The Annihilation Protocol

by Laurence, Michael

  “What could I possibly do for you?” Ramses opened his mouth to reply, but Mason cut him off. “Don’t answer that.”

  Ramses grabbed the doorknob and turned around.

  “I’ll call once I’ve made the arrangements. See what you can do about finding something a little nicer to wear. This guy’s on the classier end of the scale.”

  He opened the door and nearly ran into Layne, who cradled two paper cups of coffee and a bag of what smelled like burgers to her chest. She’d just raised her fist to knock and held it awkwardly in the air as Ramses slipped past her. She followed him down the hallway with her eyes. When they returned to Mason, they were filled with fire.

  “Who the hell is that?” she asked.

  “Male prostitute,” Ramses said as he stepped into the elevator. “Might want to take it easy on your boy here. He’s going to be walking kind of funny for a while.”

  She raised her eyebrows but kept her gaze locked on Mason.

  “He’s not really a prostitute.”

  “I kind of figured as much.” She transferred one of the cups to her free hand. “Are you going to invite me in, or is there something you need to tell me?”

  Layne’s eyes darted over his right shoulder, then back to his face. He could feel Gunnar standing behind him. She pursed her lips and pushed them outward with her tongue.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You should probably come in.”

  Mason stepped aside and Layne entered slowly. Her stare settled first upon the table, where Gunnar’s laptop displayed the picture of the military men standing in front of the unknown installation, and then upon Gunnar, who offered an uncomfortable half smile.

  “What the hell is going on here?” she asked.

  “Is that for me?” Mason asked. He removed the cup from her hand, took a sip, and set it on the edge of the table. “Just what I needed.”

  She looked at her empty hand, then at Gunnar, before once more staring daggers at Mason.

  “Layne, this is Gunnar Backstrom,” Mason said. “Gunnar, Special Agent Jessica Layne.”

  Gunnar rose, shook her hand, and resumed his work without a word. He knew better than to risk striking a match near a powder keg.

  “And the other one?”

  “Ramses Donovan.”

  “The same Ramses Donovan who owns half of the marijuana dispensaries in Denver? In defiance of federal law, I might add.”

  “Is it too late to go back to him being a prostitute?”

  “So let me get this straight.” She set down the bag and remaining cup and got right in his face. “During the six hours I managed to sleep in the last two days, you brought two unauthorized civilians into an active investigation we’re no longer working and shared classified information with them.”

  “They’re old friends—”

  “I don’t care who they are. This falls on you.”

  “Look, Layne—”

  “No, you look, Mason.” Her eyes narrowed and her shoulders heaved. “I’m tired of you treating me like I’m stupid. Why don’t you try telling me the truth for once? And I mean it, you try to feed me a load of crap and—God help me—I’ll throw you out that goddamn window.”

  He studied her face and body language for any indication of deception. Her expression was one of genuine anger and betrayal. Her hand had found its way under her jacket, while his pistol was holstered on the nightstand. If she was compromised, like his past two partners, her only option was to kill both Gunnar and him.

  Right here and now.

  But if she didn’t …

  “There are elements of this investigation you aren’t ready to understand,” he said.

  “Try me.”

  “You know about my partners before you, don’t you?”

  She waited several seconds before offering a subtle nod.

  “What if I told you they’d been co-opted by forces outside of the Bureau?”

  “I know about Special Agent Kane, but are you suggesting Special Agent Trapp didn’t die in a car accident?”

  Mason waited her out. This was a delicate matter. Convincing her of a cover-up at the highest levels was one thing; confessing to killing his last partner was another.

  “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I believe you,” she said. “That would mean hostile actors have not only infiltrated the FBI but compromised it.”

  “There are only a few of us who are aware of this, and we can only speculate as to the full extent to which we’ve been compromised.”

  “Does Chris know?”

  “Most of it.”

  “So you’re withholding evidence from your special agent in charge?”

  “I’m not withholding anything. I can only tell him what I know, and unfortunately, that’s not a whole lot.”

  “Do these guys know?”

  Mason hesitated before answering.

  “Yes.”

  “So two people with no law-enforcement affiliation—one of whom has a questionable relationship with organized crime—are privy to confidential details of an ongoing investigation that you haven’t even shared with your direct supervisor. Or even your partner.”

  “It does sound bad when she says it like that,” Gunnar said.

  “You’re not helping,” Mason said.

  “You want to know how this looks from where I’m standing?” She stepped closer and jabbed her finger into his chest with each point she made. “You claim your last two partners were dirty, but both of them are conveniently out of the picture. We found evidence of the attempted weaponization of the flu virus at the end of a tunnel originating in a building on property formerly belonging to your in-laws, yet none of them survived long enough to be questioned about their involvement. The IRS agent who stumbled upon the money trail that led to the discovery of the flu plot—one that also leads to the apartment the Scarecrow used to hunt the victim he staked in Central Park—is also unable to confirm your story—”

  “Don’t bring my wife into this.”

