Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5)

  The cameras hummed now, video streaming into the datasphere, reporters in rapt attention. Ratings were being made.

  “I’ve been contacted by the so-called Eunuch Maker, the serial killer mutilating male victims by complete removal of their reproductive anatomy. The killer left the body of a convicted rapist in the hallway of my laboratory several days ago along with a typed list of demands.”

  She sighed and adjusted her glasses.

  “The killer has demanded that I end all work on male contraception, the cornerstone of my research career. In addition, I’m to destroy all samples related to this research. If I do not comply, the killer has threatened to murder me and the people in my group.” She paused. “However, because of Federal Law, I cannot destroy the research produced with taxpayer funds. I can’t personally challenge the government on this, and I hope that the killer understands. But I’ve removed all such material from my group and put it in the hands of the authorities, who themselves can negotiate with the killer. Therefore, from this day forward, I’ve shut down my research program into male contraception as demanded.” She removed her glasses, her eyes wet, and her voice hoarse. “I’ll take questions.”

  “Dr. Richards, Dr. Richards!” The swarm of voices hit her like artillery blasts.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, indicating a lanky man from CNN in a sweater-vest.

  “Did you speak with the Eunuch Maker? What else did he say?”

  She shook her head. “It was only the written note. It’s been turned over to the NYPD, part of their investigation. I’ve said what I can, what I’ve been cleared to say to protect the investigation.” More shouts from all directions. “Yes?”

  A man in a suit and tie waved his hand. “Dom McCanell from the Daily News. The new victim—was the body also mutilated?”

  “Yes,” said Richards. “So it appeared. But I did not inspect the body. Examination was by the NYPD. But it was like the other cases. Naked corpse. Removal of genitalia obvious. I assume the other elements like the prostate and such.”

  A woman in a striking red dress stood. “Laura Conley from Canid News. Who was the victim?”

  Richards turned to chief Ladner from NYPD who bent down toward the microphone. “We’ll reveal that in short order.”

  The woman in red persisted. “Then tell us: why you, Dr. Richards? Why your work?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but—”

  “Because of your male sterilization pill?” Silence dropped. “Are you one eunuch maker too many for him?”

  Richards smirked. “The conspiracy theories never die, I see. Especially at Canid. For those with some journalistic standards, my work is focused on a male contraceptive. Like the pill, but different. It doesn’t sterilize men. It doesn’t impair their sex life or their ability to father children once the treatment wears off.”

  “Then why has the killer tried to stop you?” asked Conley, her tone triumphant.

  “Serial killing castrators aren’t my specialty, Ms. Conley,” said Richards, drawing several nervous laughs. “But some here might remember that my work’s been controversial. The Left called it a rape drug. The Right, chemical castration. It’s neither chemical nor castration, and it’s a contraceptive, not some date rape drug. The Eunuch Maker has a thing about men who abuse women. Fits in well with the Leftist conspiracy theories. Maybe he thought it was all some evil plot to enslave women.” She shook her head. “I hope NYPD finds him and we find out.”

  “Dr. Richards, what will you do now?” A young woman from NYU press.

  “To be honest,” said Richards, “I don’t know. I start over. Pick some other projects unrelated to my main work. Try to build them up to something worthwhile. Or head in a new direction. I’ll have to figure that out.”

  She smiled and pushed her chair backward. “For now, I’m going home. Put on some jazz and open a bottle of wine. I’m going to say goodbye to this insanity. Leave the Eunuch Maker to the authorities and the Information-Entertainment Complex.”

  She rose and bowed toward the officials, turning back to the reporters.

  “Fuck this shit.”

  Dr. Linda Richards exited, stage left.

  43

  Blue-eyed Angel Man

  Why? Why didn’t I follow protocol?

  José Perez sat on the cracked tiles of his Bronx apartment bathroom. Another round of bloody vomiting. Another beating at the hands of this illness. Whatever ibuprofen he kept down failed to lower his temperature. In a matter of hours, perhaps minutes, he’d be delirious, unable to help himself as he sickened.

  Berating yourself is pointless.

