Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5)

by Erec Stebbins

  “But let’s see what the tissues say.”

  He began to cut.

  Part III

  GONE VIRAL

  “Among insect diseases, the androcidal disease of fruit flies are of special interest. The SR-spirochetes exerted a lethal effect on XY but not on XX individuals, regardless of whether they were phenotypically males, intersexes, or females.”

  —Harris and Maramorosch

  (Pathogens, Vectors, and Plant Diseases)

  and Miyamoto and Oishi,

  (Genetics. 1975 Jan;79(1):55-61.)

  48

  Old Friends

  Sacker watched the brunette lecture the 12th precinct with a detached amusement. It wasn’t the air of a graduate school seminar she projected, square glasses and long hair working overtime to cast a West Coast protest girl vibe over the formal FBI pantsuit she sported. It wasn’t the expressions of his fellow NYPD officers, mostly male, dancing between professional respect and unprofessional leering. All these years and training, and they still can’t hide it. No, it was because he knew Rebecca Cohen as only a trial by fire could accomplish.

  “So, let me be clear before I wrap this up,” she said, removing her glasses. Her brown eyes scanned the crowd before her. Sacker noticed how bloodshot they looked. “We’re not here to take over or scoop you on the Eunuch Maker. We’re here to collaborate with the NYPD to lend our expertise and resources to help you make the collar. We’re here on invitation, not invasion. I hope in this spirit you can work with liaisons from the FBI and other agencies to catch this killer.”

  Less than two years ago, when all hell broke loose, when Anonymous began blowing things up and gunning down Wall Street CEOs, he’d been onsite at the Citigroup building. Bodies strewn around the square, police tape like some spider’s web, crowds and cameras massing around the crime scene. Insanity. A black town car pulled up and announced the arrival of the Feds. In the midst of the chaos, a stunning brunette stepped out of the car, cell phone stuck to her face, bag in hand. Built like a damn brick house. He understood the glances the men around him gave her. He’d done the same that day even as death encircled them.

  Nothing like a real professional to get one’s head out of one’s rear. She’d taken control of the scene, asked the right questions, and sized him up as someone the FBI could trust. So had begun an inter-agency collaboration that landed him before a military tribunal during Civil War 2.0. That madness ended with nukes dropped in Kansas and the nation snatched from the cliff’s edge. By Cohen’s group at FBI from what he could determine in the aftermath.

  The stress of those days returned in waves of panic. He remembered hanging on a thin thread, his freedom uncertain. One wrong answer could have led to—who knows what? A time of rashness and the pinnacle of his performance in law enforcement.

  The past and present superimposed over her form. Before him, in the now removed from that chaos, Cohen dismissed the men in blue. She fielded a few final questions from detectives and the brass, stretching with exhaustion as the last left her. But that other time hung like a swirling halo around her, pregnant with an unnerving truth: Rebecca Cohen had nearly gotten him executed.

  He smiled and shook his head, rising from a chair on the side of the room. He approached as she stuffed papers into a bag.

  “Agent Cohen. It’s been a while.”

  She paused, manila folders in hand, her face turned away. Cohen placed the papers down and turned, a broad smile on her face.

  “Detective Sacker. I wondered if you’d be here.”

  She damn well knew I’d be here.

  “Thought I’d keep a low profile. Didn’t want to tip off anyone to our sordid relationship.”

  Her eyebrows danced. “Indeed. A crazy time of rules bent and broken. Oaths voided. People killed. I understood your silence after it all ended.”

  Did she miss me?

  “Well, we have a serial killer castrating victims on the cover of the Post and Daily News. Things are getting back to normal.” He saw corners of her mouth twitch. “So, did you mean all that up there? You gonna let us work this with you?”

  Cohen sighed, her fatigue returning like a tsunami. “Absolutely. And I did know you were coming. I prepped. You’re leading things now. Wise move by your chief.” Her smile flickered.

