Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5)

by Erec Stebbins

  He and Gone sat at the other end of the table. The polished wood grain reflected surreal, wall-sized flat-screen monitors spinning images and data out like some scene from a Matt Damon film. He returned his attention to the conversation. All eyes centered on Gone.

  Gracie doing her thing.

  “Numerous clues, data along the journey, Agent Cohen,” she said, her voice weary. The long walks through this underground labyrinth had drained her. “It’s not rocket science. You’re a covert operation funded and run by the Executive Branch, staffed with former members of the FBI division once called INTEL 1. This was run by John Savas of Mjolnir fame. He likely still runs things, even though he’s not here today. I’m sure you realize, all this is in violation of numerous laws and precedents. I assume it happened during the constitutional crisis, Civil War 2.0. Your operation’s sequestered somewhere under the Hudson or below Manhattan—the trip out to New Jersey used to disorient us, or maybe because access is limited to one direction. Finally, whatever else you’re doing, you’ve stumbled on data linking the Eunuch Maker to biological hazards. Which means my own research is correct.”

  Cohen’s eyes darted between him and Gone. She said nothing.

  I hate long awkward silences. Especially in secret underground lairs. Time to break the ice.

  “Pick up your jaws and move on, people. That’s Gracie for you. Don’t think too hard about it or you’ll just get a headache.” He rubbed his jaw. “Got any whiskey?”

  Houston’s glare flicked to Lopez. “Man after my own stomach.”

  A striking woman entered the room. Bald, muscular, tattooed and pierced from head to foot, she sported some odd combination of military garb and what could only be described as post-apocalyptic chic.

  Holy Mad Max, Batman!

  She strode up to Gone and stopped cold by her chair, staring. The silence stretched. Gone swallowed, gazing up at the green, unblinking eyes.

  “Yes?” Her voice was a whisper.

  Lightfoote held her hand out palm first as Gone tried to stand.

  “No, don’t get up. I know it’s getting harder.”

  Gone furrowed her brows. “Harder? What do you mean?” Sacker saw fear in her eyes.

  Cohen stood, interrupting the moment.

  “Ms. Gone, let me introduce Agent Lightfoote. She’s been...indisposed for most of the day, but she’s deeply involved in everything relevant to our meeting.”

  “Angel,” said the wild-eyed bald woman.

  “I’m sorry?” asked Gone. It was the first time Sacker had seen the PI so flummoxed.

  “Call me Angel.” She kneeled beside Gone. “It’s going to be hard. Dangerous and painful. But you’re right. The killer,” her voice caught. “It’s all related. To what we’re doing. To something terrible. There isn’t much time. You have to move quickly.”

  “We’re going to, Angel,” said Cohen. “That’s why she’s here. We’ve all got to put as much together on this as we can.” She glanced at Sacker. “Team up.”

  Lightfoote rose and shook her head. “Not this time, Rebecca. No Angel on this one. Angel must go. Angel cannot fight the Eunuch Maker.” She bent down and kissed Gone on the forehead, the PI too stunned to move. “He’ll be alright. Check the samples. Don’t worry.”

  Lightfoote turned and walked out of the room. Sacker saw tears in her eyes.

  Houston snickered. “Well, that’s Angel for you. Don’t think about her too hard, either. But I second the need for whiskey.”

  Cohen refocused the conversation.

  “There’s an important international case we’re investigating. I can’t tell you much about it. One thread leads back here to New York, to bank accounts and medical suppliers. It leads to biohazard suits and virus containment. The source of that money is one of the most dangerous people in the world. This source would do almost anything to gain power.” She stared at Gone. “We’ll help you. We need to trust each other. We need to see your data. We need access to all the samples. We will use our cover with the FBI to obtain everything from NYPD.”

  “You’ll let us continue to investigate?”

  Houston and Lopez leaned forward. Cohen nodded.

  “If that is what you want to do, yes.”

  Lopez rumbled. “After what we just saw, we’d be crazy to cut her out.” He gazed out the door. “Especially with Angel flying off. Not to offend INTEL 1, but we need the brains.”

