Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)

by Steve Richer

  “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time. We have to keep going.”

  “There is a restaurant right here,” Castro said, pointing at the small eatery ten yards away. “Just a few minutes, please.”

  Realizing his stomach was grumbling – he hadn’t had anything since his coffee and granola bar yesterday afternoon – Rogan agreed. They went in and found the place a faithful mirror of the city: mismatched in styles but oddly charming.

  Castro ordered coffee and a breakfast item, and Rogan had the same. It turned out to be a warm tortilla filled with chorizo, eggs, and cheese. The whole thing was then slathered with hot sauce.

  Rogan leaned back into his chair as he swallowed his last bite. “This is good. I’d have another if we weren’t so pressed for time.”

  He sipped his coffee and put a few US dollars on the table for the tip while waiting for Castro to finish his meal.

  That’s when a man walked up to them. “Excuse me, are you the Americans who are looking for Señor Vazquez?”

  Rogan did his best to contain his excitement. He looked at the man, praying it wasn’t just some beggar hoping to con them out of a few pesos. But the man was wearing a sharp suit and a nice silk shirt. His hair was dark blond – or light brown – and had highlights as well. This guy wasn’t a beggar.

  “What if we are?”

  “I can take you to meet him. I can take you to Casanova Ranch.”

  Rogan stood up so fast that his chair flipped over. “Do you know about Shiloh Kappas? She’s about my height, dark hair, in her 30s.”

  “Do you want me to take you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then come, it’s this way.”

  Castro wiped his hands and mouth but his gaze held Rogan’s. He was asking “Are you certain about this?” Rogan nodded, the thrill of finally doing something productive overcoming him.

  They both followed the stranger outside where a Land Rover was parked on the curb. Another man was standing there, wearing khakis and a polo shirt.

  “Who are you? What’s your name?”

  “You can call me Quintana.”

  “And just who are you? You have my girlfriend, right? Why? What do you want?”

  “Are you coming?” the Mexican said coolly. “If the answer is yes, you need to be searched. Standard safety procedure.”

  Without hesitation, Rogan spread his arms and the second guy came forward to frisk him. Then he did the same to Castro. They had no weapons.

  “Get in.”

  The two guests were ushered in the back and five seconds later they were driving off. They left downtown, drove through the slums, went through the affluent neighborhood of Campestre, and before long they were in the middle of nowhere.

  The area was a genuine desert, with the Juárez Mountains growing larger. But soon they came upon what seemed like an oasis. There was bright green grass and tropical trees well before they reached a stone archway on which was engraved Casanova Ranch.

  Rogan took everything in. There was a large expanse of grass, just like he imagined a ranch to look like. Then came a guard shack. It was pretty with flagstones and flowers around it, but Rogan could tell it was actually a bunker with reinforced walls and bulletproof glass. They slowed down long enough for the security guard to speak with the driver and then they were allowed through.

  At long last, the sand-colored house came into view. It was three stories high, the architecture reminding him of a Tuscan villa. On steroids.

  “Nice digs,” Rogan said to himself.

  There were a few outlying buildings and again a never ending sea of palm trees and shrubs. There was a six-door garage and a Lamborghini had been pulled out while a teenager hand-washed it.

  They came to a halt. Quintana and the driver stepped out so Rogan and Castro did the same.

  “Is she in there? Can I see her?”

  With an enigmatic grin, Quintana reached into the car and opened the glove box. He produced a snub-nosed .38 revolver and handed it to Castro.

  Simultaneously he said in English, “Thank you for bringing Mr. Bricks to us.”

  “What the fuck is going on here?” Rogan asked, his eyes shifting between the three men in front of him.

  Castro lifted his arm and aimed the gun at Rogan. “I am sorry for the subterfuge, my friend.”

  “What are you doing? The fuck are you doing?!”

  The driver came forward and took Rogan’s wrist. Before the American could react, he was already in handcuffs.

  Chapter 56

  “Welcome, welcome!”

