Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)

by Steve Richer

  “Care to explain?”

  He drank some more and this time Vanstedum joined in. The alcohol served to settle his nerves.

  “All right so you know about the fishing boat getting attacked, you know it was us. Utley confirmed it for you, didn’t she? She told you about the imminent threat of a deadly experimental virus being sold to foreign interests.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was involved in this. I was doing the right thing, you have to understand. But after you and Bricks stirring shit up, all the scrambling over at Langley, I knew something wasn’t right. So I did some digging. I went to some sources, used, shall we say, unconventional methods.”

  “Torture?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know,” Cooley retorted tersely. “As you probably know already, the virus was a dud, a fake. But why was it? Hence my digging.”

  “And?”

  “And the person who tipped us off lied. He was paid to report this. He was paid to let the CIA know a biological weapon was being smuggled out of the US. And some bigwig at Beem Archwood Biotech was also paid to arrange for this fake smuggling. I had some people dig into it, the guy doesn’t know who it was but he got a hundred grand to do.”

  “Why? Who did that? Who paid to create this disinformation?”

  Cooley exhaled and shook his head. He finished his drink.

  “This is bigger than anyone thinks and yet I don’t think anybody will do anything about it.”

  “What are you talking about, Cooley? Won’t you give me a straight answer?”

  “Do you care about your agents, Mr. Vanstedum? Even the assholes? Are you loyal to them?”

  “What kind of question is that? Of course I am.”

  “Then your first order of business is to help out your man, Bricks. I have it on good authority that he’s in trouble.”

  “He’s a federal fugitive.”

  “Okay, he’s in a lot of trouble.”

  Chapter 53

  Walking out of The Jefferson Hotel, Vanstedum was more confused and conflicted than before. It was so much easier when your duty was cut and dry. You find the bad guy, you catch the bad guy. You follow orders. You get the job done no matter what.

  But this entire situation was FUBAR and the FBI man hated it. He always toed the party line, never did anything that went against orders. Now he was considering doing so. Rogan Bricks was a jerk, a maverick, an uncontrollable asset the government didn’t need.

  He might also be innocent.

  Twice Vanstedum had sworn an oath to support and defend the Constitution – upon arriving at the FBI Academy and again at the graduation ceremony. Wasn’t the whole point of the Constitution to establish due process and to make sure no one was ever railroaded? Yes, he decided. This should come before office politics.

  He came to the edge of the sidewalk on 16th Street, looking left and right for a taxi. He was about to raise his hand to hail one when he felt a presence behind him. Coming closer. For the second time in two days he cursed for not having a weapon on him.

  “Mr. Vanstedum?”

  He turned and found Captain Andres Castro standing there. The younger man appeared unsure, as if he didn’t want to really interrupt him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I… I followed you, sir.”

  “You followed me? How dare you! What do you want? What is this about?”

  Castro nodded contritely and silently. By a common accord, they walked away from the edge of the sidewalk and went toward the corner of M Street. There was a flower bed with a cobblestone path running through it. It was a quiet place to talk.

  “I apologize, Agent Vanstedum. I wanted to see you outside of the office.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know you have been worried about Rogan Bricks these past few days.”

  “You know nothing, son.”

  “I am worried as well, sir. Rogan saved my life in Seattle, during the attack. I know he is in trouble now and I also know he is innocent. I believe it.”

  Vanstedum didn’t feel like he could say what was on his mind. He was a high-ranking member of the FBI, he couldn’t share his feelings with an underling, especially a foreigner on an exchange program.

  “I’m confident justice will prevail, Castro.”

  “Are you certain about this, sir? He is innocent and hunted. I have seen such situations in Colombia, I have seen good people getting jailed or killed in the name of justice.”

  “Castro…”

  “Mr. Vanstedum, as I said, I followed you here. For the last two days I have heard you mention Rogan’s name many times. I know that you also think he must be helped. You want to do the right thing, just like me.”

  The FBI man sighed and took a step away, pacing to clear his thoughts. It was one thing for him to have doubts about his mission but he hadn’t been prepared to involve anyone else, especially someone who worked in the same office as he did.

  But the kid was right. Bricks was in trouble. Wasn’t it their moral obligation to help him?

  “I’m not sure there’s much we can do, Castro. There’s a nationwide manhunt going on, he’s wanted dead or alive at this point. The minute he’s spotted they’ll shoot him on sight. And what if we do manage to help him? What good will that do? We’ll be guilty of aiding and abetting a known fugitive.”

  The young man’s lips tipped into a smile. “I may have a way to help him.”

  Rogan was on foot. He had abandoned the Cadillac after dropping off Hephner by Rock Creek Park. The idea was so that he wouldn’t have easy access to a phone, therefore able to report him.

  On the other hand, he didn’t think he would. Hephner was just as guilty in the grand scheme of things. It would be better for him to lay low, to play dead and not stir up things.

  I should have killed him, Rogan repeated to himself as he walked through Forest Hills, along Connecticut Avenue, his hat low on his face so he wouldn’t be recognized. Hephner had made his life miserable. He could have had his revenge. He could have snapped his neck or shot him in the head. It wouldn’t have been a great loss.

