Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5)

  The small matter of being sacked snuffed out the celebrations.

  “Seven departmental regulations broken,” clucked Snyder. “All in direct contradiction of your orders, captain.” He glared at Lander, whose face flickered between an angry boar and a broken-hearted frat boy. “We still don’t know which federal divisions he was working with. He won’t say! They won’t say! It’s a national scandal. My mom sees it on the news. And that PI he put in the report, which he leaked—it’s all over the papers!”

  Choice criticism from the leaker-in-chief of the 12th Precinct, asshole. I didn’t even get paid.

  At least Gone got rewarded. Sacker honored their deal. As the PI had calculated, the publicity made her a rock star.

  Careful, Gracie. This city can turn on you in an instant.

  “You sound like a brown-nosing bureaucrat!” yelled Hill, snapping them all to attention. It was the first time Sacker had heard the young detective raise her voice.

  “Insults won’t change the truth,” said Snyder.

  Hill waved him off. “Everything you want to hang him with broke the case open. Solved it. Ended the murders. Stopped a dangerous terrorist. Or maybe you wanted to die from that virus?” She cocked her head so hard Sacker thought she’d pop a vertebrae. “You claim you’re a man, after all.”

  “What did you say? Let me tell—”

  “Enough!” boomed Ladner. For additional emphasis he slammed his fists on the table, spilling Sacker’s coffee across the surface.

  Was still hot. Sacker threw a stack of napkins on the steaming puddle.

  “Just shut up, both of you,” Ladner said. He sat up and straightened his tie, ovals of perspiration under his arms. “Tyrell’s been here as long as I have. There isn’t an officer who’s served this precinct better. Hell, during the chaos Anonymous caused, he’s earned enough respect for two careers.”

  He’s not looking at me.

  Ladner exhaled. “But there’s more to being in the 12th than being a great cop. We’re a family. There are bonds and rules. And loyalty’s at the very top of my list.”

  Now he looks my way.

  “Tyrell, you stopped the Eunuch Maker. But you were reckless. Dangerous. And more importantly, disloyal. Your actions made a fool of me and this precinct. Of the NYPD.” He wrung his hands together. “You’re famous now, along with that Chinese girlfriend of yours. I’m sure you’ll have a lot of opportunities.”

  “So, you’re going to fire me?”

  “Goddammit, Tyrell!” The fist pounding again. His index finger hooked forward. “Don’t you make me do that shit! Don’t make me run you through the grinder. A formal investigation will make us all look bad.” He licked his lips. “Don’t think we don’t know about your, ah, vices. Your past. We’ll do what we have to.”

  You motherfucker.

  “You’d go low?”

  He caught Snyder glancing at him, a big, ugly grin on the brat’s face.

  “There’s no reason to!” Ladner pushed a folder toward him. “Resign, dammit. Submit a letter. Tell the press whatever. You want to expand your horizons, chase other opportunities. This case was too much. Be creative.” He tapped the folder. “Early retirement. Full benefits. Take it and get the hell out of here. Never come back.”

  I’ll be damned.

  For it to get to this point, Ladner had put in serious planning with powerful friends. And the rat, Snyder. But it was people over their heads who backed this play. No doubt they’d go full dirt on him. Snyder likely would provide some targeted lies to seal the deal. The opportunities Ladner mentioned were bullshit. They wouldn’t exist. Not in law enforcement anyway. Those running him out of town would see to it.

  Blacklisted. My life’s work, shot to hell.

  He tasted burnt ashes and bared his teeth.

  “So that’s it, then?” he said. “After everything.”

  Ladner growled like a pit bull. “That’s it.”

  Snyder couldn’t help himself. “You can take it, right? You claim you’re a man, after all.” He looked between Sacker and Hill with punchable self-satisfaction.

  Sacker stood, staring them all down. He’d lost. He knew that. He’d expected to lose, but didn’t know how dirty things would get until this moment.

