Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)

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Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2) Page 20

by Steve Richer


  She sat up straight, the bed sheet falling down her chest. She had been stripped down to her underwear. At least it was her own, she thought. She instinctively touched herself between the legs and there were no signs of sexual assault.

  She found her clothes neatly folded on the nightstand: the crimson blouse and her medical scrubs pants. Her espadrilles and socks were on the floor. Her wig was nowhere to be found. Without missing a beat, she got dressed.

  She hurriedly explored the room. All the dressers, drawers, and closet were empty. She found a bathroom and relieved herself. When she came out, she went straight to the wide window which was letting sunshine in. The glass was thin and she could feel heat coming through. That made her realize cool air conditioning was being pumped into the room.

  She couldn’t see much of what lied outside though. Even though she craned her neck, looked left and right, she could only glimpse a patch of grass and a thicket of tropical trees that were too high to see beyond.

  As she turned away from the window, a door opened and a woman in a maid uniform entered. She was Hispanic, in her 20s. She was carrying a tray of food.

  “Where am I?” Shiloh asked.

  “Buenos días.”

  “Where am I?”

  When the maid didn’t reply, she repeated this in Spanish.

  “I have breakfast for you.”

  She set the tray down on the nightstand. There were scrambled eggs, toast, fresh fruit, orange juice, and a pot of coffee.

  “Where are we? What is this place?”

  The maid flashed a nervous grin but didn’t reply. It was like she was scared to. She nodded curtly and left.

  Shiloh discovered she was both thirsty and hungry. She drank the orange juice in one gulp before scarfing down a sandwich she made from the toast and eggs. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee.

  She didn’t drink it straightaway. Instead she carried it with her as she left the room. She was surprised that the door wasn’t locked.

  The hallway was at least 12 feet wide. There were more paintings on the walls and potted trees were spaced out evenly along the way. She took her time, walking slowly and expecting anything and everything.

  At the end of the corridor was another Hispanic man. He was tall, in his 40s, dressed in khakis and a blue polo shirt. More alarming was the pistol holster at his waist. He observed her but didn’t say anything.

  She drank coffee at last and again he left her alone. She walked further and entered some sort of living room. There were four couches with dozens of cushions. Huge marble columns rose to the 20-foot-high ceiling. More potted trees dotted the airy space.

  There was another security guard, in khakis and polo shirt as well, at the other end of the room. He also stared at her but otherwise remained immobile. What the bloody hell was this place?

  Shiloh finished her coffee as she turned to the exterior wall which was made of French doors and windows. She headed that way and no one stopped her.

  Vicious heat assaulted her as she stepped outside. It was even hotter than San Diego had been. In front of her was a beautifully landscaped terrace with a garden to the left. On her right was an Olympic-size pool with cascades, a slide, and even a beautiful little bridge going over a portion of it.

  At the far end was a stone wall, pockmarked but in good condition. It looked right out of Roman times. Beyond that she saw a few rolling hills and no sign of civilization.

  “Ah, pinche cabron!”

  She turned toward the cussing male voice. She walked by the pool and turned around a corner of rose bushes. There was a spot set up with a patio table and chairs and behind that, near the house – which she could now consider a genuine mansion – was a shaded area with wicker furniture and a big screen TV.

  There were two more bodyguards but since they looked like the others, they were old news by now. Much more interesting was the man sitting on the edge of the outdoor sofa. He was short, also Hispanic, and he was playing a videogame. She recognized him at once.

  It was Ricardo Vazquez.

  His eyes were riveted to the television and the tip of his tongue poked out between his lips. He mashed the buttons of his controller, his body mimicking his avatar in the game. He leaned to the right as an explosion blew everything apart in the game.

  “Besa mi culo, puto!” he said at the TV as he discarded the controller. He stood up and turned around, smiling wide at her. “Please forgive the language, I get very emotional when I play.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Welcome to my humble home. We are just outside Ciudad Juárez.”

