“Who is this person?”
“That’s what everyone wants to know.”
Elan filled me in on everything he knew about the mysterious person—including the belief that Faro Zapata might work for this guy.
“You mean your brother-in-law isn’t the head honcho?”
“Word is that Señor Zapata is one of his most trusted men.”
“Does Zapata know what this monster man looks like?”
Elan shrugged.
“Well, if he reports to El Monstruo, then it doesn’t make sense for him to order his boss to do a hit. Is it possible that whoever did this signed the name to send a message that it was coming from him?”
Elan shrugged again.
To make matters more complicated, Gómez had sent word that the large compound Elan fingered as the base of their operations in Mitú had been destroyed. Ten bodies were found inside, burned beyond recognition. The families of the workers had also gone missing.
“I’m telling you; he wants me dead,” Elan repeated. “I’m a liability. I know what he’s up to, and I know the recipe to the drug. He’s killing everyone who could know something.”
He was right. He was in danger, and I questioned my ability to keep him alive in a country where I had none of the resources to which I had grown accustomed. Cabrera did everything he could to utilize the Colombian forces the DEA works with. But the agreement to work together between Colombia and the U.S. was strictly for the drug trade. This was a murder in which the United States had no direct involvement. It was the responsibility of the local police force to investigate. However, Cabrera was able to arrange for a security detail at the hotel and for armed transportation to the airport when we were ready. Other than that, we were on our own.
It didn’t help that I had Reilly breathing down my neck to get on the next plane. I knew he worried about losing his own agent in the mess. With what I had already told him about Faro Zapata moving his operations to San Francisco, Reilly was anxious to see us on US soil immediately.
Chapter 49
A single man occupied each of the observation rooms inside the warehouse. A total of fifteen had been picked up in the Tenderloin neighborhood the night before. They were the perfect specimens: street people no one would miss. Zapata wanted to start the new round of testing immediately. If he could turn these men into a viable force, it would be easy to imagine what effects MZ-1 would have on a gang of strong, healthy men. But first, it was necessary to see how far he could push men who were less than desirable.
By the time Zapata arrived at the facility the following morning, the men had been under the influence of MZ-1 for two hours. So far, most of that time had been spent destroying the furniture in their rooms. There was a period of ingestion where test subjects had to acclimate to the effects of the drug. Their bodies were undergoing extreme changes. Dr. Espinoza knew from reading the Ortegas’ notes that, with each dosage, these violent outbursts lessened. Most of the men had already calmed and resorted to pacing their rooms.
Zapata walked by every observation window, watching the men to see how they reacted to his presence. Some ignored him; others lunged at the window with the force of a rhino.
“Where is Malcolm?” Zapata asked when he reached the last room.
“Follow me,” Espinoza said. “Malcolm is kept in a private room, away from the men.”
“Is there something wrong with him?”
Espinoza looked back at Zapata. “He’s fine, but he demanded a room separate from the others.”
“Why?”
“He said he’s above those men, that they’re nothing but a bunch of animals, more brawn than brain.”
“Is that so?” Zapata scratched his chin. This is getting interesting.
In the far corner of the building, an office had been converted into living quarters for Malcolm. Through the observation window, Zapata could see Malcolm sitting on his bed with his back up against the wall, busy reading a book. “What’s wrong with him? Have you given him the drug yet?”
“Yes,” Espinoza said. “He got his last dose at the same time as the others.”
Zapata stood by the window and watched Malcolm. He had never been this passive while under the influence.
“This room, it isn’t reinforced like the others. He could break out of here in a heartbeat.”
“He said he wouldn’t and that we should trust him. So far, he’s held up his end of the bargain.”
Zapata pressed the intercom button. “Malcolm?”
Malcolm lowered his book enough to reveal his eyes staring back. “What do you want?”
“I have an assignment for you.”
Faster than anyone could have ever imagined, Malcolm moved off the bed and made his way to the window. “Why should I help you?”
Zapata didn’t look away or show any sign of emotion. Malcolm did not scare him. He, in fact, intrigued him. He believed there was something else that could motivate him besides MZ-1. Malcolm’s brain craved a challenge. Zapata could clearly see now that Malcolm wanted to be in control. He wanted power.
“I am putting you in charge of your own army of men. Prove to me you can train them to do more than destroy furniture.”
Malcolm smiled.
Chapter 50
The time was half past ten in the morning when the two white vans parked on Eddy Street between Mason and Taylor. The neighborhood was known as the Tenderloin, the fifty square blocks located in the flatlands on the southern slope of Knob Hill between Union Square and the Civic Center. It had been a red light district since its birth and over the years encompassed everything from brothels to speakeasies, even the city’s first gay neighborhood. Its resistance to gentrification only encouraged its reputation as a less-than-desirable part of town. Most of the surrounding buildings in the vicinity were old—cheap firetraps rented out to newly arrived immigrants or used as by-the-hour hotels.
That morning, it was business as usual. A few street people were out and about, but most of the tenants were still holed up in their roach hotels. It wasn’t until the early afternoon that the neighborhood came alive with a bevy of drug dealers and prostitutes who conducted their business late into the night. About a block and a half south on Eddy, the street dead-ended at Hallidie Plaza, where a Bank of America was located.