  Hill held back tears. Of anger, frustration, or sadness, he couldn’t tell. His stomach knotted. She was great detective material. She was decent. Too decent. He wanted to say something to her, but didn’t dare. With Snyder as Ladner’s new golden boy, it’d just make it worse for her.

  Instead, he dropped his badge and firearm on the table, grabbed his coat, scooped up the manila folder, and left the room without saying another word.

  67

  Under New Management

  Cohen dashed into Savas’ office clutching a set of printouts.

  “Virus results are back.” Words rushed out as she caught her breath. “Confirmed from two different labs. Dyer didn’t get the infectivity he needed. Order of magnitude less contagious. Docs say no pandemic spread possible.”

  “Didn’t the quarantine shut this down?” asked Savas.

  “Viruses don’t respect police tape or even biosafety containment unless we’re damned near perfect. One mistake and a highly contagious pathogen could be off to the races. We dodged a bullet. You dude-bros would be only myth.”

  “Couldn’t they control it? Modern medicine and all?”

  Cohen dropped into a chair and tossed the papers to Savas. “It’s not like the digital viruses we fought before. Biology isn’t brittle. Biology is messy. Dyer didn’t have the time or numbers to work out the messiness. Not to meet his goals. He failed, thank God. Flip side is once you get a bad bug, it’s damn near impossible to stop it. Few treatments besides palliative. Has to burn itself out.”

  “Big mistake parading his victims about.”

  “Sacker got that right. He’s had some experience with bright criminals.”

  “So have we,” said Savas. “Gunn and Fawkes nearly brought things down, too.”

  “They were more disciplined. And they were working with tools already in hand. Dyer was on the cutting edge, trying to engineer an organism to do his bidding. That’s an ego beyond Gunn or Fawkes.”

  “Let’s not forget Nemesis. It’s confirmed then?”

  “I wish Angel would get the hell back here to help analyze the digital trail. Took me days when she’d be done in hours. But yes. All the lines of funding trace back to her and her shell companies. What a mess.”

  “Why would she risk it? Bilderberg wasn’t like that. Say what you want about them, they wanted order. Progress. As they understood progress, anyway.”

  “Bilderberg tried to kill millions to preserve their societal plans.”

  “But for a higher purpose, however misguided. But not like this. Not random.”

  “Maybe not so random,” said Cohen. “Remove all the men, societies falter. Power vacuum. Men still run everything. Sir.”

  “Hitting low.”

  “Exactly. Crazy how so much power and injustice is centered on some dangling genitals. But maybe she thought the chaos would create opportunity. One her organization could exploit.”

  “Did she groom this guy? How did she find him?”

  “Not clear. Not much in the data trail to reconstruct the history.”

  “Madness.”

  “For sure. Nemesis went over the edge. She’s willing to burn the world to try and take control. And she’s still out there.”

  The phone buzzed on his desk. Their eyes met and held a moment. Savas exhaled, picking up the receiver.

  “Yes.” He frowned. “I see. Of course. Send him right in.”

  “He’s here. Just down the hallway.”

  Cohen’s voice was flat. “Here we go.”

  They stood, moving toward his office door, left open from Cohen’s rush inside. Before he reached it, a large figure appeared in the frame. A crowd of personal assistants and bodyguards escorted him.

  Savas extended his hand.
>
  “Secretary Brennem. I’m John Savas.”

  The unshaven and disheveled figure smiled. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Savas. It’s not agent anymore, is it? Down here, I mean.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Something we’ll talk about.” He glared at Cohen. “Alone.”

  “Ms. Cohen is—”

  “Your wife and someone I’m not interested in speaking with. I want the man in charge.” He gestured to his accompanying staff. “Ms. Cohen please get some coffee for my team and wait for us down the hall. I saw a nice kitchen with lots of amenities.”

  Savas grimaced. Cohen’s eyes burned.

