Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)
Page 26
Chapter 63
Still puzzled, Rogan was on his feet gazing around him. The gunfire became sporadic until it died down completely, exactly like the rain. There were two kinds of men walking about, their assault rifles at shoulder height: guys in black uniforms with spelunking-type protection gear and others, more numerous, in green camouflage.
Without a word, Rogan understood everything.
Cooley had come in with CIA Special Activities Division operators. They were augmented by Mexican Marines. The Infantería de Marina was on the front lines in the war on drugs in Mexico. Troops had attacked from the front of the mansion while the helicopters came to support the rear.
Everybody was well-trained, well-coordinated. They systematically went about subduing everyone who wasn’t already dead, tying them up once the henchmen realized it was futile to put up a fight.
Rogan looked past Cooley and saw Castro putting handcuffs on Ricardo Vazquez, speaking to him in rapid-fire Spanish. Rogan caught enough words to understand he was placing him under arrest, with a few choice words for good measure.
“The hell’s going on?”
Before he could ask again he noticed some movement that made everything else irrelevant. Shiloh was coming up the steps to the raised terrace. She was escorted by two beefy CIA men but for a change they were there for her protection, not to keep her hostage.
Rogan limped toward her while she ran to meet him.
“Rogan!”
He took her in his arms and hugged her as strongly as he could, anything to make sure she was still alive, that he wasn’t dreaming.
“Are you all right?” he asked, finally taking a step back to inspect her. “You’re bleeding.”
“Most of the blood isn’t mine,” she said.
She had field dressings in her hands and they were already soaked through. But he knew her, how tough she was built. That was nothing. The blood on her face and neck didn’t seem to belong to her, as she’d mentioned.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “You? You’re such in bad shape, Rogan. You need to go to the hospital.”
He shrugged. The stress was leaving his body, the adrenaline fading away, but this only served to make him aware of his injuries. The pain was coming back with a vengeance. There were the deep cuts on his head, the burns on his neck and hands, bruises everywhere.
“None of this matters,” he said. “You’re safe, we’re together again. What’s a little torture between friends anyway?”
She snorted back laughter while simultaneously shedding tears of happiness. It really was over and they embraced for long minutes. Nothing had to be said, each knew what the other had had to go through.
Castro wandered their way and Rogan let go of her at last.
“You have some ‘splaining to do, Andy. You’re my friend, you’re my enemy, your my friend again, you’re gonna have to make up your mind.”
The younger man smiled and nodded. “I suppose I do need to explain some things.”
“Begin. Now.”
“I was born in Colombia, yes, but I have been working for the Mexican government against the cartels, ever since I left the Army. It is just as I have told you, CTI, Harvard. But now I work for the Mexican government, the PFM, the Policía Federal Ministerial.”
He turned around for a moment and supervised as men took away Vazquez, bringing him down the steps and toward the waiting helicopter.
“My origin made it easier for me to infiltrate Vazquez’s organization,” he continued. “We have been working with the DEA and a few CIA assets. I have been climbing inside the cartel for three years.”
“Three years? Jesus…”
“A year ago, I was finally high enough to be in Vazquez’s inner circle. When you became prominent for investigating the president killing last winter, Vazquez started to piece things together and realized you had a history with his brother. Your link with the faction, his own acquaintances, he understood it was you.”
“He wasn’t wrong about that,” Rogan said, ashamed of what he’d done.
“It’s not my concern. But I came up with a plan. His personal vendetta against you was the way to bring him down so I helped him. Using my contacts in Colombia and in the Mexican government, I arranged to be assigned to the embassy in Washington and then detailed to the FBI Counterterrorism Division on an exchange program. That made me even more valuable to Vazquez.”
“So you made everything possible for Vazquez to fuck up my life and bring me here? Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“I apologize, Rogan. Truly, I do. However, it was the perfect set up to take him down for good. We have him for drugs, murder, and terrorism because he was the one who arranged the attack in Seattle. He is going to be extradited and tried in the United States. He cannot hurt anyone again.”
On a deeper level, Rogan understood this. When you mixed up international politics, espionage, and drug cartels, justice wasn’t black and white. Corners had to be cut, the law had to be skirted in order to apply it where it counted.
Yet Shiloh had almost been burned alive and Rogan had been tortured. FBI personnel had been killed. And what if the cavalry had shown up five minutes later instead?