  Why hadn’t he followed protocol? Such a simple answer.

  I needed that job.

  Dr. Sutherland was a jerk. A racist one, if mild. A problem, but one like many he’d learned to manage. The medical examiner had ridden him on everything he did, only hiring him because of the technician shortage. He made every hour on the job a minor hell.

  But it paid.

  Because with the Eunuch Maker case, they needed more hands to free the doctor from the mundane forensics. Because of the killer, staffing needs rose. But if he’d taken off work to heal, the coroner would have replaced him.

  One clumsy moment. It’s not fair.

  He’d slipped on the ice outside his housing project. They never salt our neighborhoods. The city didn’t care, not enough about the dingier boroughs. Not until they’d seen to the others, polished the broad avenues gilded with gold and towering glass.

  And I fell.

  His hip gleamed blue, bruised. But his hands opened the gateway. He’d tried to catch himself, peeled skin back like a knife to an apple. The razored ice breached the most protective layer available. No way he should have been in a forensics lab. Broken skin, patches of broken skin, collected microbes like a vortex. And clean cadavers were scarce.

  I should’ve called in sick. Taken medical leave.

  Such luxury. Medical leave belonged to another class. Doctors, medical students. The right kinds of nurses. Not those from the Bronx. Not those with families to support. Not those named Perez.

  He stared at his hands. The bruising spread, extending up his arm. Growing. It made no sense. The fall couldn’t be the cause. Something much worse burned inside him.

  Poison?

  Had one of the bodies been poisoned, the toxin slipping past his best efforts to remain sterile? Had those patches of raw epidermis brought in something dangerous?

  He knew the answer was yes. Whatever invaded his tissues, death approached. A forensic scientist, he recognized the signs of a serious immune reaction. Time slipped through his bruised fingers.

  Perez moaned, pushing himself up. His body shivered from the climbing fever. The room spun, his vision beginning to blur and casting a fog over everything. He pulled the door open and stepped out of the bathroom, leaving a bloody handprint on the knob.

  A loud thumping startled him.

  The door? Who could it be this late?

  The paramedics! Of course. Yes, he’d called them. An hour ago, perhaps.

  Dear God, I’m losing it.

  He’d called and told them he had acute poisoning. Given his address. Left the phone dangling as he had lurched to the bathroom to vomit again.

  He tried to speak, but the raw swelling shut his throat. His voice clawed out a whisper no one could hear.

  I’ve got to get closer.

  He staggered toward the door.

  “Hello?” came a male’s voice. “Mr. Perez, are you in?”

  The pounding stopped. A woman’s voice.

  “Sr. Pérez ¿Hay alguien en casa?”

  “¡Sí!” His yell was a breath of forced air.

  “Sr. Pérez!”

  He reached the door gasping and dropped to his knees. The room spun like a child’s ride at Coney Island. Somehow, his hand found the doorknob. Somehow, he held himself upright, fought the spinning gravity pulling downward. Somehow, he turned the knob.

  The ceiling is so filthy.
Must get ladder. Do something. Shameful. What would Mama think?

  “Mr. Perez! Can you hear me?”

  Who is this handsome gringo? Mama will be angry. No boys after hours. No gringos! It was a shame. A family shame. Boys! How would he give Mama a grandchild? That’s why he had to leave. It was better in America.

  “No lo conozco, Mama,” he gasped.

  “My God, look at his arms.” The woman’s voice again. Not Mama.

  The man spoke. “Subcutaneous hemorrhaging, but I’ve never seen anything like this.” Flashing lights. Strong blue irises floating above. But so blurry. “God, his eyes! They’re bleeding!”

  “What was the poison?” asked the woman. Still not Mama.

  The man pulled something along his arm. “I don’t know. There’s nothing in the call log. Nothing I’ve ever come across, that’s for sure. Not even in school. Let’s get him on the gurney!”

  They’re counting! Like English school. “One, two, three!” He flew! Up! And down. Moving, racing down a tunnel, the voices dancing overhead, out of sight, little ghostly voices bobbing and weaving. Lightbulbs and wood and heads poking out of doorways.

