Rogue Read online

  Rogue

  A Blackthorn Thriller

  R.A. McGee

  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

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Epilogue

  Clark Will Return

  Still Want More Clark?

  About the Author

  To CC

  A sweetheart of an editor and the best proofreader around. Thanks for keeping this train on track.

  One

  Clark was aware that the man was following him.

  The big man hadn’t made any mistakes. He had stayed back a reasonable distance, looked disinterested when Clark paused to check behind him during counter-surveillance, and generally tried to blend in with the locals at all times.

  Except the locals were island people—dark hair and features, skin tanned by a lifetime in the sun. Clark stood a head taller than most of them, but the man following him was even bigger than he was, and Clark looked at home in the crowd, where his pursuer didn’t.

  Unless a giant Slavic man happened to be walking the same side streets to the same bar he was going to, Clark was being followed.

  Clark walked around the port where the cruise ships docked, passing a flurry of activity and people. He dipped in and out of the crowd, trying to lose the man. Oblivious people tottered around, exploring the overpriced jewelry stores and tourist-trap restaurants that dotted the several-block radius which was always kept pristine for the tourists.

  Clark’s favorite watering hole was off the beaten path.

  The cobblestone street led him to an alleyway in between two buildings with chipping white plaster. The sun’s heat felt concentrated in the space, and Clark unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

  He reached the end of the narrow space and turned the corner, then sprinted down the next alley, disturbing a small chicken coop as he pushed past it. The sun never hit this far behind the building, and the smell of mildew was strong.

  Clark pushed open a faded blue door and came face-to-face with a thin man with short -cropped hair and a thick beard. “You should use the front door.”

  “Just be glad I didn’t kick it down on the way in,” Clark said. He grabbed a glass and filled it from the plastic bottle of vodka that sat on the bar top in front of him.

  “I don’t like you behind the bar. Every time you’re back here, all the vodka gets drank. Why not rum? It’s cheaper for me to get. Hell, they make that shit everywhere around here. I have to pay a premium for vodka, and that’s all you want.”

  “I hate hangovers,” Clark said, downing his second glass. “Vodka never gives me a hangover.”

  The bartender furrowed his brow at Clark. “Is it that bad?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Probably,” Clark said. “You still have that package I gave you?”

  The man eyed Clark, then moved away from him, down the poorly tiled floor to the ice machine. He moved it out of the way and pulled loose a cinderblock that wasn’t mortared into the wall. He tugged out a large brown paper bag and carried it to Clark, setting it on the bar top with a metallic thud. “People usually pay to store things, you know. I don’t see what I get out of this deal.”

  Clark smiled. “You bitch so much. It’s no wonder you aren’t married. What woman would put up with that all the time?”

  The man with the beard shrugged and went back to cleaning glasses, like every bartender ever.

  Clark glanced through the small bar, with its old folding-leg card tables and mismatched chairs, and toward the front door. Its glass was smudged with years of greasy fingerprints. He unrolled the top of the bag.

  Inside were two passports of different nationalities; a thick wad of cash, folded and tightly rubber-banded together; and a Glock pistol with an extra magazine.

  Clark stuffed the items away in his pockets and tossed the bag back to the bartender. “Thanks for holding on to this.”

  The man nodded as he crumpled up the bag. “You sure?”

  “I think so. Some big Ivan-Drago-looking asshole has been following me around all day. I swear they need to teach these people better tradecraft.” Clark took another drink of the vodka.

  “If they have enough money, I’ll teach ‘em,” the bartender said.

  “The only thing you teach anymore is how to fight off a hangover.”

  The bartender shrugged. “But I was good.”

  “The best,” Clark said with a smile. “Listen, I’m gonna lay low for a while. I’ll catch up with you.”

  The two men embraced in the sort of half-hug, half-handshake that men do, and Clark moved for the back door. As he did, the rusty cowbell hanging above the front door clanged. The bartender grabbed him with a firm hand and shoved him down behind the bar. “Morning. Hot out there, huh?”

  A voice with a mild Russian accent spoke up. “Is this your bar?”

  “Yep. I’m Ezra,” the bartender said. “What can I get for you?”

  Clark heard heavy footfalls clicking on the tile floor.

  “I’m looking for a man,” the Russian said.

  “This isn’t that type of bar, champ,” Ezra said.

  “Funny.” There was the rustling of a piece of paper. “Have you seen him before?”