  “We’ll help you with whatever line of research you want, within reason,” Cohen added. “But we’ve got to involve the CDC, other US and international agencies. I hope you understand. The stakes just went from a few vics to the population of NYC. Or worse.”

  Sacker exhaled.

  Thank God Almighty.

  Gracie had done it. She’d talked her way into the super black-ops club. INTEL 1 would bring in the medical experts. Win-win.

  “As long as we don’t lose access to the case,” said Gone.

  The corner of Cohen’s mouth twitched upward. Sacker looked away.

  Yeah, Agent Cohen, she’s got big damn ovaries.

  “As a measure of good faith,” said Cohen, “let me give you some intel. Two men involved in the Eunuch Maker case fell ill with symptoms matching your diagnosis. One was a nurse who handled one of the first bodies. The other was an assistant medical examiner working with none other than Dr. Sutherland of the 12th Precinct.”

  Sacker bolted upright. “Seriously? Who?”

  Cohen walked back to her desk and lifted a piece of paper, fitting glasses over her eyes. “One José Perez. Did you know him?”

  “No. Must have been one of the new hires. Sutherland brought in a bunch when the bodies started piling up. Jesus! We’ve got to get those bodies out of the morgue and in some locked down lab!”

  “We’re on that as of your phone call. We’ve got a lot of influence. Men in space suits are descending on the 12th as we speak.”

  He stared at Gone. She smiled.

  Nice play, Gracie.

  Gone unlocked her tablet, pointed at a set of DNA sequence alignments she’d brought in.

  “And I need your resources, Agent Cohen. I need access to top-flight academic and governmental virology labs. We need to find out what the hell we’re dealing with here. We have the samples. The right labs have the means. We need to sequence the virus and find out exactly what it is.” She met the gaze of the members of INTEL 1. “One of the most dangerous people in the world, you said. So, this is beyond the Eunuch Maker. Something much bigger. Much worse.”

  Cohen removed her glasses. “Yes, Ms. Gone. Much worse.”

  “Then we don’t have a second to lose.”

  51

  Fallen Angel

  The hum of machinery grew. Cohen entered the office and let her eyes adjust. Only the numerous monitors tiled around the desks and walls cast any illumination.

  Lightfoote’s sickly blue.

  Behind her, Houston burst in, not adjusting to anything.

  “Angel, what the fuck?”

  The ex-CIA agent made a motion forward, but Cohen put her arm up.

  Wait, Sara. We’re defusing a bomb.

  Lightfoote packed. Computers, paraphernalia, and odd items of clothing flew into satchels. She didn’t look up.

  “Bugging out, girls.”

  Houston crossed her arms over her chest. “Like hell you are. Not like this. We went to hell and back and you never once blinked. What in God’s name has you so spooked?”

  Metal growled as Lightfoote zipped a bag shut, tossing a firearm on top of a bulging canvas. She spoke from a crouch, toward the wall.

  “You remember that night in Princeton? After your man gave last rites to those thugs? After we burned that damned museum to the ground?”

  Houston eyed her at an angle. “Sure. Well, no, actually. I got hammered.”

  “You sure did.” With a laugh, Lightfoote stood. “You passed out in Francisco’s arms. But before that, we had a talk.”

  Houston stiffened. “About monsters.”
>
  “About monsters.” Lightfoote gripped her firearm and stared down the barrel. “About my dad. About seeing him die. I told you then it was complicated.”

  Cohen squinted. What the hell is going on?

  She didn’t dare interfere. The pair had been through an ordeal. She knew that. They all had when things went to hell after Anonymous. Pursuit. Murder. War. She didn’t doubt deep bonds had formed between them, but Lightfoote’s pain went deeper. Happened earlier. And not even Houston seemed to know the full story.

  Does anyone?

  Houston’s voice dropped. “I remember. Confession time.”

  “In front of the priest,” smiled Lightfoote. It faded. “Only I didn’t. Confess, I mean. I stopped there.”

  She walked up to Houston, the gun still in her hand, her face inches away. Cohen felt light-headed. The tension sucked the air out of the room.

