The whole thing felt wrong. Something was going on and she was being kept out of the loop.
She jogged to work out her anger but didn’t feel any better. After showering, she pulled out her files on Sean Rogan. She needed to think two steps ahead. Where was he going to turn up next?
If she only knew where he lived, she could wait for him. Or, better, search his apartment for a clue about where he was hiding out. If she could just get him in interrogation she’d get him to slip up.
She rubbed her head and took a sip of coffee. Her cell phone rang. It was Steve Gannon.
“What?” she answered. Even Steve was treating her like some sort of pariah. And he’d been the most supportive of her quest for justice. In fact, he’d been the one who told her that Sean Rogan was in New York in the first place, and yet now Steve was acting like she had some sort of obsession. What if the roles were reversed? He’d be doing the same thing she was if some bastard like Rogan had irrevocably damaged his career.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m working from home today. Torres told me not to come in.”
“I know; I’m just worried about you.”
“I’m fine.” She paused. “What’s going on at the office? Is Agent Armstrong still pulling the wool over Torres’s eyes?”
“Well, they haven’t put the APB back on Rogan, but he hasn’t come in. He gave a statement about the shooting. I’m not supposed to give it to you, but—” He stopped. “Okay, I just e-mailed it. Just—it was dark in the stairwell; there was a lot of stuff going on. Maybe you remembered things differently—”
Deanna’s chest tightened. “Are you doubting me, too?”
“No, I just—”
“You don’t believe me. It’s his word against mine, and no one believes me! I’m the federal agent; he’s a known criminal!”
“Deanna, you’re a great agent. Don’t let this jerk take you down.”
“I don’t plan on it. Thanks for the heads-up.” She hung up her phone, not wanting to hear the pity in Steve’s voice.
She clicked on the video link. Rogan was sitting at a desk; there was a diploma that was out of focus on the wall behind him, but she squinted and figured out it was his, from MIT.
He began, “My name is Sean Tyler Rogan. It is Wednesday, October 24, at five ten a.m. I’m making this recording as a statement to the events as I know them that occurred on Tuesday, October 23.”
Women found Sean Rogan attractive, but not Deanna. She saw the slime beneath his fake charm and dimples. His blue eyes might seem soulful or fun or whatever he wanted someone to see, but she saw dark ice, all the way to his heart. He might have been seventeen when she arrested him, but he had a hefty juvenile record that didn’t just end when he turned eighteen, no matter what his brother Duke said.
Sean continued, “I started to run when I heard someone walk into the apartment, unsure who it was. I knew of the back staircase and tunnels from my previous visits to Hunter’s house. I heard a female identify herself as FBI, but I continued to run because I didn’t know if the person was telling the truth. There had been an FBI agent following me around New York for the last few days without making an attempt to communicate.”
Liar! He’d avoided her, slipped away. Bastard.
He claimed he didn’t fire his gun but admitted he had a gun in his backpack.
“Smooth,” she said. “Real smooth, Rogan.”
He explained how he hid down a narrow passage, in the dark, while she called out for him.
“I heard two gunshots and the female call out that I was a rat like the ones she was seeing in the tunnels. I feared for my safety, and remained in hiding until I was certain she had gone. I slipped through the maintenance door leading to one of the subway tunnels, and exited.
“I did not kill my friend Hunter Nash. He was dead when I arrived. I didn’t touch his body. I did not fire my gun at all on Tuesday, and I did not aim or fire my gun at any person, including the FBI. I’ll come to FBI headquarters in a day or two to answer any questions you may have. You can reach me through my attorney.”
Attorney? What attorney?
That was it. Three minutes and he was done? No one was allowed to give a statement like this. He needed to be interviewed, asked questions, held accountable for his actions.
And he was getting away with it.
She cried out in despair, her fists clenched in frustration. Her phone rang again and she almost ignored it.
She was glad she didn’t. It was her informant.
“Um, Deanna?” the skittish voice said.
“Yes. Do you have something for me?”
“You, um, wanted an address. On that guy, Rogan.”
“You have it?”
“Yes.” The informant gave her an address in SoHo. It wouldn’t take Deanna more than fifteen minutes to get there, even in morning traffic.
“Thank you. Is he there now?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “Thanks.” She hung up and grabbed her gun.
This time, Sean Rogan would not get away.
* * *
Duke took the red-eye from Sacramento to New York and landed at 9:05 a.m. East Coast time. He hadn’t slept well on the plane, which didn’t surprise him. He’d left his pregnant wife at home—even though Nora was only five months along, because she was forty, her pregnancy was considered high-risk. He had friends both at RCK and in her office promising to keep an eye on her, but Nora was a workaholic and even on desk duty she would work overtime if he didn’t call her at six every night reminding her of the time.
Duke hadn’t planned on coming to New York, but Sean had changed his phone number again and was unreachable. Worse, Lucy didn’t know anything, but she, too, had been questioned by Agent Brighton. Lucy was just as worried as Duke.
Duke wanted to throttle Sean—how could he put Lucy through this? How could he get involved with Colton Thayer again? Sean was a smart kid, too smart, but with the brains came arrogance and a superiority complex. Duke had thought Sean had really grown this past year, but he was mistaken.