  Still reeling from what was happening, Rogan looked up toward the house. A squat man in his 40s was coming out the front door. He was dressed in satin boxer shorts and a matching robe, open wide to reveal a bronzed beer belly. There was nothing fake about the huge smile plastered on his face and he was carrying a coffee mug.

  “I’m so happy you decided to come, Mr. Bricks. So happy!”

  Rogan stopped struggling against his bonds. He was screwed and he strangely wanted to keep a little dignity. He straightened up.

  “Vazquez?”

  “Good to finally meet you! How do you like Mexico?”

  What the fuck was wrong with this guy? Why was he so cheerful? It made Rogan apprehensive because in his experience these kinds of mercurial people swung the other way pretty fast.

  In fact, he didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  Vazquez’s eyes kept gravitating toward the yellow Lamborghini. He did his best to keep his attention on his guest but he never ceased returning to the luxury car which the teen scrubbed with a sponge and a ShamWow.

  “Oh, hey! What are you doing?”

  The kid looked up, surprised and a little afraid. “What?”

  Vazquez headed his way, his flip-flops flapping loudly on the pavement. He bent forward and looked at the fender.

  “There’s a spot here. Don’t you see it? Are you blind? Is that why I hired you, because you’re fucking blind?”

  “No, señor…”

  “Then explain to me. Choose simple words and tell me why you’ve been working on this car for almost an hour and there’s still a dirt spot right there. Come on, give me a good fucking explanation, pedazo de mierda!”

  He dumped his coffee all over the car, making sure it would go everywhere, and then he threw his mug at the teenager. He did a good job of dodging it for minimal impact and it bounced off him until it broke against the hard ground.

  Seething, Vazquez came back. “You see what I have to deal with, Agent Bricks? Every day it’s something else.”

  Rogan bristled. This man was utterly insane. It didn’t bode well.

  “Where’s Shiloh? What did you do with her?”

  As if a switch had been flipped in his head, Vazquez went back to the beaming smile from earlier. He spun toward Castro who was still aiming his gun at Rogan.

  “Andres, terrific work bringing him here. You’ve put so much effort into this mission.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “As promised, you will be handsomely rewarded.” He came closer to Rogan, looking at him as if he was an animal in the zoo. “It’s hot, isn’t it? Let’s go inside so we can talk.”

  “What did you do with Shiloh, you sick fuck?”

  “Inside.”

  Vazquez clapped his hands and waved in an “all aboard!” gesture. The driver and Quintana grabbed hold of Rogan’s upper arms and led him into the house, everyone following the boss.

  Rogan barely paid attention to his surroundings even though he knew he should. It was strategically necessary for situational awareness in case he wanted to break out. But all he could think about was Shiloh and what they’d done with her.

  They went through a giant foyer which contained life-size marble statues of Roman gods. After that, he was taken past a den, which was larger than a ballroom, to an indoor pool. It was covered by a skylight and a glass wall opened on lush gardens. The pool itself was surrounded by tropical flowers and rocky waterfalls.
<
br />   Quintana brought a chair and shoved Rogan into it while Vazquez remained standing, facing him, in front of a chaise lounge.

  “I’m so happy,” Vazquez said, rubbing his hands together. “So happy! You know when you go through a lot of trouble to make something happen and it actually works? This is how I feel at the moment.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rogan asked, attempting to cool down and think rationally.

  “It took me five months to arrange things so that you could come here, Mr. Bricks. No, I’ll call you by your name. Rogan is such a strange name, I like it.”

  “Please, you can do anything to me. Just tell me that my girlfriend is all right.”

  Vazquez ignored him. “In reality, it took more than five months if you count all the favors I had to call in, assets I had in play for years. You played right into my hands, Rogan.”

  “How?”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Vazquez pulled a deck chair closer and sat on the edge.