  “He might be reconsidering. Gotta crack this soon. Jack-booted thugs like you showing up would’ve ruined my year, normally. So, I am glad you’re here.”

  “You helped INTEL 1 out a good bit back in the day.” She met his eyes. “I know this investigation’s in good hands. If you ever need backup, on the street or in the halls here, we’ll make the calls.”

  “Folks from INTEL 1?” he said, trying to keep his tone flat.

  “Um-hmm.” Her sharp eyes held his.

  “Papers said INTEL I was closed down after the madness.”

  “Yes. They did say that.”

  Nice poker face.

  “But you’re still with FBI, it seems. You didn’t say which division.”

  Cohen dropped the last folders into her bag and zipped it, hoisting the satchel over her shoulder. She brushed past him, moving toward the door.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  49

  Gone Moggy

  Grace Gone startled out of deep concentration. The blows were heavy, a sense of irritation in the sound of fist to wood.

  Tyrell.

  Only he’d feel familiar enough to knock so rudely.

  Either that or a collection agency.

  She stumbled from the chair in her office and limped to the entrance of her rented space.

  “You need to get that damned ringer fixed,” he grumbled, slipping in through the open door. She closed it and turned the bolt locks.

  “Sure, Tyrell. You want to spring for my rent this month? Or last month’s while you’re at it? DNA analysis isn’t cheap. None of this is. I’m broke, in debt, and tired. I don’t need the attitude.”

  He straightened. “Gracie.” She grimaced at the new nickname he’d become enamored with. “Now that’s what I’m talking about! Mike Hammer stuff there.”

  They stared at each other a moment, eyes locked. He smiled from one side of his mouth. She half-expected him to wink.

  What is it about him? I need to figure that out soon.

  “Worst deduction I ever made was teaming up with you,” she said, turning away from the door. A wry grin crept over her face.

  Then she fell.

  One moment she buzzed in the presence of Sacker, the next she was sprawled on a rack of out-of-date magazines. Hail irony. The collection was intended for the clients who had yet to materialize outside her office.

  Strong arms grasped her waist and side, turned her over—floor, wall, ceiling.

  Tyrell.

  He was staring down at her with wide eyes.

  “Gracie! Are you hurt? What happened?”

  She tried to slow her breathing.

  Damn.

  It was getting worse. More and more of these. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to hide it any longer.

  I need to figure out that soon, too.

  “I’m okay. I’m okay.” She made a heroic effort to sit up, appear normal and unscathed. “Always was clumsy! Tripped on that ragged carpet edge.” She pointed downward.

  “Uh-huh.” His brows knitted over his eyes. “My spy file said you were a dancer.”

  “Bad intel.” She pushed herself up.

  Turn the leg away, Grace.

  She did. Sacker noticed.

  “Look, maybe we ought to have that looked at—”

  “Tell me about the FBI.” She sat on one of the lounge chairs.

  He took her hands in his. “Gracie, I’m serious, let’s—”

  “So am I.”

  He let go.

  Too harsh. Damn. “I’m okay. We need to talk. I need you to understand some things. But first, do we still have a case?”

  Sacker sat across from her and exhaled. His gaze didn’t waver.

  “Mira
culously, yes,” he said. “Long story. Long bloody story, but during the crisis a few years ago, I worked with a special branch of the FBI. Called themselves INTEL 1. I haven’t talked much about them to anyone, but those guys about saved the country. Several died in the process.”

  “Savas’s group?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Yeah, that’s them.”

  “It’s not all they’re known for.”

  “Well, guess who shows up today to take over our investigation? Lovely lady from INTEL 1, Rebecca Cohen. Except she’s not with INTEL 1 anymore and I can’t figure out who the hell’s she’s working for. But she’s there posing as FBI. Tells us they will help. Tells us it’s still our case.”

  Gone’s eyes glowed. “God, good to hear. Because things are very serious, Tyrell. You need to understand.”

  Sacker frowned. “Yeah, about the other night—”

  “No time.”

  He grimaced.

