“It doesn’t have to be an all-or-nothing proposition,” Layne said. She was only beginning to grasp the enormity of the Thirteen, but she’d already contributed to the organizational charts hanging on the walls surrounding them. She’d mapped the tentacles of influence radiating from the Langbroek family to dozens of foreign governments and international corporations, one of whose most powerful officers was likely plotting a way to take Slate’s place in the hierarchy at that very moment. “Surely there’s a way to hedge our bets and work from both inside and outside the system at the same time.”
“Trust me,” Mason said. “That’s a hard tightrope to walk.”
Archer’s offer held a certain appeal to him, though. He was tired of trying to rationalize his actions in relation to the law and wished he could go back to a time when the bad guys wore black. The Thirteen had become so inextricably woven into the fabric of society that it was impossible to tell his friends from his enemies.
“There are still things I do not understand,” Alejandra said.
“Join the club,” Layne said. She stood before a section of the wall devoted to Slate Langbroek and the network he’d built, one created with the intention of murdering countless innocents and starting a war that would have killed even more. “These guys are like hair stuck in a drain; no matter how much you pull out, even more just keeps on coming.”
“Remind me not to shower at your house,” Ramses said.
Beneath Langbroek’s photograph was a picture of Rand Marchment, who was still recovering from surgery and a stroke caused by the sudden and acute loss of blood, and one of the Scarecrow, Kameko Nakamura, whose autopsy demonstrated countless lesions in the parts of her brain traditionally associated with aggression, personal identity, and moral judgment: the ability to distinguish right from wrong. Layne had yet to formally slot the pictures of the other men responsible for the atrocities committed at Edgewood, including Charles Raymond and Andreas Mikkelson, who might not have been active participants in the plot to release the Novichok but who had played a pivotal role in its inception. There was also a picture of Dr. Tatsuo Yamaguchi, who’d served as the private physician to the Scarecrow and her brother. He was potentially the only living link between the Nakamuras and the Langbroeks, one that just might be able to connect them to the Thirteen, which meant they needed to find him first.
“I still can’t wrap my head around the idea that we’re dealing with an overarching plot spanning four generations,” Layne said. “How can anyone dedicate his life to implementing a plan that he’ll never see come to fruition?”
“That’s what makes these guys so dangerous,” Mason said. “We’re only now stumbling upon plots hatched in the early twentieth century. I don’t even want to imagine how many more we haven’t exposed yet.”
“I don’t understand why Langbroek would need to paralyze the oil industry, reclaim the wells stolen from his family a century ago, and drive up the cost of crude when his own green building management system is poised to take over the renewable energy market. It’s a risk he didn’t have to take.”
“You have to understand that the oil field in Baku isn’t the only one at stake,” Gunnar said. “Think of what happened in Iraq following the Gulf War. We not only usurped their drilling operations; we privatized them. Nautilus itself assumed control of nearly fifty percent of them. Langbroek could have literally monopolized the industry by slaughtering his competition.”
“And blaming it on the Russians,” Ramses said. “Between the use of a Soviet chemical weapon, the federation’s insignia on the drones, and the fact that the catastrophe would serve the country’s financial interests as the third-leading oil producer in the world, it wouldn’t have been a hard sell in the media, which already has us primed to hate all things Russian.”
“What better revenge could Langbroek hope for than the start of a war that would likely destroy the entire former Soviet Union?” Gunnar said.
Alejandra slowly paced the room, surveying the pictures on the walls like they were pieces of a puzzle. Her expression was one of confusion, as though no matter how she turned them, she simply couldn’t make them fit together.
“Even if Nautilus took over all of the oil wells in the Middle East, it would not have been able to resume operations until the chemicals were cleaned up,” she said. “It would have sacrificed its income, as well as the men responsible for its shipping and drilling operations.”
“Thanks to the medication from Aebischer, they would have been able to start right back up the very next day,” Ramses said. “Or at least once they’d cleared out the bodies.”
“A medication they wouldn’t have been able to manufacture had it not been for the experiments at Edgewood,” Mason said.