He called Jaye as soon as he landed. “Did you find out where he’s living?”
“It’s six in the morning here.”
“Jaye, please.”
“I found him. It wasn’t easy—no utilities, no rental agreement, nothing—but I backtraced his laptop based on the anomaly I found in the admin code I told you about Monday, then located the most active center. It’s spent a lot of time at an apartment building in SoHo. I’ll send you the address. I don’t have an apartment number, though.”
“You’re amazing. I’ll find him.”
“Maybe he has a good reason—”
“Don’t make excuses for him, Jaye,” Duke said. He was over and done with Sean’s excuses. Everyone thought that because he was “cute” he should be cut some slack. Or that because he lost his parents when he was fourteen, he should be forgiven for his indiscretions. But this was more than an indiscretion—this was a crime—and Duke didn’t really care why Sean had fallen back into his old hacktivist group; that he had would put him in prison. Or worse. He was going to lose Lucy, and it would break her heart. Sean’s actions would do major damage to RCK across the board. Sean had risked not only his career and Duke’s career, but also the careers of everyone they employed.
Selfish. He never thought of how his actions were going to impact anyone else.
Duke took a cab to the apartment building. It was non-descript, with a buzzer door. He walked around to the underground parking and waited until he had an opportunity to slip through the security door when a car left, the driver distracted as she put on lipstick while driving.
Sean’s Mustang was in the slot for 402. He was here.
Duke took the elevator to the fourth floor, not knowing exactly how he was going to convince Sean to cut ties with Thayer, but he was willing to do anything. Or he’d call the cops himself.
He stopped outside Sean’s door. Would he do that? Call the police on his ow
n brother? He thought of all the times that Sean had risked his life for Duke and their clients. All the times when Sean had figured out the flaws in security that had helped grow RCK into a premier cybersecurity firm. He’d risked his life flying into a forest fire to save Nora. Selfish? No. Sean wasn’t selfish.
A risk taker. Loyal. Arrogant. He was working with Thayer because he thought that not only was the cause just, but they’d get away with it.
Duke had to convince Sean that he wouldn’t get away with it. Duke didn’t want to see his brother in prison. He wouldn’t do well. The few times he’d been in jail, never more than a couple of days, Sean had lost it. What would happen if he was in prison for years?
Duke knocked on the door of apartment 402. Sean didn’t answer. Duke knocked louder but heard no movement. Sleeping? Possibly, especially if he’d been up late. Duke picked the lock and slipped in.
He announced himself so Sean wouldn’t think there was an intruder. “Sean, it’s Duke. Sean—are you here?”
Duke found a light switch and flipped it on. The apartment was sparsely furnished. A large living area took up the corner, a kitchen was against the wall, and a small, separate bedroom was to the right. Sean’s computer was here. He was not. Neither was his phone, keys, or wallet.
Duke searched the place. It was not only sparsely furnished, but there were only a few changes of clothes and not much food. Sean wasn’t using the space to live, at least not to do more than to sleep.
He turned on Sean’s laptop and realized this wasn’t his primary unit—this was new. Sean had full security protocols on it. Duke tried the RCK security key; it didn’t work. If Duke wanted to crack the code, it would take time.
He searched deeper in the studio, all the places Sean might hide something he didn’t want Duke to find. In high school, it had been computer disks that stored computer viruses and malware that Sean had created—for the joke, not data corruption. Like the time he hacked into his high school’s network after his favorite teacher was fired for some charge that Sean thought was bogus and he had every computer in the facility spontaneously rebooting for two days.
But Duke found nothing personal, nothing that told him where Sean was or what he was up to. Duke would just have to wait.
The front door sprang open and Duke jumped up. He backed up when he saw two large men enter. “Sean Rogan, it’s about time you returned home,” one said.
The other frowned. “That’s not Rogan.”
“Looks like him.”
“It’s not. Rogan’s younger. And taller.”
Duke didn’t have a gun on him and he hadn’t found one in Sean’s apartment.
“Take him.”
Duke sidestepped the first guy and tripped him. The second guy pulled a gun. “I’ll shoot you now, let Rogan find you as a warning.”
“What do you want?”
“None of your fucking business, but I know who you are. Look just like him—you’re the brother.”
Goon number one got up and grabbed Duke. Duke decked him.
“Keep him quiet!”
The second guy pistol-whipped Duke and he fell to his knees. “Shut up,” the guy said. He pulled a zip tie tight around Duke’s wrists, then stuffed a rag in Duke’s mouth. “I’ll kill you and resort to plan B; don’t doubt it.”
Duke squeezed his eyes shut and tried to clear the ringing from his head. The two men stood on either side of the door, talking quietly. It was clear they were waiting for someone. Sean. And by the bits and pieces of their conversation, he was on his way.
There was a knock on the door. Why would Sean knock on his own door?
The knob turned. The men on either side of the door had their guns out. The door pushed open. Duke saw a blond woman standing in the doorway. She had a gun in her hand. Who was she? She looked familiar—why did she have her gun out?
Duke grunted, trying to warn her, and she turned to face him.