  “Look Tyrell, you’ve got a problem. And yes, it concerns me. But later. Not now. Things are serious.”

  He set his shoulders back. “Okay. I’m all ears. And more brain this time.”

  Gone gestured to the stairway descending to her laboratory.

  “Maybe better if I show you.”

  Sacker squinted into the eyepieces of the stereo microscope. He tried adjusting the focus with the knobs on the side. He tried twisting the eyepieces. He tried moving his head back and forth. He gave up.

  “So, I’m supposed to see what here, exactly?”

  “You can’t see the tissue damage? Even some necrosis? Signs of massive trauma, hemorrhaging, immune infiltration.”

  Sacker stood and shook his head. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Just tell me what it means.”

  She blushed and closed her eyes to keep balance. “These men are not victims of a beating, Tyrell.” Her lids flicked open. “Sutherland’s wrong. I’ve done the tissue pathology, some initial panel screening for viral genomes—”

  He cocked his head. “Wait, viral what?”

  “The conclusion is inescapable. These men died of an acute infection with a hemorrhagic virus.”

  “A hemorrhagic virus.” His mouth hung open. “You mean like, what? Ebola?”

  “Marburg family of viruses, actually, at least as far as my genetic markers tell. But, yes.”

  “Genetic markers for Ebola? Why the hell do you have that lying around?” He blinked. “Hell, I don’t even understand how there’s a working medical examiner’s office in your damn basement!”

  “These weren’t just lying around. I ordered them specifically because of my suspicions in this case. From all the other evidence. I was hoping to God that I was wrong.”

  “Grace,” he began, holding the words back, hesitating. “Are you sure about this? What in the world are you talking about?”

  Well, there goes ‘Gracie.’

  “I’m one hundred percent sure! I can’t nail the virus down without access to more sophisticated DNA sequencing. And a hell of a lot more money. But the tissue pathology, the viral markers, everything—these men died from viral damage to their bodies.”

  Sacker exhaled. “This doesn’t make sense. What’s the killer’s play here? How could he get his hands on it? It’s crazy!” He straightened, his glare focused at a distance. “We need to get the CDC or somebody on this.”

  Her stomach dropped. “What can they do?”

  “What can they do? I don’t know, quarantine or something? These things are contagious, right? We can’t let something like this spread!”

  “Quarantine what? We don’t know where it’s coming from. The bodies are on ice in the morgue. The CDC can’t do anything.”

  “Whoa, hold on girl. This all sounds nuts, but if there’s any chance you’re right, we’ve got to bring in the big guns. Verify, at least. You could be wrong. And God! I hope you’re wrong. But this is beyond you or me or NYPD. And we’ve got to tell Sutherland about the bodies. Someone could infect themselves!”

  She sighed. “True. But they’ll shut us down! The guys with the space suits will come in. They won’t be friendly like the FBI woman you have a crush on.”

  He pulled back. “Wait, what? Have a crush—”

  “They’ll take over completely. Kick us the hell out. We’ll lose it.”

  Gone bit her lower lip. I’m being a monster now. And I can’t help it!

  Sacker reached over and put his hand on her shoulder again. She wanted to cry.

  “Gracie, then we lose it.”

  “But I’m making progress!”

  His hand wouldn’t move. Damn him!

  “Come on, girl. Ambition’s good, but you can’t go down that road.”

  Her mind raced. “This sexy FBI woman. Do you trust her?”

  Sacker gaped. “Sexy? Gracie, what—”

  “Do you trust her?”

  “Yes. I told you. I’ve got history with INTEL 1.”

  “Or whatever it is now.” Her eyes darted like lasers. “Set up a meeting with her. We tell them everything. We let this mysterious new INTEL 1 decide. They’ll control the evidence. The bodies can be quarantined. They can lock it up, get CDC to work on the samples. Do the science. Or nuke the site from orbit. But your girlfriend will let us stay involved!”