“You’re all missing the big picture,” Gunnar said. “The petroleum fields in that area are also rich in natural gas, which is considered a ‘clean’ energy and is easily converted into liquid form for rapid transport. Between oil, LNG, and renewables, Nautilus would have controlled nearly all of the world’s energy, giving Langbroek the ability to fix prices and destroy his competition, a single corporate entity capable of siphoning the wealth from the Middle East. He’d be a modern-day tycoon like Thomas Elliot Richter, making him the richest man on the planet and allowing him to stage a coup within the ranks of the Thirteen. And should the global economy ever transition from the International Dollar Standard to a commodity-backed currency, one using energy like we once used gold, he would literally become the most powerful person in the history of mankind.”
“That’s a hell of a long game,” Layne said.
“The culmination of which was decided by a chance meeting of the principal players at a convention for, of all things, the Society for Lasting International Peace.”
Mason stood beside Layne and stared at the faces tacked to the walls. The ties binding them were so convoluted, he wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to unravel them all.
“There’s still one detail that doesn’t fit, though,” she said. “I understand the Scarecrow’s personal agenda and, truth be told, don’t really care. Those men got what they deserved. But why rig the Novichok in the subway? Why release it in Times Square? Neither makes sense in the context of Langbroek’s plan. In fact, both work against it in some way.”
“Not least of which being the risk of the lone surviving Langbroek heir being killed along with millions of New Yorkers,” Gunnar said.
“Releasing the Novichok in Times Square guaranteed we’d track the remaining stockpiles to the ends of the Earth if we had to,” Mason said.
“And deploying the Third Infantry on American soil only complicates domestic operations for an international company,” Ramses said. “Martial law can’t possibly be good for business.”
“So if Langbroek didn’t pay the Scarecrow to orchestrate the attack on the subway and the massacre in Times Square, who did?”
Gunnar abruptly stopped spinning and set his laptop on the table.
“I’m detecting an attempted cyber intrusion,” Gunnar said. “Someone’s trying to hack into our system.”
Mason leaned over his shoulder just in time to see a dialogue box open on the screen. The message consisted of four words.
GET OUT OF THERE.
“Is that Anomaly?” Mason asked.
“I can’t imagine who else it could be. You don’t think—”
The message vanished and another appeared.
NOW!
Mason realized with sudden clarity that not only did Anomaly know who and where they were, something terrible was about to happen.
“Go!” he shouted.
He dragged Gunnar out of the chair and shoved him into the hallway. Sprinted down the corridor toward the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of red and green flashing lights through the window, heard a sound like mechanical thunder in the distance. Ushered the others past him and down the staircase to the lower level of the suite. Ramses led them to the elevator and hit the call button.
The f
loor thrummed beneath their feet.
A spotlight burst through the wall of windows on the western side of the building and swept across the booths and reptile cages on the forty-first floor.
It was a helicopter. Coming in too way fast. There was no way it would be able to pull up in time.
A chime announced the elevator’s arrival. Ramses practically pried the doors open.
“Get in,” he said. “Hurry!”
The light struck them from behind, casting their shadows ahead of them onto the back wall of the car. Alejandra was already pushing the button for the lobby when Mason ducked inside. He turned around and watched the flashing lights grow larger and brighter as they neared the building. The spotlight pinned him through the closing doors, like an ant under a magnifying glass. The thupp-thupp-thupp of the rotors metamorphosed from a sound into a physical sensation he felt in his chest.
And then it was gone, sealed off by the reinforced elevator as it commenced its descent. Red numbers counted down the floors. Far too slowly.
40. 39. 38.
“Hold on to the rail,” Mason said.
37. 36. 35.
The elevator shook with the impact above them, dropped several stories. Stopped hard, driving Mason to his knees. Superheated air raced down the shaft and washed over them.
“What the hell was that?” Layne asked. “Did that chopper just fly right into the—?”
The lights died, the readout went black, and the car plummeted straight down.
Mason clung to the rail with both hands as his feet left the floor. He rose weightlessly toward the ceiling. Collided with someone in the darkness. Air screamed past as they accelerated toward the unforgiving earth.
The brakes engaged with a metallic scream that trailed them on a slipstream of sparks. The elevator came to a sudden stop and they collapsed to the floor. The buttons on the panel flickered before the emergency light kicked on, bathing them in its red glare.
“Is everyone all right?” Mason asked.
“No time for that,” Ramses said. “We need to get out before the whole building comes down.”
He turned his back on them and jimmied the doors, admitting the wail of an alarm. The elevator was trapped between levels, leaving just enough room for them to crawl out onto the floor above them. Sprinklers sprayed from the ceiling in response to the burning debris raining down the shaft. The stairwell was across the hallway, its door clearly marked with the number 4.
