The Extinction Agenda

by Michael Laurence

  The Hoyl caught Mason’s wrist and twisted it backward. His shot screamed past the Hoyl’s ear and into the smoke. Another sharp twist and Mason’s grip went slack. His gun clattered to the ground.

  The banks of lights extinguished with a sizzle and a thud.

  Muzzle flare strobed all around him, leaving tracers across his vision as he spun.

  The pain in his side was ferocious. He felt the warmth of blood running down his ribs and into his armpit. The Hoyl’s fingers probed the wound. Penetrated the flesh. Worked their way inside him.

  With a shout of agony, Mason twisted his hips and wrapped the chain around the Hoyl’s neck. Grabbed the back of his suit jacket and spun him around. Tightened the chain.

  The Hoyl removed his fingers from the wound and tried to alleviate the pressure on his throat.

  Mason seized the opportunity and swung his right leg down. Freed his left ankle. Wrapped his left fist in the chain. Flipped heels over head. His feet missed the ground and he lost his balance. Barely managed to grab hold of the chain with his right hand. Pulled as hard as he could as they careened toward a fallen section of the outer wall.

  Flames ascended the dividers between the cells, imbuing the smoke with a flickering orange glare. The fire roared and spread across the ceiling.

  The Hoyl clawed at his own neck in an effort to get his fingers underneath the chain. It was wrapped so tightly that his inhumanly blue eyes bulged from beneath the lids. His scarred face was suffused with blood.

  Mason’s toes grazed the floor and he managed to find his feet.

  The Hoyl wasn’t quite tall enough. He thrashed and kicked, to no avail. The vessels in his eyes ruptured.

  Mason tightened his grip and looked up into the roiling smoke. Gunnar twirled maybe forty feet above him, still not moving.

  More gunshots. The crackle of flames. Someone shouted his name from what sounded like a million miles away.

  Mason stared into the Hoyl’s cold blue eyes and saw panic where victory had been only moments ago. The monster choked and sputtered in an effort to speak.

  “The … new world order … is at hand.”

  Mason reached up and pulled the mask away from the Hoyl’s face. It wasn’t a standard respirator. It came away with a hissing sound. Thin hoses slithered out of his nose, a thicker one from his mouth. His eyes widened in sheer terror. The tube from his throat was the only thing keeping his airway from collapsing. The chain tightened his fingers against his muscles and spine the moment the tube cleared his tongue. His scarred skin took on a bluish cast.

  “Mace!” he heard from a great distance.

  The Hoyl had obviously gotten the worst of whatever trial form of the decomposition accelerant he’d injected Alejandra with. The cartilage had shrunk back from his nose, leaving two teardrop-shaped holes. The curled bones were clearly visible inside. His lips were gone, as were entire sections of his gray gums. The exposed bones and teeth glistened with some sort of salve.

  He gasped and clawed. Drew blood from his neck with his fingernails.

  Mason locked stares with the man who had killed his wife. Watched the light fade from his blue eyes.

  “I told you this would be the last thing you’d ever see.”

  He released the chain and the Hoyl’s body rose upward into the darkness.

  72

  Gunnar’s body descended from the smoke until it reached a balancing point with the corpse of the Hoyl. A droplet of his blood struck the back of Mason’s hand. Mercifully, it was still warm. Now that Gunner’s body was lower, Mason could better see the laceration across his old friend’s hairline, from which the majority of the blood originated. His left hand glistened with blood, presumably from a wound somewhere higher up his arm.

  The flames grew taller. The smoke became darker, thicker. The heat intensified.

  “Mace!” a voice shouted directly into his ear.

  Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him backward. He looked away from Gunnar and was almost surprised to see a massive hole in the side of the building through the swirling dust and smoke.

  Automatic gunfire crackled all around him. One of the security guards skidded across the floor on his back and came to rest near Mason’s feet, the top of his head a craterous ruin.

  “Damn it, Mace! Snap the fuck out of it! We aren’t out of the woods yet!”