  “Fawkes found out.” A quick smirk from the side of her mouth suppressed a rising pitch. “They tried to erase it all, bringing me to INTEL 1 all those years ago. But that fucker dug it out and put it together. In the middle of that shitstorm, he tried to bleed my brain out. Summon the monsters again.”

  “Angel, what—”

  “Shhhhh.” Her finger pressed Houston’s mouth. Tears filled her eyes. Then she kissed her. Her mouth explored, famished and desperate. Their bodies met and pushed, curves zippering with the scrape of fabric. Houston closed her eyes and moaned.

  Blanked and dazed, Cohen simply gaped.

  “Don’t tell Francisco,” Lightfoote gasped, pulling away. Both swallowed air. “He’ll go all guy on you.”

  She spun and grabbed the bags, slinging two over her shoulders, the weight creasing her exposed skin. She swung toward Cohen.

  “Tell John, I’m sorry.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. She touched Cohen’s face. “And I’m sorry for what’s coming.”

  “Angel,” said Cohen, her pulse racing, “what’s coming? The Eunuch Maker?”

  “Not only. But he’s just a tool. He’s insane. But still, I can’t face it. I can’t face another monster with cages, dissections, you and those you love. No. I just can’t. Even if the analogy’s wrong, the motives are different, the time new.” She gawked at the ceiling. “It’s just my mind. It’s a kernel panic.”

  Cohen’s eyes widened. “I don’t understand!”

  “The PI’s the real deal. She’s got his number. But Nemesis is plotting. So many threads. The election—darkness is coming.” She shook her head. “You and John will be so brave. Angel should be with you. You’ll be so alone. But Angel can’t stay. Angel’s broken.”

  She pushed past their stunned forms to the doorway and stopped, exhaling. Her head pivoted, mirrored sunglasses over her eyes reflecting the silver in her face.

  “Fallen Angels are cast down for a reason.”

  She turned away and marched down the hallway.

  52

  Volunteers

  The killer in the biohazard suit removed a mask over the blood-soaked body. The monitors beeped and flat-lined. His victim died, released from an excruciating journey. Now the precision work.

  His mind struggled to focus. His thoughts couldn’t pull away from the sound of feet slapping pavement. The moment of terror at the bank, when he realized he’d been discovered. The clinging stink of sweat-soaked clothes he’d fought to later remove. A day ending with his assets frozen and the noose tightening around him.

  So close. Everything nearly lost.

  The killer eased around the fleshly horror in the center of the plastic room. The suit chafed. It restricted motion. It stunk of some vile DuPont synthetic material. And it mixed with other nauseating smells. The air filter in the Biosafety Level 4 positive pressure suit let in the stink of the dying body and corpse. Small molecules, processed by his olfactory system. Much, much smaller than a virus, thereby passing through the filters. Rationally, he understood this, deduced there was little danger. But tell that to a primitive brain reflex honed by millions of years of evolution. Rationalize away the automatic release of stress hormones and the elevated heart rate. Mixed with the suit reek, it was all he could do to keep from vomiting.

  But such concerns had little impact on his will. He was so near to reaching his goal. The viral titers increased with each new round of infection and protocol alteration. Before the final release, he would do all he could to maximize the impact.

  And no one was going to stop him.

  Damn the police, or whoever had chased him down. Damn the amazon women and their queen, who had all too happily funded his scheme. They’d been the first to track him down, zero in on the birth control research, lure him, ask questions and pull out the answers. Secretive and deeply resourced, unknown motivations driving them, they played him expertly. He knew that. Sex, physical threats of killers, and money—he’d revealed all. And they’d gone all in with him. If he triumphed, it would be their world.

  If the damn virus chimera would do more than kill and truly go airborne!

  I must focus.

  Time contracted. Someone pursued him, tried to corner him. Would have killed him. But he would do everything within his power to succeed.

  And change the world.