With an incredulous shake of the head, Rogan walked away, bringing Shiloh along with him. He missed home, his dog, even the bitter cold of Alaska.
Cooley was waiting for him, a hand on his hip. He was still looking at him through his sunglasses.
“It’s over now, Bricks.”
“You think I should thank you?”
“Hey, don’t blame me, all right? They played me for a fool, just like you.”
“Yeah?”
“You think I wanted to arrange for mercenaries to kill a bunch of crab fishermen? We’re trained not to ask too many questions but you got me thinking, your boss Vanstedum got me thinking. Together we rattled some cages and found out there was this operation going on. My boss wanted me to keep quiet and forget it. But here I am with my guys.”
“All right, so thank you. I’m not much in a thanking mood though because you getting bamboozled is what got me and Shiloh in this pile of shit in the first place.”
“Look man, I’m sorry. What more can I say?”
“You can tell me two things,” Rogan said.
“You got it. What?”
“Is one of these helos gonna take us home?”
“Absolutely, straight into El Paso. The hospital and then anywhere you wanna go. What’s your second question?”
“Your shades, how much did you pay for them?”
“My shades? What are you talking about, Bricks?”
“How many of your hard-earned dollars did you disburse for your spiffy sunglasses?”
“I don’t know, about 100 bucks.”
Rogan nodded, took his right arm away from Shiloh’s waist, and without missing a beat punched Cooley in the face. The glasses broke and fell to the ground.
“Christ!”
The CIA man wasn’t hurt at all, just dumbfounded. It was unfortunate he wasn’t bleeding. Rogan dug into his pocket and peeled off five $20 bills from what he had left. He dropped them over the glasses.
“That’s for being an asshole.” He put his arm around Shiloh’s waist for support. “Wanna get out of here?”
“The thought has crossed my mind,” she replied with a smirk.
He kissed her briefly on the lips and they started limping away toward the other descending helicopter.
Chapter 64
The holiday season was magical in Anchorage. Rogan looked out the kitchen window as he poured two glasses of eggnog. It wasn’t even four o’clock yet and it was already dark.
Except that it wasn’t truly dark. All the houses on the block were decorated with bright colorful lights, inflatable snowmen, and plastic reindeer dotting the snow-covered lawns. Windows were lit up as people were entertaining. It was Christmas Eve after all.
“What do you think, Glut?” he said, looking down at the golden retriever sitti
ng on the floor next to him. “You think we should have had a party?”
The dog let out a faint whine and wagged his tail.
“I know, right? Exactly what I was thinking. We have the best party in town right here.”
Rogan went into the cupboard and got a bacon-flavored treat. He crouched and let Glut eat it out of his hand as he rubbed his head.
“Don’t tell on me, all right? You know how mom doesn’t like you eating between meals. She says you’re gonna get fat. But what the hell, it’s Christmas.”
He gave the dog another treat and let him chew on it while he washed his hands. Then, he went into the living room, to the liquor cabinet, and returned to the kitchen. He added a few generous fingers of brandy to each glass. Glut looked up.
“Sorry, this giggle juice is for adults only. You’ll be okay by yourself up here for a bit? I don’t think you’re allowed downstairs right now. But I’ll make it up to you. I’m not supposed to say but under the Christmas tree I got you something that is spelled B-O-N-E. Pretend you don’t know a thing.”
He winked, grabbed the two glasses, and checked on the turkey in the oven. Satisfied, he then headed for the basement. He hadn’t felt this good in such a long time. His head had healed and the burn scars on his skin had mostly faded away.
More than that, he felt alive. He no longer had anything to worry about. Even his conscience was lighter. He would never really forget what he’d done as a teenager but he couldn’t change the past.
And even though it had taken him the last two months to accept it, he had decided that if the man he had let die in the plane was half as bad as his brother Ricardo Vazquez had been, then he had done the world a favor. If he ever was confronted with this situation again, he’d make a different choice. But he was done feeling torment over it.
He walked down the creaking stairs and a smile crept across his lips. The basement had a few Christmas decorations of its own, not to mention the rocking Darlene Love holiday music playing softly in the background.
But what was more interesting was Shiloh who was on her hands and knees as she laid down ceramic tiles. Her jeans were tight and her T-shirt was loose, hanging open and giving him a nice look inside.