  Clark looked up as Ezra leaned over the bar and took the sheet of paper from the Russian. “This guy? Hell yeah, I know this guy.”

  “You admit it?”

  “What’s there to admit? Hell, look at the wall. You see that picture tacked up there? He’s in it. My last tour in the army, I took a picture of my boys. Why would I lie about knowing him? He in some kind of trouble?”

  “Where is he now?” the Russian said.

  “Hell, I don’t know. Beats me.”

  Clark watched as Ezra’s hand crept underneath the bar to an old side-by-side shotgun he kept hidden away.

  “You sure you haven’t seen him?”

  “I’m not sure of anything. Look, fella, this isn’t the lost and found. If you’re here, you’re drinking. If not
, I’ve got other things to do besides play Twenty Questions with you.”

  Ezra’s hand was now tightened around the stock of the shotgun. Clark’s pistol had been ready in his hands since the moment he’d hit the floor.

  Clark looked up as a crumpled bill hit Ezra in the chest. “There. I pay. Now I stay and ask more questions.”

  “That’s one option,” Ezra said. “I prefer the other.”

  “What other?”

  “The one where you leave.”

  The Russian chuckled. “Until you tell me what you know, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I’ll call the cops,” Ezra said. “They won’t be too happy, seeing as you’re here bothering one of the good people of their island. Not to mention they won’t be too happy if they catch you with that pistol you got tucked under your armpit. You got a permit for that?”

  “My permit? I’ll show you my permit.” The Russian went for his pistol.

  In an instant, Ezra jerked the shotgun free, but it was longer and harder to maneuver than the Russian’s pistol. As its barrel cleared the bar top, a shot rang out. Ezra’s shotgun barked a split second later.

  Clark was up, pistol pointed at the Russian, who was crumpling to the ground in a heap. It wasn’t the giant who’d been following him—this man was thinner and more wiry. Clark kept his pistol on the man until he was sure Ezra’s buckshot had found its mark. The Russian didn’t so much as twitch.

  Clark’s ears rang from the shots in such a confined space.

  “Still a good shot, old man,” Clark said as he turned back toward the bartender.

  Ezra leaned against the back wall, fresh red blood staining his white T-shirt. “Have I ever told you how much I hate you?”

  Two

  “I can’t believe I got shot for you. Again.”

  “It’s not my fault you’re a bullet magnet,” Clark said. He grabbed a dishtowel from the bar and pressed it into the man’s shoulder. The smell of burned gunpowder tickled a familiar sensation in the back of Clark’s throat. “You don’t have a smoke, do you?”

  “Right now? I just got shot.”

  “If I can’t find a cigarette in a bar, what kind of world am I living in?” Clark kept the dishrag stuffed into the wound. He reached under Ezra’s shirt, feeling the back of the man’s shoulder and upper back. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

  “No exit wound?”

  “No.”

  “Shit,” Ezra agreed.

  Clark looked around the bar, knowing full well that no trauma team or OR suite had magically appeared. He thought fast, his calm demeanor hiding his true feelings. “You got a med kit?”

  “Sure, for when I nick my finger cutting limes. I don’t have anything good. I never needed it until you showed back up.”

  “Really? You just keep that double-barreled antique under the bar for fun, huh?” Clark grabbed Ezra’s hand and pushed it onto the rag. “Press down.”

  “Where the hell you going?”

  Clark vaulted over the bar top, pistol in hand. He moved past the card tables and peeked his head out the front door. The alley was empty. He stepped back in and locked the door behind him. “We’re clear. For now.”

  Ezra nodded. His face had gone pale, and there was a slight tremor passing through his body.

  Clark stepped around the bar, careful not to slip on the expanding pool of blood leaking out of his friend’s arm. “How do your neighbors feel about gunshots?”

  “It’s not completely out of character for the area.”

  “How long until the cops actually show up?”

  “No clue,” Ezra said. “Maybe an hour, maybe never. It’s hard to tell around here.”

  “Good. At least we have a few minutes to figure out where to take you.”

  “Can’t do the hospital,” Ezra said. “Gunshots are one thing, but they’ll ask too many questions about an actual bullet hole in my body. Island’s pretty small; it won’t take long until the cops show up at my place.”

  “So? It was self-defense. Who gives a shit if the cops come?”

  “Yeah, it was self-defense, but I’ll still get hemmed up over the shotgun. All firearms are supposed to be registered with VIPD, and you can bet that one’s not. I’m not trying to go to jail over a shotgun.”