  Before she could stop him, he embraced her gently and kissed both her cheeks.

  “Mexico? What happened to Spain? You said you were bringing me to Spain.”

  “Slight change of plans, I have to apologize about this.”

  She heard steps behind her and spun on her heels. She almost collided with a young man dressed in a masculine version of the maid from earlier. He was carrying a tray with coffee and various juices. He had to sidestep her at the last moment and juice spilled out.

  “Lo siento,” he said sheepishly.

  Shiloh opened her mouth to dismiss this but she wasn’t fast enough. Vazquez rushed past her and took the young man by the shoulders.

  “You stupid imbecile! Can’t you be careful? What am I paying you for? Do you think this is charity? No, this is a job! I’m paying you to provide a service and to do it well. Why aren’t you doing it well?”

  He shook the servant, making more juice spill out all over the tray as well as on the brick patio.

  “Mr. Vazquez, it’s all right,” Shiloh said, hoping to defuse the situation.

  It took a few seconds but the older man finally calmed down. Then he turned to Shiloh and smiled broadly as if nothing had happened.

  “My apologies, I get carried away sometimes.”

  This whole thing had been so surreal that it wasn’t until now that she recalled having been jabbed in the neck by a needle. She had been brought here by force.

  “I must thank you for bringing me out of the United States, Mr. Vazquez. Thank you for your hospitality but unfortunately I need to be on my way now. I’ll make my own arrangements going forward.”

  He cocked his head to the side and shook it. “That will not be possible, Shiloh. May I call you Shiloh, Ms. Kappas?”

  He knew her real name?

  She turned to leave and that’s when Quintana appeared, blocking her way. He was holding a silver plated Colt .45, letting it hang at the end of his arm.

  “Shiloh,” Vazquez began softly but not without menace. “You will be my guest for as long as I want. Is that understood?”

  Her headache increased tenfold.

  Chapter 48

  Rogan wondered how he was still alive. He was leaving Maryland and entering the District of Columbia after driving two and a half days straight from Seattle. Castro had rented a car for him – a Kia – and he’d had no trouble getting out of the city.

  He had tried several times to call Shiloh again but there was no sign of her, no messages from her, either at home or on their emergency numbers and e-mail accounts. So he had focused on driving east.

  The direct journey was supposed to take 41 hours and by sleeping for small stretches in the car, Rogan had done it in just under 60 hours. He could have reduced his sleep and stepped on the gas but he hadn’t wanted to get pulled over by the police or end up wrapped around a telephone pole.

  Despite the stress and fatigue, he had made it. He was still alive. His early lunch consisting of a convenience store burrito and a 16-ounce can of Rockstar gave him the energy he needed to achieve his plan. It was a last-ditch effort to sort out this mess.

  He slowed down as he got into the quiet suburban community of Chevy Chase. The streets were lined with tall old trees, the foliage a hundred shades of red and orange. He had the address committed to memory and his heart was beating a mile a minute as he pulled to the curb across the street from a lovely col
onial house.

  It belonged to Thomas Hephner, former Director of the FBI as well as faction member who had conspired to defraud the government of billions of dollars, not to mention Rogan’s personal fortune.

  Thinking about it made Rogan’s back hurt. He had nothing against the compact Kia but he missed the luxury cars he used to own, especially after such a long road trip.

  Chasing the thought out of his head, he looked at the house. It had to be close to 100 years old, beautiful, classic. The lawn was manicured and there were two maple trees framing the house. There was a garage and no cars in the driveway. However, there was a dated Honda parked on the street right in front.

  With his baseball cap on, Rogan wiped his hands on a napkin, worked the kinks out of his neck, and grabbed a flower bouquet he’d gotten at the same time as the burrito. He stepped out of the car and jogged to the house. He rang the bell.

  An African-American woman answered. She was in her 50s with salt and pepper hair, wearing a pink maid’s uniform.

