Rogue

ROGUE A CYRUS JENNINGS FBI MYSTERY THRILLER BOOK 1 ALEX PARMAN COPYRIGHT ROGUE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 Ric Beard and Chris Niles writing as Alex Parman All rights reserved. Visit the author’s website at AlexParman.com This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author and the team of professionals who contributed their effort to this creative work. 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Edited by Staci Troilo 2307151154 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 Also by Alex Parman About the Author Acknowledgments CHAPTER 1 Gabrielle Sutton’s Sauconys pounded the crushed granite trail in long strides. Five yards ahead, her bodyguard’s head swiveled left and right at consistent intervals. The man’s gaze never stopped scanning for threats. Just like with politics, timing was everything. The last thing Gabby wanted was to appear weak. Weak candidates became targets for the opponent’s more rabid supporters, so she fought the security detail every time a new letter arrived at campaign headquarters. Threats were part of the job. Every candidate received them. But when a particularly disturbing one came in, her husband joined the fight and insisted on the bodyguard. At least her assistant ensured the guy had a military background and the stamina to keep up with her. Jake Ramon didn’t talk much, which was fine with Gabby. Despite her nickname, she was sick of gabbing. A two-year run for a senate seat would cure anyone of unnecessary small talk, and the state assemblywoman striving for a seat in Washington couldn’t afford to lose her voice this close to the election. Despite the message a bodyguard sent to voters and her initial resistance, Gabby had come to appreciate Jake’s presence on her daily runs. Having someone to pace her had improved her times even as she grew more exhausted with the heavy campaign schedule. Gabby struggled to squeeze in a nightly jog along one of the shorter stretches of the canal. More and more often, her runs were replaced by town hall meetings or worse—coffee and pizza at campaign headquarters. But Sunday mornings were non-negotiable. She started before dawn, running across the uniform nineteen-mile stretch between County Line Road and Hampden Avenue, where cottonwoods fed by the canals dotted the surrounding lands. Jake accepted the early morning time without complaint. Gabby suspected he enjoyed the escape from his weekday responsibilities as much as she did. Standing in doorways, scanning crowds, and opening car doors had to be even more monotonous than shaking hundreds of hands and smiling until her cheeks hurt. She studied Jake as she followed him. His ball cap pulled low and sunglasses shrouding his face, he scanned the random joggers on the High Line Canal Trail for threats. This section of Denver offered an oasis from the hustle and bustle of the mountain city. By midweek, her lungs yearned for deep gulps of fresh air and her muscles longed for movement. Even though the trail ran past tightly packed cookie-cutter neighborhoods and crossed Broadway three times, these longer stretches were worth the temporary breaks in utopia. A quick rhythm on her left wrist made her look at the tiny screen on her watch. Check Sugar. “Hey, bonehead,” she called ahead. Jake turned and jogged in place as she caught up to him. She tapped the device. “You forgot to remind me.” “Damn,” he said. “Sorry ma’am.” The Velcro broke the morning quiet as he ripped a small black pouch from his hip. Gabby’s cheek pulled into a resigned smile. She held out her finger. He pricked it and stared at the meter, his eyebrows furrowing. “You feeling okay?” “Fine, why?” He wiggled the meter. “What’d you eat this morning? This is really high for you.” “Just eggs. You know I don’t like to run on a full stomach.” She eyed the meter. “And I can’t read that without my glasses.” He raised his eyebrow and stared down at her. “It looks like you ate half a cake. Keep an eye on this, okay? I’d hate to save you from the nut jobs only to lose you to a donut.” He opened the case, pulled out a syringe, then bit off the cap. “I’ll let you do the honors,” he slurred around the