  “—because she’s dead. They’re all dead, Mason. Do you know the one thing they all had in common? You. And what did you gain from their deaths? Your partner couldn’t attend the hearing that could have stripped you of your badge, your father now owns the multinational company tied to the development of the virus, and you inherited millions of dollars from your wife’s estate. How much do you personally stand to make from all of this, huh?”

  “You need to be careful here, Layne.”

  “Or what?” She stepped back, drew her weapon, and aimed it at his chest. “I’ll die in a ‘car accident,’ too? You think the FBI’s just going to keep sending you new partners? Don’t you figure they already have to be taking a good long look at you?”

  “Let them look. I have nothing to hide.”

  “You were there when we discovered the victims behind the false wall. You were there when we found the bodies in the cornfield. You were the one who entered the farmhouse through the silo when the front door was booby-trapped. You were there when the men who covered up the fire tried to kill us. You were the one who so conveniently discovered the apartment where the Scarecrow rigged the bomb that wiped out half of our team. You were the one who threw us over the edge of the roof and onto a balcony that just happened to be there.”

  “You should be really clear about what you’re accusing me of doing.”

  “Either you’re the luckiest man alive or maybe it wasn’t your partners who were the dirty ones.”

  “Lucky?” Mason stepped forward until he felt the barrel of her gun against his sternum. “I’ve lost just about everyone and everything important to me. Kane and Trapp were more than my partners; they were my friends. And while I never had the greatest relationship with my in-laws, I didn’t want them dead. At least not until the very end. And Angie…” He realized he was shouting and took a moment to compose himself. “My wife was my world. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to bring her back. I don’t care about the money. The only thing that matters is making sure th
e people responsible for her death are held accountable.”

  Layne’s stare never wavered. She had to know he could easily disarm her at close range, which meant she had to be willing to pull the trigger if she sensed him so much as thinking about it. The fact that she hadn’t done so yet meant that she was at least willing to hear him out.

  “Then tell me,” she said. “Tell me who’s responsible for all of this. Who compromised your last two partners? Who conspired with your in-laws to create a flu pandemic? Who’s to blame for everything that’s happening now?”

  Mason didn’t respond.

  “That’s what I thought.” Her eyes hardened. “What’s to stop me from taking both of you in right now?”

  “You want to find the Scarecrow and stop him from murdering millions of innocent people.”

  “Just because we’re no longer part of the investigation doesn’t mean no one’s trying to catch him.”

  “You’re smart, Layne. You’ve seen what’s going on out there. Homeland’s been obstructing the investigation from the very beginning and now they’re the ones in charge. That’s been their goal from the start.”

  “Then tell me why. Convince me.”

  “They sidelined Locker once he identified the bodies from behind the wall, they stepped in to prevent the ME from releasing the COD and IDs of the dead men in the cornfield, and now they cut us out after learning the identity of the man in Central Park. Think about the profile. The victims form a pattern, one that poses a threat to very important people involved in this investigation. The people for whom the message in the field was intended. The people who’ve been manipulating the strike force from its inception. The people who know exactly who the Scarecrow is. They need us out of the way so they can hunt him, but for reasons other than the fact that he possesses enough Novichok to wipe out every major city on the face of the Earth.”

  “It’s personal for them, too,” she said.

  “Who was most threatened by our strike force? Who interceded every single time we started getting too close?”

  “Homeland.”

  “And who do you think gave those orders?”

  “Marchment,” she whispered.

  Layne lowered her weapon and allowed it to hang at her side.

  “I don’t know what his relationship to the Scarecrow is and I really don’t care,” Mason said. “They can have each other, as far as I’m concerned. I need to find the Novichok and make sure a lot of innocent people don’t die, and I’m not about to let Homeland get in my way.”

  “Then you’re going to need help.”

  Mason nodded.

  “You’re going to have to trust me, then,” she said. “I have to know everything you know.”

  “I should warn you, though, there’s an awful lot I don’t know.”

  “And I should warn you that if you’re lying to me about any of this, I’ll take you in myself.”

  “I’d expect nothing less,” Mason said, and proffered his hand.

  Layne appraised him for several seconds before shaking it.

  “Don’t think for a second that my hesitation to shoot you means I won’t do so if I have to.”

  “Perish the thought.”

  And if she turned out to be anything other than she claimed to be, he’d return the favor.

  43

  Ramses was waiting in the golden glow of the Fifty-eighth Street entrance to the Plaza Hotel when Mason pulled up behind the wheel of Gunnar’s rented Cadillac Escalade. He rolled down the tinted window and gestured for his old friend to climb into the seat behind him, which he did, but only after leaning halfway through the window to see why he’d been relegated to the rear. He opened the door and slid in beside Gunnar, whose laptop sat open on his thighs while he simultaneously searched for a match to the unknown government installation in the background of the picture of the men with their eyes scratched out, researched Rand Marchment, Ichiro Nakamura, and Charles Raymond, and imported the list of personnel Layne had received from the army.