  Mason turned and found himself staring into the face of a man he didn’t immediately recognize. He was black with soot and bleeding from a cut along his jaw. His teeth and the whites of his eyes stood out in stark contrast.

  “Ramses?”

  “You didn’t think I’d let you guys have all the fun without me, did you?”

  He offered a cocky smile. An OTs-14 Groza Thunderstorm bullpup assault rifle hung across his chest. A finger of smoke twirled from the under-barrel grenade launcher.

  “Where’s Kane?” Mason asked. “Tell me you got him.”

  “Who?”

  “My old partner. He’s about a year late for his funeral.”

  There was no way in hell Mason was going to let him disappear again.

  Two more people emerged from the smoke. He recognized Alejandra immediately, but it took a few seconds to identify the man in the black fatigues, especially with his face painted black. And without the cardigan and the tea service.

  Seraph.

  Asher Ben-Menachem, Johan Mahler’s chief of security.

  “I told you we’d be watching you,” he said. “How many of them are there?”

  “Five that I know of,” Mason said. “Counting the Hoyl. But he’s out of commission.”

  “Then we’re still missing two.” Seraph turned away, pressed his hand to his ear, and looked up at the main level as he spoke. A shadow appeared at the rail, followed by another. And then they were gone. “My men had both doors covered the entire time. No one got past them. They have to be in here somewhere.”

  There was only one other direction they could have gone.

  Mason took off at a sprint.

  “I know where they’re heading!” he shouted back over his shoulder. “You guys get Gunnar down from there. I’m going after Kane!”

  A red glow limned the circular mouth of the tunnel. He heard the whine of an electric engine. If he didn’t stop Kane before he got the tram moving, he’d never be able to track him down again.

  The tram had been designed so that either end could serve as the lead car, eliminating the need for it to turn around. It was already gaining momentum by the time he caught up with it. There was no need for discretion this time.

  Mason raised his pistol and fired. The back window of what had been the lead car earlier shattered and cascaded to the ground. He ran as fast as he could and dove for the ledge. The broken glass cut his palms. His feet dragged on the concrete. Bounced from the rail.

  He got his right elbow over the ledge, then his left. Hauled himself over the sill and fell to the ribbed aluminum floor. Struggled to his feet. Ran down the main aisle, between the rows of cages.

  A red glow appeared through the windows ahead of him. Inside the next car in line. It focused into a dot on the glass. Then on his chest.

  He threw himself to the ground.

  Bullets shattered the window and filled the air all around him. He covered his head with his arms to fend off the rain of Plexiglas. Listened to the thumping and clanging sounds of bullets striking the metal hull and ricocheting from the aluminum posts of the cages. The window to his right shattered, admitting the howling wind.

  The moment the shooting stopped, he leaped to his feet and started firing.

  Muzzle flare lit up the blond woman in the third car, as though with the repeated flash of a camera. She hit the deck and vanished from sight. She’d come up firing as soon as she reloaded.

  Mason wasn’t about to let her get that chance.

  He lowered his head and sprinted for the shattered windows between the cars. Lunged. Caught the ledge with his right foot. Pushed off over the nothingness
. Plunged through the gap where the window had been. Got his left foot down. Shouted and hurled himself at the woman.

  Dietrich slapped a fresh magazine into her assault rifle and looked up in time to take Mason’s shoulder to her face. He brought the full weight of his body down on her. The Steyr clattered from her hand and slid out of her reach.

  Mason palmed her forehead and ground the back of her head into the floor. Shifted his weight. Pinned her arms down with his knees. Aimed his Sigma right at her face. Turned away to shield his mouth and eyes from the blowback. Pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Click-click-click.

  He swore and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket for a new clip.

  Dietrich bucked and screamed. Slipped out from beneath his knees. Freed her hands and shoved him squarely in the chest. Slid out from underneath him. Pushed herself up to all fours.

  He couldn’t let her get to her weapon.

  Mason lashed out with his foot. Caught her under the chin. Snapped her head back.