  The medical instruments waited, and he prepped the body. He shaved the groin hair and sterilized the pelvis. A broad laser scalpel hummed to life. He opened deep incisions. Without the pressure from the heart, the blood mimicked crimson honey dripping over the plastic to the floor.

  The entire process felt too routine. Complacency must be fought. He entertained no delusions about his final fate, but he must remain healthy so close to his goal. He monitored the readings of the suit, kept the cutting edge aligned, activated only when positioned. He would remove this sample without incident.

  The fat challenged him the most. This child abuser was significantly overweight. He struggled through the adipose tissue, the stink of fried steak sickening in the air. He swallowed a retching reflex and cut around the prostate and seminal vesicles. After so many brought to justice, he was a practiced professional removing the male reproductive anatomy—a fisherman filleting a catch. Out popped the tissues and he dropped them in a pan, the flaccid penis hanging half over the metal edge. He pushed it back inside with his index finger.

  Shuffling to the work bench, he opened the top of a large Waring blender, dropping the organs into the glass chamber. He dumped the contents of a fifty-milliliter plastic tube in after, enzymes and chemicals to help liquefy the tissues. He capped the blender and pressed a button. The industrial machine screamed as it turned a rapist’s prized parts into a flesh smoothie in minutes.

  The killer decanted the homogenized sex organs into plastic bottles, tightening the caps. He waddled in the bio-suit toward the blinking lights of a table-top centrifuge, placed the bottles in holders in the rotor, closed the lid, and set the spin for half an hour. He pressed START.

  The motor hummed to life, the low sound climbing in pitch until it stabilized at its normal annoying whine. The man removed his gloves, sterilized his hands in the fluid of a tank, dried them under hot air, and then re-gloved.

  He leaned against the table, his head back and eyes closed. Exhaustion labored to incapacitate him. I can’t screw this up now. After this prep, he would store the samples and sleep. Sleep long and hard for the rest of the day, leave the lab, leave the men tied to stretchers for tomorrow. The poor bastards likely needed tending, some sort of half-hearted gesture toward humanity. But they were as good as dead, injected with the highest viral titers yet.

  “Good news, gentleman. I think we’ve got the bugs worked out. With this next harvest and the new construct, we might just be ready. Of course, we’ll need a final set of volunteers to verify before we seed the actual vectors.”

  Who am I talking to? They couldn’t hear him in the other sections of his make-shift facility, behind the humming wall of refrigerators filled with samples. They couldn’t hear him because their fevers made them delirious, because their bodies were di
ssolving, because they had no useful mental processes anymore.

  Let them die. Let them suffer. It would be justice for their monstrous crimes. And he was too tired to give a damn.

  The machine slowed. The pitch dropped. The lights on the control panel blinked. A moment of silence followed, the r.p.m.s at zero, and a pop as the lock on the lid disengaged.

  He retrieved the samples. World changing plans brewed.

  53

  Killer Promises

  Eunuch Maker Promises New Victim

  Sandra Ruf, New York Daily News

  The Eunuch Maker, the now infamous serial killer leaving a trail of mutilated male bodies across New York City, has announced through anonymous means to several major news outlets that a new victim’s body will be left in a prominent public place today.

  Mayor Logan has locked down major tourist attractions and landmarks, stationing police and other emergency personnel at numerous locations. Federal, state, and local law enforcement were scouring museums, subway stops, nightclubs, and monuments looking for the promised next victim in this gruesome series of murders.

  NYPD representatives would not disclose the method of communication, but were firm that they are taking the claims seriously.

  “We have an unprecedented series of killings in the city,” said 12th Precinct Chief Michael Ladner. “We are working with federal and local agencies to identify and bring this killer to justice. He is intelligent and obviously ruthless. Public exhibitions of the victims indicate a flair for the theatrical. We are convinced he means what he says and have mobilized a city-wide manhunt to find him and the body of the next victim.”

  Criticism of the police department’s handling of the case has intensified. As little progress has materialized, the continuing trail of high-profile murder scenes has made a mockery of law enforcement efforts.

  Divisions within the 12th Precinct recently came to light when junior detectives publicly questioned the performance and leadership of those handling the investigation.