Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5)
Page 26
“Mmmmm,” she purred, nuzzling his neck.
“Since governments take the right of death over their people, it is not astonishing if the people should sometimes take the right of death over governments.”
“Oh,” she gasped. “Who’s that?”
“Guy de Maupassant.”
“Sounds French.”
“He was.”
A delicious warmth spread through her. “I told you I like it when you talk dirty to me.”
Lopez bent toward her.
A man’s voice interrupted. “Hey—lovebirds!”
Goddammit. Houston scowled. Hackers.
She threw a dark glance over her shoulder. “Yeah, neckbeard. What?”
“She’s here.”
Houston locked eyes with Lopez. She could only be one person in this hacker underground. The coding legend that beat Fawkes. Bald ass-kicking punk girl who moonlighted with special government forces. A clop of combat boots on the cement floor announced her arrival. Houston slapped her hand on Lopez’s chest, smiled, and turned around.
“Angel.”
Lightfoote had looked better. She was dirty, her clothes a mess of stains. Her eyes were sunken. She hadn’t taken a razor to her head for some time, sporting a bright orange fuzz glowing like a skull cap.
Let herself go.
But there was a spark in her eye matching the aggressive stance she took.
“Sara. Francisco. Angel has returned.”
A mixture of emotions ran through Houston. The arousal with Lopez simmered, but extended to Lightfoote. Tension flowed between them. She tried to suppress it, but failed.
Why did you kiss me, you crazy girl?
“Thanks for the safe house,” said Lopez. “Things are getting a bit dark.”
“I hate always being right. “Different kinds of darkness. Different kinds of light.” She eyed them both. “Sorry to bail. That fight wasn’t for me.”
“The Eunuch Maker?” asked Lopez.
Lightfoote shivered. “We don’t say their names. But time to face a darkness I can fight.”
Houston took a step toward her. “Suite.”
“Yes.” She frowned. “Poor John and Rebecca. Trapped in a castle with a mad king.”
Lopez grunted. “The king is displeased with our actions. Our INTEL 1 accounts have been seized and frozen. All the alias resources. Bank, credit cards. You name it.”
“You’re enemies of the people now, big guy.”
“So what else is new?”
Lightfoote darted past them, her gaze on Houston. “Lucky we have options they don’t know about.”
Lopez stared at the women. “For now. But they’ve got access to everything.”
“Depends on how good their code breakers are,” Lightfoote mused. “We’ve got resources. A little time. Let’s generate new ones they can’t find or touch.”
“Wonderful,” sighed Houston. “I’m afraid this is going to be worse than Bilderberg.”
Lightfoote took a backpack from her shoulders and unzipped it, removing firearms and a laptop. “Maybe it’s because of what we did to Bilderberg.”
Houston arched an eyebrow. “John’s theory?“
“Uh-huh.” Lightfoote dropped on the couch, hackers forming a mulling crowd around her at a respectful distance. “Bilderberg was in the business of social engineering. Geeks in the basement ran models, thugs pushed and pulled nations and groups along some trajectory they fancied. We blew that up.” She smiled. “Literally in some cases. Now there’s nothing to hold back the old forces. Racism. Nationalism. Autocracy. The country tossed out York and embraced the Beautiful Leader.”
Lopez shook his head. “So trying to free people we imprisoned them? Freedom is slavery?”
“No! We freed them to make their own choices.” Lightfoote spread her arms out the length of the sofa. “Behold their choices.”
Houston laughed. “Maybe Bilderberg had a point, then.”
“Of course they did.” Lightfoote opened her computer. “Every powerful ideology does, even when fundamentally flawed.”
“And now we’re back to the oldest flaws,” said Lopez. “With little to stop them. They control the Executive, Congress. They’re already weakening the courts. The checks and balances won’t last.”
“Now we need the Watchman back,” said Houston.
“Watchmen?” scoffed Lightfoote. “Maybe they helped destroy Anonymous and Bilderberg. But no one’s left. Only John. And I know they’re squeezing him.”
“I wish we had Fred Simon back.”.
“It was a stupid name anyway.” Lightfoot’s fingers clacked on the keyboard. “Watchman. So gendered.” She gazed up from the screen, a blue glow on her face. “We’ll call it The Watch.”
Houston crossed her arms over her chest. “What good is renaming a dead thing?”
“Because we need it more than ever. Our elders are dead. Only we stand. It’s up to us.” Green eyes sparkled. “Now we’re The Watch. Resurrected.”
A longhaired teen approached from behind, holding out a box.
“Hey, Angel? Delivery.”
Lightfoote stared at the package like it would explode.
“Checked it,” he sputtered. “We’re not stupid. It’s just a flower.”
Houston’s blood ran cold. “What kind of flower?”
Lightfoote turned back to the monitor, ignoring them. The boy reached in and removed a purple petaled blossom. He tilted the box. There was nothing else inside.
“Sonbol,” said Lopez. “Nemesis.”
“Jesus.” Houston reached for her Browning. “She knows we’re here. How the hell?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Lopez grabbed his coat. “We move. Now.”