  The tram accelerated and the Steyr slid across the floor toward them. To his right. Her left.

  He dove for it.

  So did she.

  His hand closed around the hot barrel. Burned.

  Dietrich grabbed the strap. Jerked. Pulled it right out of his grasp.

  He fumbled for a grip on anything. Anything at all. Caught the trigger guard as she yanked again. Felt the trigger against his knuckle—

  Discharge exploded from the barrel. Flickered. Crackled. Spun the rifle away from him.

  He watched as 5.56mm rounds sprayed in an arc across the floor. Strafing the wall. Ricocheting from the floor, the metal cages, the posts. Sparks flew. Tracked a course straight toward Dietrich. Raced up her arm. Tore through her chest. Her neck.

  Thupp-thupp-thupp-thupp-thupp-thupp.

  Her face disintegrated in the strobing light. Collapsed in upon itself. Hit the wall behind her as a mess of blood and bone.

  The gas cylinder drove the piston on the empty chamber with a rapid snapping sound.

  Mason swatted away the smoldering Steyr and rose to his feet. Felt warmth on his cheek. Wiped it away with his sleeve. Turned to face the two cars ahead of him.

  A man stood silhouetted against the front windshield of the front car. Even from a distance, Mason could tell exactly who it was.

  Kane.

  Mason loaded his clip. Chambered the first round. Strode toward the next car in the series.

  Two shots destroyed the front window of the third car. Spiderwebbed the rear window of the second, across the gap. A third destroyed what was left.

  He climbed up onto the ledge. Braced himself against the tempestuous wind. Jumped across the coupling, through the hole where the window had been, onto the scattered shards.

  Each car was maybe twenty feet long and was separated by two quarter-inch-thick Plexiglas windows and three feet of open air.

  Mason was within forty feet of his old partner. His mentor.

  His friend.

  Their entire relationship had been built upon a lie. Right from the moment Kane had recruited him. Every word he’d said. Everything he’d taught him. All of it. Even when Mason learned that the man with the blue eyes had survived, he never for a moment suspected that his partner was still alive. He’d trusted Kane clear up until the moment he stood behind him with a gun to his head.

  Kane had led them into a trap in Arizona and used the slaughter of their strike force to convince the world that he’d died with them. Had the plan been to kill Mason, too? Or had he needed a survivor to complete the illusion, to serve as a witness to his almost certain demise?

  And that was what bothered Mason more than anything else. More than the lies. More than the betrayal. They’d stood face-to-face in the burning stone quarry on the Tohono O’odham Reservation. Kane with a gun to his head and the man with the blue eyes beside him. He’d told Mason to shoot the Hoyl. Had he done so, the threat would have been eliminated. Right then and there. There would have been no further experimentation with viruses. Their grand plan to kill billions would have crumbled. His partner’s treachery would have come to light. And Angie would still be alive. So why had Kane shouted for him to do the one thing that would have foiled his endgame?

  The answer was as simple as it was heartbreaking.

  Because he’d known Mason couldn’t do it.

  Kane had exploited his only weakness in the field. His feelings for his partner. His willingness to take a bullet for him. He’d never doubted that Mason would engage the more immediate threat to him. He’d known Mason inside and out, while Mason hadn’t known him at all. With one shot, he could have killed the Hoyl, saved the lives of his wife and countless others, and ended a plot that had been set into motion a century ago. One shot. Five and a half pounds of pressure on the trigger. Little more than a twitch. One single shot and he could have saved the world.

  He would not hesitate again.

  Two more shots shattered both panes of Plexiglas between them.

  Mason climbed up onto the ledge. Felt the wind buffet his face, his shoulders. Tear through his hair. His flank was on fire from where the Hoyl’s shot had grazed him, his waistband wet with blood, but he didn’t care.

  All that mattered now was Kane.

  He bellowed in rage and anguish. Fired straight ahead into the first car to clear a path.

  Kane ducked to the side, away from the front windshield and the headlights that silhouetted him.