  It wouldn’t have been the right thing to do either.

  Rogan might’ve been on the run but his sense of what was right and what was wrong remained strong. He was running from the law but he still considered himself a cop. He couldn’t murder someone. And besides, he had other priorities.

  Shiloh.

  This man, Vazquez, he probably had her. Was she doing a job for him? He doubted it. She would have called him, left word somehow. So she was held hostage. He had to get her out of there.

  He ducked into a convenience store and got himself a tall coffee as well as a granola bar. He paid cash, keeping his head down to avoid getting spotted by security cameras, and walked out again.

  All the while he kept thinking about the love of his life. It made him sick to his stomach that she was in danger. Even worse, there was a chance he actually knew where she was, Casanova Ranch in Juárez, Mexico.

  But how in the hell could he get there?

  Flying was out of the question. He was a wanted man and he would never pass security. Driving? That was his best option though it wasn’t fast enough. And how could he cross the border from Texas to Mexico without being spotted?

  Last winter, he’d had to rescue Shiloh and he’d been able to rely on his military contacts. They’d provided him with a plane and equipment for him to assault the yacht where she’d been held. This time he didn’t have that luxury.

  He scarfed down the granola bar and drank half his coffee while walking down the sidewalk. He’d been so stupid to leave the rental car in front of Hephner’s house. Now he was on foot with nowhere to go, liable to get identified at any moment.

  That’s when his phone rang.

  There was only one person who knew the number of this throwaway phone. He answered.

  “Andy?”

  “Hello, my friend.”

  “What’s up? You want to tell me about the latest mo
vie you saw, shoot the shit? Oh God, you’re not calling to say you’re in love with me, are you?”

  “I have been trying to come up with ways to help you over the last two days.”

  “And? I’ll be honest with you, I’ve been trying to come up with ways to help myself too. Kind of have to, you know how it is.”

  Castro said, “I will never forget you saved my life. I am sorry I was so reluctant to help before.”

  “Happens with the best of us. Listen, I have a lead. I think Shiloh is in Mexico and I have to find a way to get there.”

  “Yes, I figured you would try to leave the country. I may be able to help.”

  Rogan stopped, pressing the phone against his ear. “Talk to me, man. What do you got?”

  “I may be on assignment with the FBI but officially my government dispatched me to the Colombian Embassy. I think this is the way to go. Do you want me to help you get to Mexico?”

  Before answering, Rogan’s muscles tightened. It was stress.

  And hope.

  Chapter 54

  The next seven hours were terrifying.

  Rogan was by himself with no way to hide. Waiting. He didn’t know what would come first, Castro helping or him getting caught. So he walked. It had been years since he had done marches, something the Marine Corps had been very fond of, but now he was older and not used to it. At least he didn’t have 80 pounds of equipment strapped to his back.

  He walked by the Smithsonian National Zoological Park although he didn’t dare go in; there were bound to be surveillance cameras. He continued walking down Woodley Park and ended up in Kalorama Heights.

  He wondered if he looked more like a tourist or a homeless person. In any case, no one stopped him. No one dared even look at him. He was anonymous, perfectly blending into the thin crowd. His one mistake was the Mariners hat. As far as he was concerned, it was the only thing that identified him as having come from Seattle. So far no one had picked up on it.

  At ten o’clock, as scheduled, he was standing in front of the Hilton Washington, that sizable curved hotel. A Chevrolet pulled to a halt in front of him. Rogan’s heartbeat increased and he bent to look at the driver. It was Castro.

  “Fancy meeting you here, stranger?” Rogan said as he got into the passenger seat. “Just so we’re clear, it’s 20 for a hand job and anything else will have to be discussed.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right, I forgot, you left your sense of humor in South America. Don’t worry about it.”

  Castro was puzzled for a moment and then reached into the backseat. Rogan followed his gaze and found a garment bag.

  “I hope this will fit you.”

  “If you got the sizes right, I don’t see any problems.”

  Castro nodded and they took off. They drove onto the hotel lot from T Street but stayed away from the entrance so they wouldn’t be bothered by a bellman.

  “Give me ten minutes and then pick me up on Connecticut,” Rogan said.

  He grabbed the garment bag and got out of the car. He walked with a purpose as to not attract attention. The doorman wished him a good evening and Rogan had no choice but to nod to him.

  He walked through the cavernous lobby, so bright and inviting, and swiftly located the washrooms. He went in there, found an empty handicap stall, and proceeded to change into the suit. But first, he took advantage of the sink that was there to clean up a little since he hadn’t showered in almost three days.

  The suit was grayish blue, off the rack and not exactly the high-end style to which he was accustomed. But it would pass muster. It was somewhat loose around the shoulders and he figured the excitement of the past week had made him lose some weight.

  There was a white shirt and a boring striped tie but no shoes. Rogan had considered asking Castro to get him wingtips as well but shoes were tricky to get right. So he decided to stay with his boots. Late at night like this no one would notice. He also pushed the ball cap inside the trash bin.