Their footsteps echoed from the concrete walls as they rounded flight after flight until they reached the bottom and shouldered through the door into the lobby, where the security guards helped evacuate the few employees who’d still been in their offices this late at night.
They exited through the revolving door onto a sidewalk riddled with shattered glass, chunks of concrete, and metallic shrapnel. A haze of dust and smoke filled the street. A single warped rotor blade stood from the asphalt near the remains of the helicopter’s tail assembly. Cars had pulled to the curb and crowds were beginning to gather.
Mason shielded his eyes, leaned back, and stared straight up the face of the building, toward where the upper floors were engulfed in flames, billowing thick black smoke into the night sky. He pulled Gunnar closer so his old friend would be able to hear him over the sirens converging from seemingly everywhere at once.
“How did Anomaly know…?” he started to ask, but the answer hit him before he even finished asking the question. The anonymous hacker had alerted them to the elevation of FEMA’s activation levels, guided them to the revelation of Marchment’s involvement at Edgewood, and confirmed the Novichok was in New York City, when even Slate Langbroek, the man ostensibly in charge of the plot to release it, hadn’t known. “He’s not inside the national security apparatus; he’s inside the Thirteen.”
“Then why did he save us?” Gunnar asked.
“Because he’s using us as pawns in the Thirteen’s civil war.”
Ramses stood several feet away, his expression unreadable in the flickering glow of the flames, his jaw muscles flexing and unflexing.
“I don’t give a shit about their civil war,” he said. “And I don’t take kindly to being used.”
“We’ll find them,” Gunnar said.
“And when we do,” Mason said, “we’ll burn every last one of them to the ground.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As an author, I’d like to think that I have a decent grasp of the language, but I struggle to find the words to properly express my gratitude to all of the generous and dedicated individuals who’ve contributed to this book, not to mention how fortunate I am to have them in my life.
My undying appreciation to my team at St. Martin’s Press/Macmillan: Pete Wolverton, my friend and ingenious editor, with whom working these past few years has been the highlight of my professional career; Hannah O’Grady and Lily Cronig, who keep the wheels turning behind the scenes; Carol Edwards, copy editor extraordinaire (and then some); Michelle Cashman and Sarah Bonamino, marketing and PR wizards; Ken Silver, who’s responsible for the beautiful product you hold in your hands; and Young Jin Lim, who perfectly captured my vision.
To my amazing support system at Trident Media Group: Alex Slater, who’s so much more than just my agent (I’d be lost without you, my friend); Nicole Robson, who’s given so selflessly of her time and expertise; Caitlin O’Beirne, queen of graphic design; and Robert Gottlieb, the man behind the curtain.
To my home team: my wife, Danielle (who needs sleep?), and my brood, who make life worth living; my mom, for her unwavering support; my dad, whom I miss every day; Jane Gauthier; and the Bannigans.
Special thanks to: the Bedard family; David Bell; Richard Chizmar; Colorado Humanities & Center for the Book; Liza Fleissig; Mark Greaney; Michael Patrick Hicks; Gus Isuani; Michael Koryta; Jennie Levesque; Jonathan Maberry; Jim Marrs; Tom Monteleone; Andi Rawson; James Rollins; Michael Marshall Smith; Jeff Strand; Team TPMI; The Tattered Cover; Thomas Tessier; Paul Wilson; Kimmy Yerina; and to everyone else who’s contributed to my success on a personal level: You know who you are and how much you mean to me.
My most sincere admiration and respect to all booksellers and librarians, who keep the torch of literacy burning.
And, most important, to all of you, my readers, without whom this book wouldn’t exist.
ALSO BY MICHAEL LAURENCE
The Extinction Agenda
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHAEL LAURENCE was born in Colorado Springs, Colorado, to an engineer and a teacher who kindled his passions for science and history. He studied biology and creative writing at the University of Colorado and holds multiple advanced certifications in medical imaging. Before becoming a full-time author, he worked as an X-ray / CT / MRI technologist and clinical instructor. He lives in suburban Denver with his wife, four children, and a couple of crazy Labrador retrievers. The Extinction Agenda was his debut novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part I
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part II
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part III
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
Part IV
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
Part V
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
Part VI
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Part VII
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Michael Laurence
About the Author
Copyright
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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