  “It started when you got media attention last winter for your investigation about your President who killed his wife. I connected the dots, found out who you were, and I got to work. Arranging for a biotech company to smuggle out something that looked dangerous? That was me. Making sure the CIA got a tip about a stolen virus? That was me. Making sure the mercenaries left one survivor out in the ocean? That was me.”

  “What?” Rogan inquired incredulously.

  “Oh yes, there needed to be a survivor otherwise no one would have ever known. So a generous donation to the right people made it happen. The CIA is so predictable. I have contacts everywhere, I have more money than God. I can make anything happen! I knew you would get involved with the investigation of the fishing boat massacre, you’re the best FBI agent in Alaska.

  “And then of course I had a lot of pleasure framing you and your señorita for wanting to kill the US senator. I knew this would make you a fugitive from the law and you would be at my mercy. Running away from the police, trying to find your woman, it was the cherry on the sundae.”

  “You engineered all this?”

  “Yes, engineered, exactly! I love that word, so precise. Did you know I wanted to be an engineer when I was a child? Unfortunately, life had other plans. But I still like to use my brain. I had Captain Andres Castro kindly steer you in the right direction to escape and you played right into my hands. You and your Shiloh both came to Mexico without using any force. It’s so beautiful!”

  Rogan frowned. “You wanted me here? Why? Why not ask? Why not kidnap me?”

  “Where’s the fun in that? I like games, Rogan. I like to play and I like to win. And guess what?” He leaned forward. “I won.”

  “Won what? Tell me what the hell’s happening.”

  “What’s happening? I’m one of the most powerful people in Mexico. So what if it’s because I sell a product that your country deems illegal? You people buy it, you demand my product! For the last 20 years I’ve amassed a fortune, I gained power, and now I’m doing something for myself. Before I tell you any more, I think it’s time for you to play as well.”

  “I don’t wanna play. I want you to tell me what the fuck is going on!”

  Vazquez stood up, his smile so exaggerated that he looked like a maniac.

  “It’s time for the carnival!”

  From the way the guards smiled and cheered – even Castro – Rogan knew this wasn’t a good sign.

  Chapter 57

  Two guards in khakis and polo shirts grabbed Rogan and pulled him to his feet. He realized that there was suddenly way more people around him than before.

  “No, wait! Please, tell me what’s going on?”

  No one replied. Instead they talked among each other in Spanish as they marched Rogan away. Intuitively, he refused to comply at first but they dragged him anyway so eventually he walked along. It was less tiring than trying to resist.

  “Tell me about Shiloh!”

  They left the indoor pool, went past a series of rooms, and finally went down a staircase. But one flight wasn’t enough, they were going into a second basement. Again, the others were speaking with each other. Their tone was excited, like they were looking forward to what was going to happen.

  The air became damp and cool. They entered a tunnel made of field stones, bare lightbulbs offering a faint glow which did nothing to reassure Rogan.

  “Where are we going? What are you gonna do to me?”

  “This is going to be fun, Rogan,” Vazquez said, clapping him on the shoulder as if they were going to a bachelor party.

  They left the tunnel and entered a much greater hall. It was modern too, the walls made of cinderblocks painted black. The floor was made of concrete. There were stairs leading to a higher level on the left and Rogan saw that it was some sort of observation gallery.

  What was more troubling was the contraption right before him. It was a cart laid out on rails, much like a roller coaster train, except that most of the metal sheeting had been stripped off. The only thing remaining was a sturdy seat and straps dangling off it.

  The rails disappeared under plastic curtains. It was impossible to see what was beyond and this scared Rogan more than anything.

  “Welcome to my own personal carnival, Rogan. It’s a lot of fun – for us, I mean. I don’t usually do this during daytime, it’s a lot better at night while we’re drinking tequila, but I just can’t wait.”

  He said something in Spanish to his men and the next thing Rogan knew he was being led toward the ominous chair. Instincts kicked in and Rogan tried to fight them off.

  “No! Let me go!”

  He struggled hard but three men were holding him and he was unable to shake them off. Besides, what would happen if he did manage to? The others would shoot him dead within seconds and he’d never know about Shiloh.