  “But—”

  “Someone is behind this. Someone dropping men dead from a hemorrhagic virus in New York City. An investigation the CDC isn’t up to.” She smiled, tapping her finger on the nape of her neck. “But a shadowy intelligence organization might be exactly what we need.”

  “Gracie...”

  She reared up on her toes and grabbed his collar. “Do you trust me, Tyrell?”

  “Trust you? I—”

  “Don’t overthink it. This is a fulcrum moment. Yes or no. Do you trust me?”

  His eyes widened. “Um, yes. Strangely enough. I do. But—”

  “Then give me a chance! Someone’s infecting sex offenders with a hemorrhagic virus, making modern art of them. Whatever sick game is playing out, this is dangerous. More than ever, we’ve got to crack this case. We must find the killer. We may not have much time.”

  “Time until what?”

  Gone could feel the chill in his voice.

  “I don’t know, and that’s what scares me. Something’s going on, a lot bigger than some serial killer with gender issues.”

  Sacker didn’t take his eyes off her, his body unmoving.

  “Alright, Gracie,” he said. “I’ll talk to her. Jesus! We’d better not be responsible for the next damn plague.”

  “Thank you, Tyrell!”

  He passed a hand over his face. “Maybe I should lose my job. Better yet, go to prison. Damn!”

  Gone limped over to a workbench and removed several items, walking them back toward the detective.

  “I need to ask a favor.”

  She placed a needle, several sample vials, and a rubber tube on the bench beside him.

  “What favor?”

  She began rolling up his sleeve.

  “Blood. I need some samples.”

  “From me? Why?” His eyes widened as she tied a rubber hose around his bicep.

  “Experimental controls.” She thumped the skin below the muscle. “I can’t keep using me.”

  She looked into his eyes.

  “Make a fist?”

  50

  Gone Rogue

  Blindfolded, dumped in the backseat of ciphered black town cars, whisked through Manhattan with deceptive and dizzying driving, INTEL 1 wasn’t taking any chances.

  The speed of their response shocked Sacker. A call to the number Cohen left him, a message recorded, a return call in minutes, and in the same call an arrangement to rendezvous. On their terms. Blindfolded.

  The immediacy of the meeting pumped adrenaline through him. He’d imagined several possible responses, laughter the first and most likely. Maybe, just maybe they might consider that a deadly virus was turning a killer’s victims into pulverized pink goo. Maybe they’d say they’
d look into it, Cohen indulging him for old time’s sake. Helping her save the nation might buy some tolerance to madness.

  And what’s sane about Gracie’s idea?

  But, no. They told him to hold, turned tense, and pushed for a meeting. Immediately. And so his protective scaffolding around that black pit of doom collapsed. INTEL 1 took the hypothesis so seriously there was only one possibility: they had already considered it. He coughed a laugh in the car. Ridiculous. Terrifying. The black pit loomed in front of him as the car sped.

  Toward something underground.

  The cacophony of New York traffic yielded to the rush and reverb of a tunnel.

  But which?

  Several were within striking distance. But all had tolls and the associated sounds. Sacker heard none of it. Might as well be a private gate with Lex Luthor himself directing them into the bowels of the earth.

  Wherever they were and however they got there, the journey ended. The vehicle jerked to a stop and the doors opened. Hands helped them out, ushering them forward. There was a short pause in front of what felt like a wall, followed by the unmistakable sounds of massive doorways opening. They moved forward again.

  The doors closed behind them, fingers danced behind his head and the blindfold came off.

  He blinked in the light.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  _____

  Once the shock wore off, federal agents led them through this Manhattan NORAD to a spacious office belonging to his old friend, Rebecca Cohen. She and two others he’d never met sat around a broad table.

  Cohen chaired the meeting at the front of the desk. Two intense faces glared at him on either side of her. The man named Gabriel is Latino. Probably Mexican from his Aztec features. Built like an express train, he emitted a strange aura combining a reflective and deadly silence. Across from him a woman slouched back in her chair, short brown hair and blue eyes with a gaze reminding him of a bored cat. Mary.