Zapata sat in the passenger seat of the first van and surveyed the area. The conditions were perfect. Low traffic and a layer of fog kept it quiet and dark. He turned around and caught Malcolm’s eye. “Are you ready?”
Malcolm nodded and opened the side door, allowing the smell of sour urine to flood the vehicle. He and his men exited. “Wait here,” Malcolm commanded before walking back to the second van and ordering the rest of his crew out.
Back at the facility that morning, Malcolm had been tasked with briefing the men on their assignment. It didn’t take long for him to earn the respect of the others. As soon as they were all put in one large holding room, he immediately killed the largest man. Like a new challenger to a lion pride, he was the alpha male. The others would follow his orders.
His group of fourteen followed him, ignoring a group of street kids shaking cups for change and the early-to-rise dealer offering his wares. They moved down the sidewalk mostly unnoticed, moving around cars and dodging shopping carts. The pack crossed an intersection without any consideration for oncoming traffic, nearly getting hit. Within seconds, they reached Hallidie Plaza. Once Malcolm spotted the bank, he headed straight for the front door with his fearless followers right on his tail.
The security guard inside the bank had turned to the door in time to see what looked like a pack of madmen descending upon the building. Before he could radio for help, Malcolm hit the front door and sent it flying open. He locked eyes with the frozen guard, who still held the radio in his hand, and Malcolm headed right for him, leading with his right fist. Malcolm connected with the right side of the guard’s face, hitting him multiple times before sending the unconscious man to the ground hard. Malcolm h
ad crushed his cheekbone and shattered his eye socket.
Malcolm ordered his men to fill their bags with money from the teller drawers while he went in search of the bank vault. He found it was already open, and a man in a suit had just exited, unaware of what was taking place in the bank lobby. Malcolm tackled him and proceeded to ground and pound. A flurry of flying fists crushing the man’s face beyond recognition.
Malcolm moved on to the vault. He whistled, and within seconds the rest of the men had entered behind him and filled the bags. There appeared to be no concern for security control. All of the bank customers and employees had exited the bank, screaming. Alarms had been tripped, and multiple cell phones had dialed 911. After a few seconds, Malcolm cut his men off and ordered them to retreat.
While exiting the bank, Malcolm did a headcount and realized one of his men had gone missing. He headed back inside and found the man behind the teller desk. The body he was straddling had become his personal punching bag. Each hit produced a splatter of red like a kid puddle jumping. Blow after blow, all the same speed and force. So methodical. So mechanical.
Malcolm pulled his man off the body and spun him around. His pupils were fully dilated and jiggered back and forth. Thick saliva bubbled from the corners of his mouth. He may have been looking straight at Malcolm, but his eyes were empty. Within seconds, he lay on the floor, his neck twisted around the wrong way. He was the anomaly, a bad seed, and Malcolm had dealt with him accordingly. The two white vans had moved to the corner of the plaza, and his men were already filing inside. Sirens wailed in the background as Malcolm ran to the van with a smirk on his face.
Chapter 51
Shortly after landing in San Francisco, I received a call from Reilly that had Cabrera, Elan, and I rushing to the Philip Burton Federal Building.
“Kane, I need you over here ASAP! A bunch of crazed men robbed a bank this morning like I’d never seen before. If it wasn’t for the bank footage, you wouldn’t believe me. I haven’t time for details. Just get here, now.” He hung up before I could spit out a question. But it didn’t take much for us to assume what had happened.
“Did he say anything else?” Cabrera asked as we piled into my car.
“No, but I’ve kept him fully briefed on what’s transpired so far.”
“So he knows everything?”
“Yup.”
“Does he believe it?”
“From the sound of his voice, I would say yes.”
I looked at Elan in the rearview mirror. He sat quietly in the backseat, staring out the window. “Elan, do you have any idea what Zapata had planned for when he got here?” His eyes connected with me in the mirror.
“Either use MZ-1 or try to sell the recipe, I imagine.”
“Sell it?” Cabrera inquired. “Why? From what you said, he could do a lot with it.”
“He still can, but why not sell it and make money? The best of both worlds.”
“Maybe he’s here to showcase the drug,” I said.
“Perhaps.”
Elan went back to watching the passing scenery, and so did Cabrera. The rest of the ride into the city remained quiet. Apparently, I was the only one who wanted to discuss the case.
Thirty minutes later, we passed through a security check in the Federal Building’s lobby and rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor. When we exited, I didn’t notice anything unusual about the mood of the office. It was quiet except for the usual, controlled murmur you’d find in any office.
Reilly was seated at his desk, frowning at his computer, when we entered. “Abby, I’m glad you’re back,” he said, looking up over his reading glasses.
Cabrera immediately stuck out his hand. “I’m Special Agent Dominic Cabrera with the DEA. Thank you for your assistance.”
Reilly rose to shake his hand. “Sorry to hear about your partner.”
Cabrera nodded.
I motioned toward Elan. “This is Elan Ortega, one of the scientists I told you about.”