  All in all, it took almost 15 minutes to change and then go back outside toward Connecticut Avenue. He brought with him the garment bag filled with his old clothes. People noticed him even less now that he looked like a businessman.

  The Chevrolet came up Connecticut and Rogan quickly slipped inside, throwing his old outfit on the backseat.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Now I get to look like a GQ model, just like you.”

  Castro didn’t reply. They drove off and proceeded to go west, getting out of the city.

  “This is my best contribution to your cause,” Castro finally said as they emerged onto I-66.

  He reached inside his own business suit and produced a Colombian passport. He gave it to Rogan who hurriedly flipped through it. It had his picture and listed his name as Bernardo Ruiz.

  “Thanks, I already look more handsome now that I’m Latin.”

  “You will also notice that it is a diplomatic passport. It will not pass a full inspection if they call Bogotá but as far as the embassy is concerned you have diplomatic immunity.”

  “Sweet! Let’s drink and drive, rack up speeding violations, and get some hookers.” Castro didn’t even crack a smile. “Geez, I’m kidding.”

  Rogan was actually impressed not only by the weight Castro had to carry in order to pull this off but he was also touched by the gesture. It felt good not to be alone anymore, to have somebody believe in him enough to go out of his way and put his career on the line for him.

  “I guess you can just drop me off.”

  “I am coming with you,” Castro replied.

  “You don’t think it will be suspicious? You’ve already done enough for me.”

  “Do you speak Spanish?”

  “I can order a margarita like nobody’s business.”

  “It will be best if I help you navigate the city. Faster.”

  “Thanks, Andres. Really means a lot to me.”

  “You saved my life, my friend.”

  It was 30 miles to Washington Dulles and it took almost 45 minutes to get there. They maneuvered around the airport and found Sandstark Aviation. The FBO was a nice modern building with an alluring portico. They parked and went inside.

  The reception counter was wide but there was only one employee at this time of night. Further back, there was a nicely appointed passenger lobby with tall windows opening on the tarmac. It was too dark now to see much of anything though.

  Rogan became nostalgic. He remembered when he’d been so rich that he would only fly private. Hong Kong, Bali, Rio de Janeiro, his house on the Amalfi Coast in Italy, he always traveled in style. But then he thought about Shiloh and nothing else mattered.

  Castro went to check in and was assured their executive jet was waiting for them outside. They went through a routine security check. The passports – and the business suits – went through without a hitch.

  Castro explained that Vanstedum had put in word with Customs that Bernardo Ruiz shouldn’t be bothered because he was part of an FBI counterterrorism operation.

  They boarded a Hawker 800 and they took off at midnight.

  The layout was pretty standard for a midsize jet and Rogan couldn’t complain. He sank into his tan leather seat and closed his eyes but sleep wouldn’t come for a long time.

  “I want to hit the ground running,” Rogan said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we get there, we rent a car and just search for Vazquez and his place.”

  “The time zones are different, Rogan. When we get there it will be three in the morning. There will be no one to talk to us.”

  “But…”

  “Let’s rest, all right? We need to be alert to do this.”

  Rogan was about to argue but Castro had a point. Every second counted, Shiloh’s life was in danger, but what good could they do if they had no strength to fight?

  He just hoped they wouldn’t be too late.

  Chapter 55

  Eventually, Rogan hadn’t been able to fight the fatigue an
ymore and he had nodded off. He wasn’t quite fresh as a daisy when they landed in Juárez but it was better than nothing.

  They stepped off the plane, rented a Honda, and then went to find a hotel for the rest of the night. It was a shabby-looking establishment but at least they had working showers and what could pass for a comfortable bed.

  By 7am they were ready to jump into action.

  Rogan had grown up across the border, in El Paso County, but he had never been to Juárez. He had dreamt about it growing up, talking with his friends about going across, drinking themselves silly in a place that wasn’t as restrictive as their hometown, getting into all sorts of trouble. Alas, this had never happened. By the time he turned 18, he’d left Texas forever.

  Juárez was a sprawling city of 1.5 million people with a surprisingly small downtown core. There were only a few skyscrapers and they weren’t even that high to begin with. The area was booming thanks to the maquiladoras, assembly plants set up by giant corporations to take advantage of tariff-free zones.

  Outside of downtown, the city looked like any average North American suburb, with wide boulevards lined with franchised restaurants. Beyond that point however, the tranquil veneer shed its luster. There were miles and miles of slum housing, flimsy little buildings made of tin or discarded pieces of wood.

  Thankfully, there was no evidence of the infamous Juárez violence at the moment. The area was renowned for its corrupt police force and the powerful drug cartel which ran everything. Officials were routinely murdered. Heads were frequently chopped off, just to make a point.

  There were military patrols everywhere.

  They took the car downtown, got out, and started asking people about Ricardo Vazquez and his Casanova Ranch, with Castro doing all the talking. People would either refuse to answer their questions or they would pause long enough before replying that they didn’t know anything. They did that for three hours.

  “I’m gonna start offering money for information,” Rogan said.

  He still had most of the money he’d gotten for his Rolex before leaving Seattle.

  “Let’s eat before we go any further, all right? I am starving.”