One of the goons slammed the door shut behind her. She turned, brought her gun up, but he easily disarmed her and shot her three times with her own gun.
She fell to the ground, in death her face a mask of surprise.
Deanna Brighton. The FBI agent.
Duke didn’t know who these men were, but they were far more dangerous than the types Sean usually worked for.
The goon dropped the gun next to her body. The other guy said, “What the fuck? Everyone in the building heard that!”
“Grab the brother; let’s go.”
“You were supposed to use the silencer. It’s all fucked to hell, Billy. And why do we need him?”
“This is Rogan’s brother. Leverage, Tommy. Rogan is already on the run; he might not come in even when the cops find the Fed’s body. With the brother, we’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
“Like he ever had a choice,” Tommy said, pulling his mask back over his face.
Duke fought, but his fight was short-lived. One of the goons hit Duke over the head, and as he slipped from consciousness he felt his body being dragged across the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sean landed his friend’s plane later than he’d planned. It was nearly eleven in the morning, and fog had kept him from lifting off until after nine. He’d dumped all his cell phones in D.C. and picked up a burner phone on the way, just in case someone was tracking him. Before he did, he got the message from Noah that they’d IDed the blond guy outside the carriage house. Kurt LeGrand. Sean didn’t know him by name or appearance, and when Noah said LeGrand was a financial consultant, nothing popped, either.
Sean was surprised when Colton was waiting for him at the private airstrip.
“How did you know I was here?”
“When you called me last night, I triangulated your call from here. I figured when you returned, this is where you’d land.”
“Why didn’t you think I was going to leave for good? A fucking federal agent was shooting at me for no reason.”
“Deanna Brighton. She’s had it in for you for years.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because a few months ago she summoned me for an interview and had a bunch of questions about you. She’s only been in New York for a year or so.”
Sean stared at him, disbelieving. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were still working for Duke. There’s no way she could touch you; I figured she was just blowing smoke. I didn’t think she was dangerous. Based on her questions, I realized she’d been trying to put you back on the wrong side of the law for some time, but had nothing to go on.”
“You should have told me on Sunday after I was followed.”
“I didn’t know it was Brighton.”
“It would have been a good guess!”
Colton shifted uneasily on his feet. “I didn’t want you to leave.”
Sean didn’t know what to make of Colton’s lies and misdirection. “What’s going on here?”
“I told you—I told you everything.”
“Only after I pulled it out of you.” Sean wasn’t getting anywhere with this. “When did Brighton first talk to you?”
“Beginning of August.”
That was right after Paxton blackmailed Sean. The timing was not a coincidence. “She’s in bed with Paxton,” Sean said.
Colton’s brow wrinkled. “They’re having an affair?”
“No—Paxton blackmailed me about Martin Holdings at the end of July. It’s no coincidence that Brighton starts asking you questions about me in August. Did she have any evidence about Martin Holdings?”
“No. But—she did say something suspicious. That she knew you were a criminal and she would prove it.”
“And even with a federal agent with a personal vendetta against me you wanted me on your team?”
Colton motioned for Sean to walk over to his BMW. “Sean, remember in college, it was the day Travis would have been twenty. I wasn’t in a good way: My petition for records using the Information Act was denied, and then I was almost cau
ght hacking into the PBM facility.”
“I remember. I covered your tracks so they’d think it was a network failure.”
“You did more than that. You saved my life.” He stopped walking and faced Sean. “I was so depressed. It was Travis’s birthday and I failed him.”
“You’ve never failed him.”
“You said that, and other things, but mostly, I realized I’m not the only one. You’d never told me about what happened to your parents until that night. I knew they’d died in an accident, but I didn’t know it was in a plane crash; I didn’t know that you were supposed to be with them.”
Sean looked away. He hadn’t ever told anyone else about that, not even Lucy.
“Yet you became a pilot. You faced your fears. And what you did at Stanford took courage.”
“It was prideful,” Sean said. “Looking back to Stanford, and to what we did in college, we didn’t do it to change the world. We did it because we could. We did it for the rush.”
Colton didn’t say anything for a minute. Then, “Maybe part of it was the rush. But you can’t tell me you didn’t believe in what we were doing.”
That was true. “I was never as noble as you, C. You always believed in the greater good. You would have gone to prison for what you believed in. I didn’t want to go to jail.”
“You’re selling yourself short, Sean. Most of what we did no one ever knew. Just us. How can you say that’s prideful? Maybe—personal satisfaction?”
“I learned from what happened at Stanford that I didn’t need public accolades.”
“It’s because of you that everything I earn I put into Travis’s charity. Real research to end leukemia. It’s why I don’t have a lot of money, why I took this job. Senator Paxton funded me and I’m getting the proof that Pham-Bonner Medical is responsible for Travis’s death. You taught me to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves. You never backed down, Sean.”
“I did—”
“No, you didn’t. You just didn’t think I knew.”
Sean was wholly uncomfortable with the praise Colton was heaping on him. He had been lying to Colton for the past month, and now Sean felt worse. “Don’t make me into something I’m not,” he said.
Stolen (Lucy Kincaid Novels) Page 19