  Mason fired twice more and dove out over the coupling, hurtling over the blurred concrete. He realized his mistake when his former partner turned to face him with a smile on his face.

  Kane hit the emergency stop and the brakes locked. Screamed. Sparks flew from the rail. Bounced from the walls like firecrackers. The tram slowed even as Mason fired like a projectile through the rear window. Hit the ground on his shoulder.

  A bullet ricocheted beside his face. Another streaked past in his peripheral vision.

  He slid straight down the aisle on his side. Raised his Sigma. Squeezed off a round. Another. Shot toward the front of the cab at Kane, who jumped over him and spun with his pistol in his hand. He aimed at Mason’s head as Mason aimed at his.

  Mason shot first.

  The window shattered to Kane’s right. He ducked into the cage to his left. Released a shot that passed so close to Mason’s face, he could feel its heat.

  He led Kane and pulled the trig—

  Mason struck the base of the control panel, going twenty miles an hour faster than the car itself. Squarely against the back of his head. His flexed neck. His shoulder.

  His shot sailed wide. His vision filled with stars. A fiery jolt of pain. Straight up his neck, into his skull. Down his arms, into his fingertips.

  He fired blindly to prevent Kane from closing in on him for the kill shot. Glass flew everywhere. Sparks rained through the open windows.

  The tram came to a sudden stop.

  Mason fought the ringing in his ears and attuned his hearing to any sound that might betray Kane’s location. Watched for the slightest hint of movement.

  Held his breath.

  Prepared for the impending attack.

  73

  Silence.

  Glass tinkled to the concrete.

  Mason sat up slowly.

  Tasted blood in his mouth. In his sinuses.

  Blue lightning fizzled and flared from the control panel on the wall.

  His vision throbbed in time with the pounding in his head. The glare from the headlights cast his shadow across the aisle in front of him as he struggled to his feet. Shards of broken glass sparkled, crunched underfoot.

  Acrid smoke settled over the vehicle, filtered through the windows.

  He wiped blood from his right eye with his forearm. Dabbed at the stinging laceration in his eyebrow.

  The cages around him were empty.

  No shadows. No movement.

  No Kane.

  He walked back into the car i
n a shooter’s stance, scrutinizing the aisle down the barrel of his Sigma.

  There.

  A faint reflection from the ceiling.

  Mason stopped directly underneath it and looked up. Dark fluid. A high-velocity spatter.

  He’d hit Kane when he fired up from the ground. High on his body, based on the trajectory of the spatter.

  He looked down.

  To his left. Nothing.

  To his right. There.

  Droplets on the floor. Leading through the open cage door and to a smear on the sill of the broken window.

  Kane had climbed out into the tunnel.

  He could be hiding in the darkness right now, his weapon aimed at the window, just waiting for a clear shot.

  Mason went out the rear window instead. Crouched on the coupling.

  Listened.

  Craned his neck in an effort to see around the tram. No sign of his former partner. Peered around the opposite side.

  Clear.

  He stepped down carefully. Quietly. Followed his Sigma toward the front of the tram. Knelt at the very edge, where Kane wouldn’t be able to see him through the headlights.

  A distant scuffing sound.

  Mason darted through the headlights. Pressed his back to the cracked windshield. Took a quick peek around the corner, toward the broken side window through which Kane had exited. Broken glass on the ground. No sign of—

  Wait.

  He walked toward a patch of concrete free of glass. Glanced up to his left. He could see the smear of blood Kane had left behind when he climbed over the ledge. He would have landed right where Mason stood, scattering the shards when he rose from the ground. But which way had he gone?

  No sound from either direction.

  Kane was a professional. His survival instincts were honed to a razor’s edge. He’d managed to remain invisible for a whole year. He not only knew what he was doing, he’d been trained to anticipate what his pursuer would do. And he knew this tunnel. Either he’d taken up a defensible position or he was already in the process of enacting his exit strategy.

  Mason couldn’t let that happen, or he’d never find his former partner again.