  Darkness. Then flashing lights. Red and blue and a wall of white and he flew into the mouth of the creature. A stab in his arm. Something hung over his head. Doors slamming.

  “Secure! Let’s go! His heartrate’s erratic!”

  A deep tug inside as they flew again.

  Mama, the angels came! The blue-eyed angel man lifted me into the air and so many lights and colors and the wind! So much wind. Mama, Mama, I’m flying. I’m scared. Something’s wrong.

  “Be calm, my child,” came his mother’s voice. “I am sorry. Sorry for so much.”

  “No, Mama. No lo lamentes.”

  “He’s trying to speak,” said the woman. “I can’t make it out.”

  “Sorry for my hard heart. So much you have carried. Soon, it is over. Soon, you will have peace, my sweet boy.”

  His mother’s voice soothed the fire inside. The trembling in his limbs slowed. Ceased. All fear flowed out of his body. He closed his eyes a final time.

  The ambulance strobed the dark evening as it sped down the highway.

  44

  Drug Lords Don’t Sequence DNA

  A black car pulled out from the main traffic approaching the Holland Tunnel. Uniformed officers diverted it through a line of construction zone pylons and under a net of opaque scaffolding that never left the rocky face on the New Jersey side. The officers glanced at the readout on a wrist device, ignoring what was behind the tinted windows of the car.

  Inside the vehicle Savas fidgeted. His suit chafed his neck. He was developing a rash across his chest. His eyes refused to focus anymore. Several years of constant existential threats were tearing him down.

  We can’t let Nemesis escape now.

  His driver electronically passed the required codes to the hidden security forces. A doorway concealed from outside eyes opened like some secret passage from a fantasy novel. The vehicle accelerated toward the artificially lit tunnel behind it.

  What is she plotting?

  The last leader of the powerful Bilderberg group was on the run. The most fanatical of the shadowed puppet-masters remained free. Increasingly cornered, she was more dangerous than ever.

  We’ll root her out just like the others.

  Savas didn’t fool himself that INTEL 1 owned the credit. Bilderberg’s demise began with Fawkes. The genius hacker threw down the facade, revealed the hidden forces pulling the strings across the world. INTEL 1 simply completed the kill.

  Except for Nemesis.

  Steady light replaced strobing ceiling fluorescents. The clandestine second tunnel under the Hudson vanished. He entered a large underground cavern, vehicles carpeting a space before a set of doorways in the granite underneath Manhattan.

  He hopped from the car the moment the driver stopped. Security confirmed his credentials, fingerprints, retinal scan, and DNA analysis. All pro forma. They knew him well, chief Morlock of President York’s literal underground agency. He passed the ID checks and was ushered through the blast-proof doorways.

  “Captain Overlord returns!” rang a woman’s voice to welcome him.

  Three figures approached him as he entered the heart of the INTEL 1 operation. Computer screens, windowed offices, corridors and high ceilings surrounded them. A buzzing background of agents, computers, and air compressors assaulted his senses. The female voice spiked as a strong signal in the background noise.

  “The country burned down yet?” asked Lightfoote.

  Savas stopped in front of her. Her green eyes burned as always, her tattooed and buff body bulging through tight fatigues. The light danced from several places off her shaved head.

  “Not yet, but God knows we’re trying.”

  He turned to Lopez’s broad form. “Gabriel.” He pivoted to the left of Lightfoote toward Houston. “Mary.” Code names for fugitives on the Most Wanted list who could never admit their true identities. Personally selected by the President to work in a secret, underground force hidden from all other branches of government.

  Lunacy.

  “Glad to see all of you alive,” he said.

  Lopez clapped a powerful hand on Savas’s shoulder.

  “Glad to have survived!” he boomed. “But we have to be smarter. Nemesis is playing for keeps. We wanted the mission in Tehran too much.”

  “We’ve just arrived, too,” said Houston. “They told us you were coming in. Heard Rebecca has some leads.”

  “Bank records,” said Savas. “She called me in, so it must be important.”