  “Yes?”

  “Uh, yeees,” Rogan began with a caricature of an Eastern European accent. “I have delivery for house.”

  “I’ll take them, thank you.”

  She reached for the flowers but Rogan held on, refusing to give them away.

  “No, need siggi-natuuure. Need Mr. Hepner.”

  “I can sign for him, they’re just flowers.”

  “No, nooo! Is company policy! Need Mr. Hepner to write name.”

  Still, the maid tried to grab the flowers, grumbling that she could do it. It was causing a commotion and that’s exactly what Rogan wanted.

  Almost a minute into this, a short balding man on the wrong side of 60 came down the curving stairs. He was dressed casually in slacks, sneakers, and a Redskins sweatshirt.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Not missing his chance, Rogan pushed the woman inside and came into the house, dropping the flowers. Simultaneously, he pulled his gun from inside his jacket.

  “Hey, Tommy. Miss me?”

  “Bricks!”

  Rogan turned to the maid. “That’s your car out front, the beautiful piece of Japanese machinery?”

  “The Honda? Yes, yes!”

  “Then thank you for your service, you can go.” She was rooted in place. “You shift’s over, lady. Kindly leave us alone please. Let’s go!”

  “It’s all right,” Hephner told her. “It’s okay, you can go.”

  He gave her a reassuring smile since she remained dubious but eventually she reached into the closet for her coat as well as her purse and she left.

  “Alone at last,” Rogan said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

  “Are you going to kill me now?”

  “I should. Right now, things that would give me pleasure are a hot shower, a back rub from Behati Prinsloo, and putting a bullet inside that oversized head of yours, not necessarily in that order.”

  Hephner shrugged and opened his arms, inviting him to do it. Rogan wouldn’t need much convincing, he thought. At the slightest provocation he decided that he would put that son of a bitch down.

  “I’m waiting, Bricks. Get it over with.”

  “I really wish it was that simple. But I need something from you.”

  Hephner snorted and slowly walked away. Rogan followed him and they went into the den.

  “You’re no better than I am now, aren’t you? Actually, you’re worse off. I lost my job and at the moment I’m out on bail waiting for my trial. You on the other hand? You’re a goddamn fugitive.”

  “Been watching the news, have you?”

  “You and your lovely girlfriend are apparently conspiring to kill a US Senator. I have to say, I didn’t see that one coming.”

  Anger rising within him, Rogan let his index finger slip inside the trigger guard and started to squeeze. He stepped forward until the gun barrel was against the old man’s head.

  “You’re behind this, aren’t you? This is your revenge against us for exposing you?”

  “I have nothing to do with this, Special Agent Bricks.”

  “Where’s Shiloh, motherfucker? Answer me! Why are you doing this?”

  Hephner was surprisingly calm and shook his head. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m sorry, I really am.”

  Truth be told, Rogan believed he was sincere. Hephner had nothing else to lose. But that didn’t mean he was completely out of the loop. He still had value. After all, that’s why Rogan had driven almost 3,000 miles.

  It was time to get rough, to bend Hephner to his will, when police sirens started to wail in the distance.

  “Your cleaning lady called the cops already?”

  “She has always been loyal and effective.”

  Shit, there was so much still to do!

  The sirens grew louder. The police cars were getting closer.

  Chapter 49

  Two days ago, Shiloh’s accommodation had been severely downgraded. While she had woken up in a gorgeous, fairytale-like bedroom when first brought down to Mexico, her host had made her realize that this wasn’t a vacation retreat after all.

  When she’d expressed her desire to leave with Quintana blocking her way, she’d been blindfolded and taken – kicking and screaming – back into the house. Obviously, she’d been belligerent, doing her best to bolt, but in spite of the commotion she’d been able to detect that she’d been taken to some basement.

  She had been punched in the mouth, shackled, and finally left alone, a heavy metal door locking her in. Once she’d removed her blindfold she’d realized how truly fucked she really was.