  “They have the park sealed off behind portable barricades between Terrace Drive and the Seventy-ninth Street Transverse,” Ramses said. He closed the door behind him and elbowed Gunnar to make more room. “There’s no sign of the DHS, though. The whole operation is staffed by men wearing hard hats and reflective vests.”

  “Which agency?” Mason asked.

  “State Department of Environmental Protection.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Layne said.

  If Ramses was surprised she was there, he did a good job of hiding it, although not so well that Mason couldn’t see him in the rearview mirror, carefully studying her from the corner of his eye.

  “They didn’t think so, either. They were told the penthouse explosion might have damaged some of the underground power lines, but the guy I talked to figured they must have been talking about the old water lines, because he didn’t think any electrical cables had been run underneath the Ramble or so close to the lake.”

  “So what did he think?” Mason asked. He pulled away from the curb and entered the heavy evening traffic.

  “That he was making twenty-eight bucks an hour to stand there doing nothing.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  “He did say he heard that the explosion at the Mayfair was caused by a ruptured gas line, which apparently made some amount of sense to him. Something about these skyscrapers being built before the dawn of time.”

  “I guess that explains why the apartment complex isn’t still locked down.”

  “And why the traffic’s moving at all.”

  “They can’t afford panic,” Layne said. “If everyone tried to leave the island at once, it would be chaos.”

  “And Homeland’s movements would be restricted,” Mason said. “They’d never find the Scarecrow with eight million people all trying to get out of here at the same time.”

  “So they’re using the unsuspecting population of one of the most crowded cities on the entire planet as bait to try to draw him out?” Gunnar said. “That’s a big gamble.”

  “Why do you sound surprised?” Ramses said. “You think any of our lives are worth shit to these people?”

  “I would have thought at least their own were.”

  “Where am I going?” Mason asked.

  “Keep going straight,” Ramses said. “You’ll cross the Queensboro Bridge and turn right on Van Dam Street.”

  “I take it you were able to arrange a meeting?”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to here?”

  “Why do I feel as though there’s something you’re not telling me?”

  “Because there is.”

  “As long as we cleared that up,” Mason said. “Where are we going?”

  “Are you going to introduce me to your partner, or are we sticking with the whole male prostitute story?”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ramses said. “I’ll let you know when we get there.”

  Layne turned around in her seat and thrust out her hand.

  “Special Agent Jessica Layne, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  He smirked and shook her hand. If she’d been attempting to intimidate him, it obviously had the opposite effect on him.

  “Ramses Donovan, entrepreneur.” He released her hand and winked at Mason in the rearview mirror. “So I take it you’re confident this one’s not going to try to kill you?”

  “I’m leaving that option open,” Layne said.

  Mason’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He grabbed it and tossed it to Layne.

  “Six oh nine area code,” she said.

  “Where’s that?” he asked.

  “New Jersey,” Gunnar said without looking up from his laptop.

  “Put it on speaker.” The buzzing ceased and the car filled with the crackle of an open line. “Special Agent Mason.”

  “This is Officer Saul Barrie, calling from the NJSP impound lot here in Port Norris. Remember th
at thing you asked me to look into for you?”

  “You found out who gave the order to dispose of the flatbeds?”

  “I need your word that this won’t come back to bite me or my CO in the butt.”

  “You understand I can’t make any guarantees if this is actionable intel, but I’ll do everything in my power to make sure no one ever knows the source.”

  “I knew this was a mistake.”

  “You’re doing the right thing, Barrie. You realized from the start that something was wrong and trusted your gut when it told you to preserve the evidence. What’s it telling you now?”

  There was a long silence. Mason glanced at the screen from the corner of his eye to make sure the call hadn’t been disconnected.

  “Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t press the issue,” Mason said. “I totally get your loyalty to your department and your commanding officer. I do. But those trucks were hauling something far worse than drugs, Barrie. A lot of people could die.”

  Still, the other end remained quiet. When Barrie finally replied, it was in a tone of resignation.

  “Major Delvin Roybal. Commanding officer of the Special Operations Section.”

  “The New Jersey State Police have special ops?” Layne said.

  “Not in the sense you’re thinking. More like specialized operations.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The organization is divided into four branches: Administration, Investigations, Operations, and Homeland Security.”

  Mason glanced at Layne.

  “Let me guess, we’re dealing with Homeland Security.”

  “Right, but the branch is further broken down into sections: Emergency Management and Special Operations. So Major Roybal’s on the third tier of the pyramid, with the commanding officers of five bureaus directly underneath him: Aviation, Deployment Services, Marine Services, Technical Response, and my bureau, Transportation Safety.”

  While the mention of Homeland Security and special ops had initially piqued Mason’s curiosity, the entire branch sounded like a standard bureaucratic entity that dealt more with customs and commerce than the actual process of physically securing the homeland.

  “It doesn’t seem unreasonable to think that someone in charge of transportation safety would be in a position of determining how best to handle the disposal of abandoned commercial vehicles,” Mason said.