“Hold your horses,” said Lightfoote, punctuating the command with an emphatic clack. “It’s a message. Just to fuck with us. Or there’d already be bodies.”
“She had the advantage,” said Houston, grabbing her bag and removing the gun. “Why didn’t she strike?”
“Who knows?” said Lightfoote, nodding to the screen and closing it. “Low on long distance assets? Throwing down the gauntlet? Long game? She’s a bitch, but she’s not all-powerful.”
“Not yet,” said Houston.
“Still, we move,” said Lopez.
Lightfoote drummed her fingers on the metallic surface of the laptop, a skull ring tapping out Morse code. “Definitely. Tonight. And we stop trusting the security of others.” She cast a frown over the downcast crowd of hackers behind her, looping the straps of the pack over her shoulders.
Houston leaned into Lopez. “On the run again.”
Lightfoote walked between them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.
“Suite. Nemesis. There’s more than one war we’re fighting. Ready for a road trip?”
69
Hell and Gone
“Pat, I said don’t start.”
Sacker tried to focus on the shot glass, push everything else away. The tap-dancing woman faded on the yellowed glass. Vintage, from the Harlem Renaissance. Like his hat. Great grandmother Sacker, I think I want to go back to your time. She must’ve been a force of nature at Connie’s Inn.
The old bartender continued, unfazed. “I’m just sayin’, you come in here, talk about this girl, and leave her out there. What’s the point?”
Sacker sighed. “Why do you think I come here? To talk about her and drink. I don’t want to go out there and deal with her. All these years and you still don’t get how it works?”
“That don’t make no sense, Tyrell.”
No. No it doesn’t. Except of course, it did.
“It’s that case,” he nodded. “Yup. That killer in the papers. I see it about you. Got you in a funk.” Pat paused and tapped his finger to his temple. “She’s the one in the papers, right? That Chinese girl?”
Sometimes he thought Pat moonlighted as a detective himself.
“Don’t start.”
“Well, she’s cute. Kinda small. Those small ones aren’t always so full fi
gured. Chinese ones, I mean.”
“Just stop, Pat.”
“Hey, I’m only sayin’. Fella likes what he likes. Not judging.” He bent over and whispered. “And I see you’ve got something for that little Shanghai sweetie.”
Sacker threw some bills on the counter and grabbed his shot glass. “I’m calling it a night.” He stood. “Too much talk.”
The bartender frowned. “Alright, Tyrell. Don’t take it out on me. You’re gonna spin your wheels until you get out and see her. Might as well yank that tooth.”
Thirty minutes later he pulled the car to a stop at Gone’s office. Trash littered the sidewalk in front of the entrance, parting gifts from the flock of reporters camping out while the story simmered.
He approached, a smile breaking at the cheap sign: Gone Investigating, LLC. He stepped through the front door and into the waiting room, adjusting to the low lighting.
Ah, shit.
Her fame cooled, but Gone still held a full house. Eager clients buzzed, spanning all socio-economic strata from the indigent to yuppie divorcees. A rainbow of hues and cultures, ages and genders milled about the cramped space.
Big ole slice of humanity.
He’d made a big mistake. Seeing Gracie was scary enough. No way he was going to wait out that tension here.
“Another time,” he whispered.
“Tyrell!”
His breath caught. Frowning faces turned in his direction, a force field of impatience and irritation assaulting him. But it was background. His gaze centered elsewhere. Gone stood in the doorway of her office, a client walking out. She beamed.
“Come in!” Her voice rose in pitch. “Please!”
An old man held up a piece of paper. “Hey! I’m next!”
Gone looked over. “Yes, after Detective Sacker. He’s the one who brought me on the Eunuch Maker case.” Eyes stared again. “I need to speak with him.” She waved him in.
No choice now.
Maybe he didn’t mind.
He navigated the furniture and the standing-room-only clients demanding access, avoiding eye contact with the simmering crowd. Gone closed the door behind him as he entered.
“You’ve been avoiding me!”
That pout. Always returning. Whatever she was doing, whatever mood or speech, her face gravitated to it. Not exactly bratty. Not sad. Thoughtful. Annoyed. Like the chaotic universe irritated her, challenged her to solve its mysteries.
“You get right to the point.”
“I’m not good with games,” she said, ambling to her desk.
He winced. Whatever was wrong, it was worse. She favored that weak side, her gait tilted and slower. She held a cane or crutch in her hand, stabilizing the wobble. Gone managed to circumscribe the desk and dropped into her chair, winded.
“Holstered gun next to you?” Sacker raised his eyebrows, staring beside her.
“Unloaded. For show. You’d be amazed how it gives a tiny woman instant respect.”
“No games, huh?” He smirked, sitting across from her. The orientation caused flashbacks to the fall when they’d first peered across the desk at each other, the day she’d picked his life apart with her laser brain.
“I can use it, don’t you worry,” she said, tilting her chin down. “I can break it down, even. Monthly practice at the range.” Her smiled faded. “So, Tyrell. Why are you here? Not to employ my investigative services again.”
“You probably charge too much now. Your crazy public relations stunt paid off.”
“Yeah, plan Z worked. Didn’t realize I’d have to solve the Case of the Armageddon Virus to do it.” Her eyes wouldn’t leave his.