  “You’d rather die from blood loss? Shit, man, we don’t even know where the bullet ended up. We can’t just leave that in there.”

  “Just get me home. I know a guy; he can fix me up. I’ll even let you pay for it, since you got that big wad in your pocket.”

  Clark mulled his choices and realized that not only was there no better plan, but he wouldn’t be able to force Ezra to do anything he didn’t want to anyway. “Fine, let’s get you on your feet.” Clark reached out and slipped his arm around the man’s waist, then put Ezra’s good arm around his neck.

  He slipped his Glock into his waistband and pushed open the back door, half-dragging Ezra along. Down the alley they went—slowly, as Ezra’s body refused to move very quickly.

  “Who was the Russian?”

  Clark looked down the alley, then half-turned and looked behind him. No one was following. “Hell if I know.”

  “You get chased around by these guys often? You seem pretty calm about it.”

  “I wouldn’t say often, but we’ve had our run-ins in the past. Killed a metric ton of them in Venezuela and Costa Rica last year. I assume they’re related.”

  “A metric ton? You’re shit at making friends, you know that?” Ezra stumbled and Clark caught him.

  “I’ve been told.” Clark came to a four-way intersection in the alley and veered toward the right. As he did so, a shot rang out, impacting the plaster wall behind his head. He shoved Ezra to the ground and dropped into a crouch.

  “How many?” Ezra said, laboring to lean his back against the wall.

  Clark peeked his head around the corner, then jerked it back as bullets slammed into the wall in front of him. “Looks like two.”

  “Wish I had Lucille,” Ezra said.

  “You named your shotgun Lucille? How original.” Clark looked through the intersection ahead of him, not certain what he was hoping to see. It wasn’t as if a platoon of Rangers was coming to save him.

  “You don’t like what I name my guns, you can just leave.”

  Clark smiled and shimmied toward the edge of the building again. A firm hand caught him by the elbow. He looked down at Ezra.

  “No, I’m serious. Leave. Get the fuck out of here.”

  Clark pulled his elbow free. “Shut up, old man.”

  “I’m only slowing you down. You’d be halfway to Puerto Rico already if you weren’t dragging me along.”

  Clark looked up at the top of the building that loomed above him. “You’re right about that. How about you make yourself useful?” Clark reached his Glock around the corner and fired blindly several times. Then he handed it to Ezra. “Do that every once in a while to keep them occupied. I’ll be right back.”

  “Be right back? Where the hell—”

  But Clark was gone. Using a thick drainpipe and the rickety fire escape, he scaled the side of the building and hoisted himself onto the roof. He crouched at the top and looked back down at Ezra, who’d cracked off several rounds around the corner.

  Creeping across the roof, Clark stopped at the parapet and looked down on the shooters. The two men were using a giant blue dumpster as cover against Ezra’s incoming bullets. He took a breath and then stepped out into thin air, dropping onto the closed lid on top of the dumpster.

  The man closest to him noticed him immediately, and Clark jumped from the dumpster directly at him. Before the man could raise his pistol, Clark slammed both feet into his assailant’s chest, sending him sprawling, pistol skittering down the cobblestone.

  The other man was still leaning around the dumpster, oblivious to Clark’s presence. He stepped behind the shooter, slamming his head off the dumpster several times until his skull was misshapen.

  Clark glance
d back at the first man, who was still trying to pull himself off the ground and gather himself to attack. Clark kicked him on the side of the head and the man collapsed in a heap. As he moved to get the gun the unconscious man had dropped, more rounds came hurtling his direction.

  He dived behind the dumpster. “Ezra! Stop fucking shooting at me.” Clark peeked around the dumpster and saw his friend’s face appear around the corner. It was pale and gaunt. Clark ran down the alley to him.

  “I couldn’t shoot anymore. Out of damn bullets.”

  “Good. You can’t hit anything anyway. Come on. On your feet, old man.” Clark pulled the wounded man to his feet. “Let’s go, move your ass.”

  The pair staggered down the alley, away from the bodies of the men who’d attacked them. They made it out of the damp space and into a more populated area, past the outskirts of the tourist part of town, and then down to the docks, Clark dragging Ezra the entire way.

  These docks were in the same general area as the docks for the cruise ships, but they were for smaller craft: local fishermen, pleasure boats, and the like.

  “Damn, you’re stubborn, boy,” Ezra said. “Always have been. Whoever these guys are, they want you bad, and my old ass ain’t any use to you, not shot up like this.”