  The room she was in had more in common with a dungeon, or at the very least a Third World prison cell. The place was eight foot by seven and the ceiling had to be 12 feet high. The walls were smooth cinderblocks with not even a jagged edge to use as a weapon or to slash her own wrists.

  There was a low-wattage neon light recessed into the ceiling and it was constantly turned on, day and night. Shiloh supposed she should be grateful since it was better than complete darkness. Her cell had no windows.

  The one modern thing was the sink-toilet combo. It was the same model used in prisons, made of stainless steel and impossible to take part. Shiloh knew because she had tried.

  They kept her shackled to the wall. The chains were heavy and not long enough to allow her to reach the door. In fact, the chains’ length barely allowed her to sleep with her arms down. The bracelets were heavy and tight around her wrists.

  By the end of the first day there’d been red marks on her skin and the pain was just enough to drive her crazy without causing permanent damage. It wasn’t unlike Chinese water torture.

  She had no watch, no TV, nothing to indicate what time it was aside from meals. By her count, she got two a day but she couldn’t be sure. Maybe time was passing very slowly. She couldn’t rely on her internal clock anymore.

  This young guard always brought the meals. She’d heard another refer to him as Boxer though even as a featherweight he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who could hold his own in the ring. He always wore the standard issue guard uniform – khakis and polo shirt – but his holster was empty every time he showed up.

  The process never diverged. The door was opened, she was ordered to stay in the back even though it was impossible for her to come forward, and the guard put a plastic cafeteria tray on the floor before sliding it to her.

  The food varied though. So far she’d had a cup of instant noodles, empanadas, corn on the cob, and shredded chicken. Utensils were never provided and the meal was always accompanied with a bottle of water. They would give her roughly half an hour and then returned to take everything away, whether she was done or not.

  The first day, she had tried arguing about it. She’d wanted to keep the water bottle because she knew that she could find a way to turn it into a weapon, the plastic having an edge. Maybe she’d be able to pick her locks with it.

  She had put up a fight that first time and the
second guard had come in to pepper-spray her into submission, until the bottle could be pried away from her.

  The second day, she had changed tactics. Gauging Boxer, she decided he was young and uncertain enough to go with the honeypot method. On his next visit, she had been nice to him, offering compliments. She had played coy, the damsel in distress. In short, she’d wanted to seduce him.

  She hadn’t exactly decided how far she’d go with him. All that mattered was getting him close enough. She could strangle him and perhaps use his belt buckle to pick her locks. Or she could hold him hostage.

  In any case, this ploy hadn’t worked. Boxer had been visibly receptive to her seductive approach, that much had been noticeable on his face, but he hadn’t fallen for it.

  So now, about two days after being locked in here, it was time for a different approach.

  Shiloh did her best to judge what time it was by her grumbling stomach and she stayed still to hear the sounds of incoming guards in the hallway. It had to be close to dinnertime. Or lunch. She lounged on the cool concrete floor, face down. She waited.

  What would this meal be? Tacos? A bowl of oatmeal? She’d love to get pieces of chicken for the bones alone but she doubted they’d fulfill her wishes. She thought about Rogan, about how worried he must be, not to mention that he was a fugitive himself, framed for something he hadn’t done.

  She went through every scenario, listed all the people she could have wronged in her past life, and couldn’t identify who could be behind this. This Vazquez guy couldn’t be the endgame, could he? She’d never met him before this week.

  By her reckoning, it was almost an hour before she heard footsteps outside her cell. Her blood pressure rising, she decided she had to go through with this plan.

  She swished her saliva in her mouth until it thickened and frothed. She closed her eyes and began to quake.

  Chapter 50

  The key entering the lock echoed through the dungeon and the door opened.

  Shiloh kept her eyes open but rolled up. She let her saliva escape from her mouth as it foamed and dripped down to her chin. All the while she went on trembling, as if she was having convulsions.

 

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