Damn this is hard.
Sacker cleared his throat. “I thought I ought to say goodbye at least.”
“Goodbye?” One eyebrow arched. Her voiced dropped. “Why goodbye?”
“Well, my own investigating days are at an end, I’m afraid. Captain Ladner and the good people at the NYPD have shown me the door. Nice little goodie bag on the way out so I don’t make a stink. But out the door for sure. I’ll never work in law enforcement again.”
“Okay. So?”
He leaned away from her. “So? Well, damn, Gracie, that’s kinda a bullshit mid-life transition.” He gaped at her poker face. “So, I guess it’s goodbye. Detective work is done.”
“Doesn’t follow.”
A headache stirred. “Doesn’t follow? Gracie, I’m done. Blacklisted. The detective who made a mockery of his precinct. In front of the nation. Wouldn’t matter if I cured cancer. That shit just doesn’t fly.”
Got to be a guilt thing.
“Look, none of this is on you. Okay? I knew the risks. I took them. Now we move on. We did good, yeah? Something positive we can take from—”
“Of course it’s on me.”
“No, that’s wrong. There’s—”
“Still doesn’t follow.”
Sacker sighed. Her eyes bored into his.
Get out of my soul, woman!
“One thing I need to know, Gracie.”
She edged forward. He looked away.
“The day you took my blood. It wasn’t for experimental controls like you said, was it?”
“No.”
Stop looking at me!
“So, that’s how you knew for sure,” he exhaled. “That I was immune.”
“Tyrell, I’m sorry, but I—I was worried. About what might happen.”
Don’t you fucking tear up, Tyrell. “Yeah, I see now. But it’s no good.”
His vision blurred. Hopeless. He jumped from his seat and grabbed his Bailey Ice Topper and coat, turning away from her.
“Tyrell, wait!”
He pulled the handle and swung the door open, ignoring her cry and pushing into the crowd of surprised faces. Gone struggle behind him, the cane clacking, the steps heavy and awkward.
“Tyrell!”
The tone sent a shiver through him. He stopped, ashamed. Forcing her to labor behind, cry out in front of a public crowd. But he still couldn’t face her.
“Gracie, please,” he said, his back to her. “This just makes it harder.”
“You don’t need to go.”
Don’t need to go? He heard her clumsy motion approaching. Stop!
“Yes, I do. It’s over.”
“No. Maybe you can’t work for law enforcement. But you can still solve crimes. You don’t have to stop being a detective!”
The cane rested from its noisy ticks. Sacker sensed her behind him. Still he didn’t turn.
“How, Gracie?”
Her hand rested on his arm.
“Work for me.”
“What would the people of the earth be without woman? They would be scarce, sir, almighty scarce.”
Mark Twain
INTEL 1 Thrillers: Omnibus, Books 1-4
“STEBBINS IS THE MASTER OF THE THINKING READER’S TECHNO-THRILLER.” —Internet Review of Books
Four Action Packed Political Thrillers. Three Armageddon Scenarios. Two Unusual Love Stories. One Secretive Intelligence Branch.
“A MONSTER NEW TALENT IN THE
THRILLER GENRE."
—Allan Leverone, author of Final Vector
LEARN MORE
INTEL 1 Audiobooks

Book 1: A Western terrorist organization targets Muslims around the world, and FBI agent John Savas must put aside the loss of his son and work with a man who symbolizes all he has come to hate. Both are drawn into a race against time to stop the plot of an American bin Laden and prevent a global catastrophe. PURCHASE.
Book 2: A rogue CIA agent uncovers a shocking conspiracy deep in the intelligence community. A killer pursues a terrible vengeance. No one emerges unscathed, no beliefs go unchallenged, and no wrong escapes the terrible, final, and extraordinary retribution. PURCHASE.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Erec Stebbins is a biomedical researcher who writes thrillers, science fiction, mysteries, and more.
He was born in the Midwest. His mother
worked as a clinical psychologist, and his father was a professor of Romance languages at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln. In fact, his father’s specialty, old Romance languages and their literature, is the source of the strange spelling of his middle name: "Erec." It is an Old French spelling, taken from an Arthurian romance by Chrétien de Troyes written around 1170: Érec et Énide.
He has pursued diverse interests over the course of his life, including science, music, drama, and writing. His academic path focused on science, and he received a degree in physics from Oberlin College in 1992, and a PhD in biochemistry from Cornell University in 1999. He completed postdoctoral studies at Yale University. He has worked for several decades studying the atomic structure of biological macromolecules involved in disease.
For more information:
www.erecstebbinsbooks.com
erecstebbinsbooks@gmail.com
"WORKS THAT NURTURE WONDER AND BREAK HEARTS" —Foreword Reviews
FOREWORD BOOK OF THE YEAR FINALIST
READER, WRITER, and MAKER: Speculative fiction trilogy with time travel, aliens, metaphysical mysteries, action, adventure, cosmology, cybernetics, religion, and romance!
"VISIONARY" and "ENTHRALLING"
—authors Richard Bunning and Norm Hamilton
LEARN MORE