She finished placing a tile and then glanced up at him. “Are you going to simply stand there and watch me do all the work?”
“Not such a bad idea. Besides, I like the view from here, I like what I’m seeing right now.”
She was puzzled for a second until she figured out he was staring down her shirt.
“Somebody is going on the naughty list this Christmas!”
“Naughty is good,” Rogan said. “It’s very good. I can think of several naughty things that are better than good.”
He walked the rest of the way to her and handed her a glass after she’d stood up. As she took it, her face blanched.
“Careful! Don’t step on these tiles yet! And have you locked the dog away? He cannot come downstairs.”
“He knows. I had a very firm talk with Glut, he says he understands.”
“Smartass.”
“No, smart dog, there’s a difference.”
She chuckled, they each took a sip, and then he kissed her. They were both getting into it when she backed away.
“No! I have to finish this before it sets.”
“There are other things I want to finish.”
He dove in for another kiss, pulling her to him. Alas, she resisted.
“I promise I’ll make up for it. It shall be a very Happy Christmas.”
One last kiss and she returned to the tiles, setting her glass down. She was good at this, he had to give her that. Hell, she was good at everything. Maybe that was why he loved her so much.
And it was because he loved her so much that he had resigned from the FBI. It hadn’t even been a hard decision. He was tired of routine investigations turning into international events. He no longer wanted to be shot at and kidnapped and tortured.
He didn’t know what he was going to do with the rest of his life but leaving government work was a good start. They had already put the house on the market – that was why they were eager to finish the basement – and they were looking into real estate in the Miami area.
Why Florida? Because it was a million miles away from Alaska. They both needed a change of scenery, a change of life. Rogan simply wanted a break from the madness.
Shiloh needed to start working again. She would undoubtedly go into private security consulting but that was her choice. It couldn’t get any crazier than what they’d lived through this past year. They would be happy in Miami. As long as they were together, nothing bad could happen.
Rogan was about to go help her when his phone rang. Shiloh looked up.
“You planned this, didn’t you?” she asked with mock horror. “You asked one of your friends to call you so you wouldn’t have to help me! It’s probably Horace Moore, isn’t it?”
“I’m not giving you my tricks, woman!” He extended his tongue at her, making her laugh, and then answered. “BDSM emergency hotline, how can I be of service?”
“Good evening, Special Agent Bricks.”
It was Assistant Director Vanstedum. “I’m no longer an agent but I guess I’m still special. How do you do, sir?”
“I’m sure you’re preparing your Christmas Eve festivities so I won’t keep you long. Just wanted to give you a little update.”
“Did Vazquez escape?”
“No, still in a supermax facility. The man is never getting out. Same with Calix Hargrove. CIA ultimately decided to play by the rules and let him have a trial.”
“Then I don’t need any update, Jason. I quit the FBI because I don’t want to be bothered with this crap anymore.”
“Fair enough. But there’s one juicy bit of information that might be relevant to you.”
“I doubt it but go ahead,” Rogan said before taking a nourishing sip of spiked eggnog.
“The money Hephner and company swindled from you, the Justice Department was able to recover a part of it: 50 million.”
“What?”
“I know it’s a far cry from the 300 million they got but it’s a start, no? Understandably, it’s classified as evidence for the time being but in a couple of months we’ll be able to release it back to you. If you want.”
Rogan’s voice went dry. “Right.”
“Right,” Vanstedum echoed. “Anyway, just wanted to let you know. Think it over. Have a Merry Christmas, son.”
The line went dead and Shiloh gazed up at him.
“What is it, luv? Anything wrong?”
“No, nothing wrong at all. I think we can start looking at real estate in another price bracket.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
He set his drink down and went to Shiloh. He kneeled down and took her in his arms. This time she didn’t put up a fight when he kissed her.
The dog came racing down the stairs and circled the couple, his tail wagging happily as if he had heard the phone call.
“No, Glut!” she said with alarm. “Be careful.”
Rogan smiled and shook his head. “Forget about it. Everything is gonna be perfect, sweetheart.”
He pulled her in tighter and pressed his cheek against hers. Sometimes the universe had a way of making everything brighter. It would be the best Christmas he’d ever had.
And it was only the beginning.
THE END
About the Author
Steve Richer is the author of the bestselling action thriller The President Killed His Wife. He is a devout fan of researching little-known historical events. He splits his time between Montreal and South Florida.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50