robbery, narcotics, one statutory rape. We have four Caucasians, three African-Americans, three Asians. These guys were off the streets, not terrorists, homegrown or foreign.”

  “This isn’t good news. We need this situation to get resolved, not some big mystery that will hang over our heads for years. The public is demanding results.”

  Vanstedum swallowed the reply he wanted to spit back. The man didn’t care about the truth, he only cared about coming off competent and in control.

  “And where are you on this escaped prisoner? He was one of ours?”

  “Yes, Special Agent Bricks.”

  “The guy from the presidential thing last February?”

  “He’s not involved in this though.”

  “Really, Jason? How do you know?”

  “Sir, I don’t like Bricks, never have. His methods are unconventional and he doesn’t reflect well on the Bureau, but he’s no terrorist. He would never organize an attack against our own people.”

  “Are you willing to stake your career on this?”

  Vanstedum hesitated. “Something is going on but no way Bricks is behind it. We have surveillance footage where we see him actually shooting at the attackers. He killed some of them himself.”

  “You didn’t answer my question?”

  “That’s the answer I can give you, sir.”

  “Shit,” Tuccillo barked. “What a fucking nightmare. Day or night, call me the minute you have something I can take up the chain of command.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vanstedum’s response came too late, the other man was already walking away with his entourage.

  While still isolated from his people, Vanstedum produced his phone and called his secretary who remained at her desk despite the late hour. He had her put him in touch with CIA officer Cooley.

  Bricks had told him about him,
about his involvement with the boat attack in the Bering Sea. He was the one person who could have a logical explanation to all this.

  Chapter 46

  It was well after midnight when Vanstedum managed to go home in Franconia, Virginia. He had stayed about six hours longer than he usually did – it was necessary given the current crisis – but he hadn’t discovered new evidence. If anything, the FBI had only been able to reaffirm how little they knew.

  The house was dark and empty. He and his wife were doing a trial separation and she was currently staying at her sister’s in Rhode Island. As he turned on the lights and poured himself a heavy scotch, he thought about his wife.

  They’d been together 21 years but the marriage was over. This talk of trial separation was just that, talk. They both knew that they weren’t getting back together. She was from a political family and she was aware of how the game was played.

  A divorce wouldn’t look good for his career and so for the time being they were playing the game, keeping up appearances. She had agreed to show up for important functions – on a short-term basis at least – but he had no hope of things ever going back to how they were.

  He supposed it was his fault. In the beginning, he had wanted to please her. Since her grandfather had been in Congress and her father in the state legislature, he had felt like he was disappointing her by being a lowly federal agent. He had briefly floated the idea of going into law, joining the US Attorney’s office, but his wife had understood his passion for law enforcement.

  As a compromise, he had stayed with the FBI but had been ambitious about it. He quickly climbed the ranks, becoming Supervisory Special Agent in Dallas, ASAC in Miami, and then Special Agent in Charge of the Washington field office. He had a good post now and upper management was still within sight.

  Ironically, that’s what had cost him his marriage. The extra hours he put in at work was time he wasn’t devoting to his family. He barely knew his two kids who now were in college. Life was twisted, punishing you for trying to do the right thing.

  He drank half his whiskey and sat in the living room. The TV was on and he tuned it to ESPN. If he ever saw another news report about the Seattle affair it would be too soon.

  By sheer miracle his secretary had succeeded in getting Cooley on the phone before he’d left the office. That had crushed the last of his hope to resolve this thing. The man had sworn on a stack of Bibles that the CIA had nothing to do with the attack.

  Obviously, maybe he was lying. It wouldn’t be the first time the Agency had lied about something like this.

  Vanstedum had never felt so frustrated. Reporters were calling his office nonstop – he’d have to find out how they’d gotten his number. The Attorney General had even called himself after Tuccillo had left. He needed to make sense of all this and for the first time of his life he didn’t know how to go about it.

  Something he was rapidly learning was that in Washington politics, “I don’t know” wasn’t an acceptable answer. They wanted results, even if they weren’t the correct ones. It was a damned madhouse.

  He pulled a legal pad from the coffee table and started jotting down notes. He was expected to deliver a preliminary report in the morning, perhaps even a briefing to the Director herself. He had to organize his thoughts.

  After writing two words, stopping to finish his drink, and writing two more words, there was a knock at the door. Who could be calling at this hour?

  He was no longer wearing a weapon because of his position but now he wished he was. Should he go upstairs and get his personal revolver? That was stupid, he thought. If anybody wanted to come after him they wouldn’t have knocked.

  He went to the door and answered.

  “Mr. Vanstedum?”

  The man on his doorstep could only be described as a goon. Tall, broad, humorless. His trench coat didn’t fit well and his short haircut was a dead giveaway that he was former military.

  “Yes? Do you know what time it is?”

  “Sir, I’m here to take you to a meeting.”

  “What? What meeting?”

  “It’s classified, sir.”

  Classified? Definitely military.