Reilly was tall, over six feet. Next to him and Cabrera, Elan and I looked like two children who’d tagged along on Bring Your Kids to Work Day.
Reilly shook his hand. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Ortega. The FBI appreciates your cooperation. Please have a seat. I understand you recently lost your wife and brother.”
“I did.”
“Abby is one of our best. I hope we can help bring their killers to justice.” He returned to his desk chair. “Rather than tell you about this morning’s robbery, I’m going to show you,” he said as he turned his laptop around.
We watched the footage from the CCTV cameras inside the bank without saying a word. When it finished, Reilly hit play once more. When the gang of men entered the bank, I asked him to pause it.
“Elan, are those men under the influence of this drug?”
“It appears they have been given a dose of MZ-1. Fast forward it a bit… There, stop it.”
Reilly stopped the video on the scene where the guard is attacked. “You see that—the way he’s pummeling the guard. That is consistent with the actions of all our previous test subjects.”
“They don’t use weapons?” Cabrera asked.
Elan turned to him. “These men are weapons.”
Reilly hit play again. We watched the gang of men swat customers out of the way like rag dolls. To get into the tellers’ area, two of them destroyed the door as if it were made of balsa wood. It literally looked like scenes from a sci-fi movie.
“How can a man physically destroy a door like that? It’s impossible.”
Elan turned to Reilly. “You know how you hear of people in dire consequences doing extraordinary things? Like the mother who single-handedly lifts a car off her child? Well, she is getting her strength from the same place they are,” he said pointing at the screen. “It’s adrenaline. Our drug turns it up even higher, so the superhuman strength lasts longer than a brief moment. It also increases the neuron activity in the brain tenfold, allowing that person’s brain to fire off reactions one thousand times faster than the average human.”
“If they’re so smart, why on earth do they allow themselves to be controlled?”
“The drug is highly addictive. They crave it, especially when they start to come down. Once a person establishes they are in control of it, he can control them. But mind you, this is only what I’ve learned from my earlier observations. Also, while a user does retain some strength and intelligence, for the most part, they return to their original state. In the case of these men, once they come down, they won’t be that threatening.”
Reilly took a closer look at the video. “There appears to be no life in their eyes.”
“It’s a side effect. Trust me; they are conscious.”
“And you believe every man attacking this bank has been given MZ-1?”
Elan nodded.
Just then, the man who attacked the guard walked up to a bank surveillance camera and smiled before turning away, as if he knew we would be viewing the footage later.
“Now I’m even more certain, because I know that smile,” he said. “That’s Malcolm. He killed my brother.”
<><><>
Back at the warehouse in south San Francisco, Zapata and his men celebrated with champagne as video footage from the bank heist played on a large monitor. A few of the men, including Malcolm, had been outfitted with tiny cameras, so Zapata and the others could watch the mission as it happened from the safety of the vans. Now they had it playing on a loop for their entertainment.
This was important, because Zapata had a special guest who had tagged along: the leader of a small gang. His name was Juan Vega though on the streets he was called Don Vega. He oversaw Southern Pride, a Colombian gang associated with the Cali cartel, a large drug organization based in the southern Colombian city of Cali. The Rodríguez-Orejuela brothers had originally founded the cartel, but new leadership had taken over in recent months. “Difficult” was how Vega described their ways, but he had no choice but to continue to do business with the
m because that’s where he got his cocaine.
Vega had been interested in distancing himself and eventually separating from the cartel—especially after a recent falling out had strained their relationship. There was one problem though: he still needed product. Zapata offered the perfect business arrangement; Vega and his gang would get access to MZ-1 to create their own army so they could increase their territory and defend it so long as the gang bought cocaine from Zapata and no one else.
Zapata walked over to the stumpy gang leader dressed in baggy shorts and a button down and refilled his glass with champagne. “What do you think?”
“I’m impressed,” Vega responded with smiles.
Tattoos crawled out from under his shirt collar and up his neck—unavoidable to Zapata’s eyes. He had never understood the fascination with ink. It brought unnecessary attention. “Then it’s settled—”
“I want to try one more thing,” the gang leader continued. “I want to see how they handle a situation that is realistic to my needs.”
The smile on Zapata’s face disappeared. So did the one on Vega’s.
While intrigued by the possibilities of using the drug to create a disposable army, Vega wasn’t about to go into business with Zapata unless he felt he truly had the manpower to fight off any retaliation from the Cali cartel. The laughter that surrounded the two men had already calmed itself to a few lingering chuckles. Quiet exploded across the room as the others watched the developing showdown.
Zapata tilted the champagne flute back while keeping his eyes trained on the brave and confident Vega. With each swallow, he drained bubbly liquid from the glass until the last swallow emptied into his mouth, where he swished it around once before finishing if off with a loud pop from his lips. “All right. We will do another test. But from now on, you will distribute my cocaine.”
Chapter 52
The FBI had confiscated all of the bank footage to prevent it from slipping into the hands of the media. A video showing a gang of men with superhuman strength robbing and killing wasn’t something that needed to be broadcast. We hoped that anyone who decided to talk would come across as a hysterical witness exaggerating the facts.
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