  “Of course, Mr. Secretary,” she said. “Beginnings are important. And nothing is more important to the security of this country than INTEL 1. I can assure you.” She cast Savas a pointed stare and left the room. The crowd followed her, and Brennem closed the office door.

  “Let’s have a chat.” Brennem ambled to a seat at Savas’ desk. “You got any whiskey?”

  “No. I don’t drink. Not for a long time.”

  “Shame. Hard to trust a man who doesn’t drink.” He grinned. His teeth were yellow.

  Savas sighed. “I used to. Way too much. I need to function.”

  Brennem leaned forward, his tangled tie hanging at an angle. “Yes. Function. That’s why I’m here. The function of INTEL 1. You’ve operated this, ah, organization, without oversight. With unapproved funds.”

  “Constitutional crises require extraordinary means. Agencies, FBI, CIA, NSA—after Anonymous, there was carnage. Disarray. The coup. York brought us together. We helped restore order, hunt down those who tried to control this nation.”

  The smile didn’t lessen. “Yes, we understand that. Now. The briefings have been fascinating. Truly terrible times. But the crisis for this nation is just beginning.”

  “The forces of Bilderberg are on the run.”

  The smile became a smirk. “No, I’m not talking about this phantom you’ve been chasing.”

  Savas grit his teeth. “I can assure you, Mr. Secretary, Bilderberg was very real. The remnants of it still very dangerous.”

  “Possibly, but our analysts conclude the Bilderberg threat has passed. The Suite administration feels other, far more pressing dangers must be addressed.”

  “Which are these?”

  “Something older and closer to your own heart, Mr. Savas.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Islamic menace, of course. The established elites say you brought down our American bin Laden.” He scowled. “God, I hate the label. False equivalency. Such an insult to the singular genius of William Gunn, wouldn’t you say? A title the liberal press slandered him with. For truly he was a man of vision. He understood the threat we face.”

  “He was a madman.”

  Brennem frowned, his eyebrows rising. “The line between madness and genius is so thin, don’t you think? We’ve read your files. Your work during that time was patriotic, but highly, well, conflicted. Muslims murdered your son.”

  Savas set his jaw. “A lot’s changed.”

  “Has it?” He stared at Savas, the fierce blue eyes glowing behind heavy eyebrows. “The chaos of the last few years masks the long-term threat to our civilization. I take a long view of history, as does our new president. I appreciate what has come, the cycles, the purgings, the wars. It’s all more predictable than you might think.”

  Savas leaned back in his chair, saying nothing.

  “Bringing us back to INTEL 1. Your record is unusually productive. Great talent pool and leadership. Excepting the recent defections.”

  “Defections?”

  “Agent Lightfoote, this cipher of a pair, code names of Gabriel and Mary.” Brennem laughed. “So much cloak and dagger.”

  “Defection seems a loaded word, Mr. Secretary. They submitted their resignations.”

  “On Inauguration Day, if I am not mistaken.” Savas remained silent. “Some would call this a betrayal. A defection from the new administration.”

  “Staff departures with administration changes are common. Just politics. Maybe they don’t agree with Suite’s positions.”

  Brennem’s glance felt like a scalpel. “And do you?”

  “I’ve worked in the NYPD, the FBI, and as part of York’s covert INTEL 1. I believe in the power of good people to serve and protect this country.”

  “Ah, yes. York. The crowds are chanting for her imprisonment as we speak.”

  “It’s absurd.”

  “Perhaps. But it’s good to hear you will be staying on at INTEL 1. This asset fascinates me. A covert squad of talented people, hidden beneath the streets of one of our greatest cities, answering to no-one.”

  He stood, glancing around the room, a broad grin creeping over his face.

  “In the trying times certain to come, I’m convinced such resources will be most useful.”

  68

  Fugitives (again)

  Houston hugged her knees in the chilly warehouse air, pushing herself deeper into a corner of the sofa. The make-shift hacker lair was a wreck. Dim lighting, the stink of unwashed basement dwelling computer nerds. But they’d be moving on soon.