  Telling himself it was crazy, he stopped fighting. They brought him to the rails and sat him in the straight-backed chair. It was hard, uncomfortable. One guy held him into place while two guards shackled down his feet with metal cuffs.

  Then they ripped his suit jacket off, using a knife to cut away the sleeves, and opened his shirt so hard that the buttons flew away. His wrists were tied again to the chair behind his back, essentially hooking the handcuffs he already had to the chair.

  There was absolutely no way he could get out of this.

  “Cozy, Rogan?”

  He responded by wincing and grunting, making everyone laugh.

  “Okay, it’s about to begin,” Vazquez continued. “Just let us get into position, all right? We don’t want to miss anything.”

  “Miss what?”

  The drug lord laughed again, rubbing his hands together in excitement. He led his men up the stairs and they all entered the mezzanine. Rogan saw that it went beyond the plastic curtains as well.

  What the fuck…

  “Are you ready, Rogan? We are so we’re starting. Have fun!”

  There was another round of laughter. He saw them bending over some sort of control panel and Quintana pushed buttons. The lighting changed, not only becoming muted but giving the place an eerie atmosphere with red and blue lamps being turned on. It was like a low-rent haunted house at a state fair.

  And then the cart lurched, moving forward.

  “Tell me what you want,” Rogan ordered. “We can talk about this!”

  Vazquez guffawed from upstairs. “Too late, enjoy yourself.”

  There was a whirring motor but the sound Rogan heard louder was his heart thumping in his chest. What was behind the plastic tarp, he wondered. What was this all about?

  His feet breached the curtains first and they parted easily, licking his face as he continued going onward at a snail’s pace. His jaw dropped as he saw what was waiting for him.

  Less than a yard away, razor blades were dangling from the ceiling. In spite of the dim lighting, they shined brightly, threateningly. They were level with his face.

  Okay, he told himself, you can do this. He would simply move his head fro
m side to side, making them swing away from his skin. But then he noticed they weren’t being held up by strings but rather by rigid plastic rods.

  They wouldn’t swing away. There was no way to avoid being cut.

  “Vazquez, stop this shit!”

  The man and his posse were walking along the mezzanine, looking down at him. He was today’s entertainment.

  And all the while he was getting closer and closer to the razor blades!

  Two feet…

  One foot…

  Rogan shut his eyes tightly and bowed his head. It was his saving grace. Nevertheless, it wasn’t enough to avoid the pain. The blades sliced his scalp and wiggling, trying to evade them, only made the cuts deeper.

  “Aaahh!”

  The pain was sharp.

  And when he hazarded a glance, he saw another row of blades was coming up.

  “Yes,” Vazquez cheered. “It’s only just beginning, Mr. Bricks!”

  Rogan braced for impact and again pushed his head forward. The razor blades all found fresh new spots and slashed his head. Rivulets of blood ran down his face.

  He continued to move ahead and there were no more blades. He looked around and all he could see was the drug dealer and his cronies clapping above him and another set of plastic curtains in front.

  “The next phase is going to be less intense. I want you to relax.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Vazquez!”

  Once more, Rogan’s legs breached the curtains first. He wondered what would happen now. He scanned the space. It was roughly 20 foot long and on each side was some sort of cannon.

  “Oh shit,” he whispered the moment he recognized what it was.

  They were automatic baseball pitching machines.

  Balls came his way at over 50 mph, trouncing him from his ankles to his head. He squirmed as best as he could but he couldn’t avoid the balls. What’s more, the guys upstairs were remotely controlling the machines to track his movement forward.

  He howled, the pain was excruciating. He couldn’t breathe. At least it made him forget about the sting from the cuts on his head.

  “How was it?”

  Rogan didn’t have the strength to reply. All he could see was the next plastic curtain. That meant something else was coming. He felt like the girl in The Hunger Games, never knowing what kind of torture they had in store for her.