  “In from where?” asked Lightfoote. “You moonlighting?”

  He smiled. “The city’s totally worked up about this serial killer.”

  “The Eunuch Maker,” said Lopez.

  Lightfoote straightened, her entire body tense.

  “Yes,” said Savas. “The FBI’s been called in, which should be good enough. But our contacts are spooked. I was asked to consult, whether INTEL 1 might get involved.”

  “Bad idea,” snapped Lightfoote, her tone drawing glances from the others. “We need to focus on Nemesis.”

  Her eyes were wide and Savas tried not to stare. Is she frightened of the Eunuch Maker? He’d known Angel Lightfoote to express a broad spectrum of emotions. Laughter. Tears. Anger. Fear? When the closeness of imminent death made such fear rational, yes. At the mere mention of the disturbing or dangerous? Never.

  “York knows about this?” asked Houston, cocking her head to one side.

  “No, and if you morons behave, it will stay that way.”

  “She’s got a lot on her plate right now,” said Lopez.

  “I told them the truth,” Savas added. “This is not national security and we have a wildfire we’re putting out. I told them to handle it.”

  “The less we waste time on that case the better,” said Lightfoote, her voice strained.

  “Right.” Savas squinted at her. “The election’s turned into a storm. Politics is like nothing anyone has seen, gone full tribal, out of control. Oddsmakers at a loss. Pundits look like idiots.” He shook his head. “Once we removed the steadying hand of Bilderberg, all hell’s broken loose.”

  Lopez laughed, a twinkle in his eye. “Sounds like you miss them already.”

  Savas glowered. “Like hell I do. Live free or die. I hope it’s not coming to dying, but freedom’s sure gotten crazy.”

  “Let’s see what Rebecca’s found,” said Lightfoote, turning toward the broad hallway behind her. “If she yanked you back like this, must be juicy, and we’re wasting time.”

  She is afraid.

  He didn’t have time to analyze it. Lightfoote was right—they had to move. He also needed to see Cohen. Privately. He needed her help and they’d keep that from the others. Someone had called in a favor at NYPD, one he couldn’t refuse.

  “Juicy?” said Cohen, glancing up from her desk, her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “It’s something
.”

  They sat around a desk in Cohen’s office, a room she’d designed near the data centers of INTEL 1. All intelligence streamed by her, agents and analysts only steps away in adjoining spaces.

  This is my domain.

  Despite everything the group had been through, despite her real heroics, some ending at the barrel of her gun, she belonged here. Comfortable as an analyst, orchestrating the hunt for criminals.

  Give me data and time. Let Angel and Sara blow things up.

  “They just handed over private banking records?” asked Lopez, an eyebrow raised.

  “It wasn’t easy.” Her eyes darted to Savas. “John and I had to lean on the bank. But they knew something was up. The transaction history of the account didn’t fit any AI models. It couldn’t belong to any sort of normal person with a job, debts, rich or poor. It was an anomaly. Along with the hints of nefarious associations and our fake clearances with the Secret Service, they caved quickly.”

  “And so?” sighed Savas, rubbing his eyes.

  He’s so damn tired. This is killing him. Cohen felt a rush of sympathy.

  “So, the transactions are indeed bizarre. No wonder the pattern recognition algorithms were at zero confidence levels.” She tapped a smart screen on the wall behind her chair. A spreadsheet appeared, columns of data filled with numbers. “Discrete, massive cash influxes at irregular intervals. All of them untraceable, buried in nested phony shell companies and other accounts.”

  “Nemesis,” said Savas.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “And the cash out?”

  “Not the politically motivated expenditures from her other activity. Here it’s really odd.”

  Lightfoote squinted at the screen. “Medical supplies?”

  “Lot of them,” continued Cohen. “Hospital items, monitors, isolation chambers, pharmaceuticals, research equipment and reagents.”

  “Unsettling,” said Lopez.

  Cohen nodded. “We’re still trying to find out what some of the companies sell, get records from them tied to this account. If we can get the shipping information, we’ll have a real lead to the contacts, to whoever is working this.”