  Can’t wait to leave.

  Lightfoote set it up, of course. She’d reached out to them after the election. After the Eunuch Maker was brought down. A storm grew on the horizon, the future uncertain. Her bones rattled with it.

  Lopez’s deep voice pulled her mind back to the moment.

  “They’re creating a transport path,” he said, an analytic tone failing to cover a suppressed rage. “See? Here.”

  He gestured to a paper map of the United States spread over a stained table beside the sofa. She followed his index finger as it tapped several points along a major highway running north to south.

  “It’s a damned Latino funnel. They’ve had detention centers in several places along the route for years. But now—billions of dollars. Private companies salivating. With the new executive orders, those centers will become full-fledged camps.”

  “They won’t call them that.”

  “Of course not. Just humane way-stations to get the rapists, drug dealers, and child molesters out of this once-pure nation. Only a coincidence all those terrible people are brown.”

  “You really think it’s this planned out?”

  “Sara, it’s a logistics nightmare. How the hell do you evict nearly twelve million people? Move them across a country the size of the US to the border? It would be the largest ethnic cleansing in history.”

  “Ethnic cleansing in America.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time. The history books are written by the powerful. The nation was founded on genocide and slavery. Let’s not act too shocked.” He made a fist. “But it has to be stopped.”

  “It’ll wreck state economies.”

  “For sure. White Americans won’t flood the fields and work their fingers to a blistering mess. Or care for their own damned children. Clean their own bathrooms. But that’s just the beginning. These spic loafers pay a hell of a lot in sales taxes, billions in Social Security to float current retirees.”

  “But they’re undocumented. How do they pay Social Security?”

  Lopez laughed. “Evil Mexicans got our ways, gringo! You need papers to work. So we fake them. Seen it many times. Heard it in confessionals from guilty mothers feeding their kids with those jobs. Employers are too dumb or don’t care to check. They submit W2s and withholdings to Uncle Sam. Multiply by millions.”

  “Wow.”

  “Mmm-hmmm. We’re a secret pillar of society!” He scowled. “So when they stuff us in boxcars, not only’s the fruit going to rot, the houses not get built, yuppie mom’s running around in a panic, but the bottom is going to fall out across the board.”

  “It’s not going to be boxcars. Not in the twenty-first century. Not in America.”

  “Well, if Suite and his cronies hadn’t lobbied for years to kill public transport, it might have been. As it is we don’
t have the rail system to do it in America.” He gestured back to the map. “So, interstate. That’s the patterning. ICE has it all planned.”

  “ICE?”

  “Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Suite’s black-shirts.”

  “Right.”

  “All the private detention centers—corporately owned but publicly funded—they sit along major highways.” The index fingers of each of his hands moved along major highways from the east and west coasts, diving south. “And meet up at several key points. Sixty thousand people per week will need to go through these centers if Suite is going to do this in four years.”

  “My God.”

  “And they won’t go willingly. They’re going to hide. Run. Some will fight. How do you ethnically cleanse a nation? Hunt down the workers, their families, children? The thousands of legals who will be swept into this dragnet? How do you deal with those who exercise their second amendment rights?”

  Houston set her jaw. “You militarize it.”

  “Bingo. And all the domestic terrorism laws are now in place for that.” Lopez rose from his crouch and stretched his thick form.

  Her eyes danced all over him. He can fill a shirt.

  “My plan is massive disruption. Hit the bottleneck points. Give them no infrastructure for this logistical nightmare.”

  “The prisons?”

  “Camps. Yes.” He glared at the map.

  Houston stood and angled her hips. “So you really want to do this?” He nodded. “Praise God. We’ll finally be real terrorists.”

  “I have to do this.”

  She slinked beside him and flowed her body along his. “At least we’ll earn our place at the top of the Most Wanted.”

  His muscled arm slid around her waist.

  He recited. “One has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. King.”

  “Yeah?” She pressed her chest into his.

  His voice lowered. “Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. Thoreau.”