  “It’s after midnight, for God sakes. What is this about?”

  “I’m not acquainted with this information, sir. I’m to drive you and bring you back afterwards.”

  “Who’s the meeting with?”

  The younger man exhaled, his shoulders slumping a little. For the first time he showed signs of actually being human.

  “Sir, I’ve been told to tell you about Mr. Dudley.”

  Vanstedum groaned. There was no Mr. Dudley but now he knew what it was about.

  “Let me grab my coat.”

  He went inside, put on his jacket again, and came back out, locking the door behind him. He followed the goon to a GMC and slid in the backseat. He was relieved to discover he was alone.

  A few months ago, upon being confirmed as Assistant Director for Counterterrorism he’d had an informal meeting with people in the intelligence community. He had made a fool of himself by referring to his CIA counterpart as Mr. Dudley. It had turned out to be instead a Mrs. Utley.

  They drove to Arlington and the goon stopped the car in front of an Italian restaurant, a small brick building with a green awning that made it a small family place. It was closed but Vanstedum had a feeling it wouldn’t be for them.

  Sure enough, the driver turned off the engine and Vanstedum got the hint, getting out. He waited in place for a few seconds and the goon lead the way into the restaurant. There were only a few lights on and everywhere the chairs had been upturned, lying on the tables.

  “This way, sir.”

  Vanstedum followed him around a tacky mural of a Sicilian landscape and another goon was standing guard. He was almost a carbon copy of the other one. At the very least, they shopped at the same store. The two nodded at each other.

  The three of them walked deeper inside the restaurant and then a curtain was moved aside, revealing a private section reserved for special parties. In the back by the wall was one table that was occupied. A woman in a depressing gray pantsuit was sitting there, her legs crossed, reading something on an iPad.

  She put the tablet away and looked up. “Jason, thank you for indulging me in this little nighttime escapade.”

  “You could’ve set up a meeting, Sarah.”

  She smiled as if that was the silliest idea. “This is a meeting. Please sit down.”

  Sarah Utley was from the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center. She was by all accounts in her early 50s but she had long flowing red hair and smooth skin that made her look a decade younger.

  The FBI man wanted to stay on his feet but the two paramilitary guys were standing not far behind and he wondered if they would make him sit down if he didn’t. He pulled a chair across from Utley and sat. At the same time, she nodded to her men and they left.

  “Do you have anything to tell me about the Seattle thing, Sarah? Is this why you wanted to see me?”

  “I’m afraid not, I’m as much in the dark as you are.”

  “It’s hard to believe, to be honest with you.”

  “I’ve never lied to you before, Jason.”

  “All right, I’m going to be direct. Was the CIA involved in the attack?”

  “No, not that I know of. And that’s why I had you come here tonight.”

  Vanstedum swallowed dryly and shifted in his chair, doing his best not to show his apprehension. “If you know anything about it, you have to tell me. We can’t let this go unpunished.”

  “Jason, I’ll tell you again: the Agency had nothing to do with this terrible event. That’s the truth. In return for this truth I need a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  “Please stop throwing the word CIA around.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She uncrossed her legs and leaned across the table. Her pleasantness vanished instantly.

  “I know you called Cooley. I know you’re making inquiries
left, right, and center. I need you to stop.”

  “My people need answers, Sarah.”

  “And you’ve had my answer. We’re not involved in any way whatsoever. But you making these calls, asking about CIA this, CIA that, it’s making some people nervous. We don’t need the publicity, especially since we had nothing to do with it. Can you understand my position?”

  About to agree, Vanstedum instead closed his mouth and grinned. The beauty of favors was that it went both ways.

  “I want something in return,” he said.

  “Go on.”

  “I want closure. I want to know some things.”

  Utley paused and then nodded curtly. “If I can help.”

  “I want to know what happens with Calix Hargrove, I want to know who provided you with the tip about the virus being smuggled out of the country. Most of all, I have a feeling this is all connected to Rogan Bricks being arrested and the situation in Seattle. Give me some answers and I’ll stop making life miserable for you.”

  “I can’t tell you about everything,” she replied.

  “Then tell me what you can.”

  She leaned back into the chair and crossed her arms.

  Chapter 47

  Shiloh woke up with a headache. The pain was behind her right eye and throbbed incessantly. It was like her head was about to explode. Her eyes still closed, everything was coming back to her: the flight, her attempting to make a phone call.

  She struggled to open her eyes which was even more difficult because it was very bright. It took almost a minute of blinking before she managed to do it and keep her eyes open.

  She was in bed, under the covers. They were cool and slippery, made of satin. She looked around and discovered she was in a bedroom. It was beautiful, luxurious even.

  The bed was a four-poster with pink silk draped on top. The furniture was black, lacquered, and the walls were another shade of pink. There was artwork on the wall, the most prominent of which being a modern cubist painting. If she knew any better, she would’ve said it was a genuine Picasso. But it couldn’t be, right? Who had a Picasso in their bedroom?