Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5) Read online

  Androcide

  Intel 1, Book 5

  Erec Stebbins

  Contents

  INTEL 1 SERIES

  Content Guide

  Dedication

  I. DEAD AND GONE

  1. Reaper

  2. Tehran

  3. Man Parts

  4. Gone to the Office

  5. Phone Home

  6. Eye for an Eye

  7. Flash and Bang

  8. One Small Step

  9. Out of Champagne

  10. Serial Killer

  11. Gone Shooting

  12. Just a Taste

  13. Daily News

  14. Zanjani

  15. Gone Fishing

  16. Gone Postal

  17. Best Laid Plans

  18. Loadstone

  19. Here Today, Gone Tomorrow

  20. Azadi Tower

  21. Going, Going, Gone

  22. Mission Failure

  23. Demagogue

  24. Gone Under

  II. TOO FAR GONE

  25. Gone Wrong

  26. Dropoff

  27. Prisoners

  28. Divine Intervention

  29. Birth Control

  30. Gone All In

  31. Flying Low

  32. Gone Mental

  33. Naraka

  34. Half-a-Dozen!

  35. Connections

  36. Gone On

  37. Gone Dark

  38. Gone To Seed

  39. Paper Trail

  40. Schrodinger’s Immigrant

  41. Torchbearer

  42. Conspiracy Theories

  43. Blue-eyed Angel Man

  44. Drug Lords Don’t Sequence DNA

  45. Stakeout

  46. Holy Zombie Apocalypse, Batman

  47. R Naught

  III. GONE VIRAL

  48. Old Friends

  49. Gone Moggy

  50. Gone Rogue

  51. Fallen Angel

  52. Volunteers

  53. Killer Promises

  54. Their Fill of Ambrosia

  55. Gone Mental

  56. Gone Haywire

  57. A Goner

  58. Androcide

  59. Cassandra Blues

  60. Y-Linked

  61. Election Night

  62. Dyer Straits

  63. Fresh from the Juicer

  64. Quarantine

  65. Scandal

  66. Sacked

  67. Under New Management

  68. Fugitives (again)

  69. Hell and Gone

  INTEL 1 Omnibus

  INTEL 1 Audiobooks

  About the Author

  Daughter of Time SCIFI Trilogy

  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

  Only one thing is impossible for God: to find any sense in any copyright law on the planet.—Mark Twain

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Androcide. Copyright © 2017 Erec Stebbins

  Published 2017 by Twice Pi Press, erecstebbinsbooks.com

  Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by Erec Stebbins. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image, may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

  Cover design by Erec Stebbins © 2017.

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-942360-32-2

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-942360-31-5

  Content Guide

  This novel contains depictions and references to events and ideas that some will find disturbing, including, but not limited to, sexual assault, battery, murder, imprisonment, captivity, severe illness, pain, fear, medical procedures, torture, and war. There is also profanity and strong language, the challenging of some accepted norms, and the questioning of different kinds of authority, religious and secular. It could be rated PG-13, R, or even NC-17 in the Motion Picture Association of America film rating system. The book also contains religion, partisan politics, Oxford commas, and an unnecessary number of tpyos and, grammer misteaks. Readers are asked to prepare accordingly.

  To Mark Ward

  for fond high school memories

  of vigorously debating

  the relative merits of the genders

  also for taking turns

  drop-kicking copies of “Great Expectations”

  into our lockers after class

  “An evolutionary arms race is a struggle between competing sets of co-evolving genes that develop adaptations and counter-adaptations against each other. The co-evolving gene sets may be in different species, as between a predator species and its prey, or a parasite and its host. One example of an evolutionary arms race is in the conflict between the sexes. Sexual antagonism represents an evolutionary conflict at a single or multiple [genetic] locus that contribute differentially to male and female fitness.”

  From the March 11, 2013 Wikipedia entries “Evolutionary arms race” and “Sexual conflict”

  Part I

  DEAD AND GONE

  “And Dinah the daughter of Leah, which she bare unto Jacob, went out to see the daughters of the land. And when Shechem the son of Hamor the Hivite, prince of the country, saw her, he took her, and lay with her, and defiled her. The sons of Jacob came out of the field when they heard it: and the men were grieved, and they were very wroth. They took each man his sword, and came upon the city boldly, and slew all the males.”

  —Genesis 34

  1

  Reaper

  The whore by the 7-Eleven was perfect.

  Too perfect, really. Wetback cunt with long black hair. Seventeen maybe unless that bucket of makeup lied. Goddamned chest nearly exploded out of the tight, zippered jumpsuit. And those round hips—he felt them under him while she screamed for help.

  Jack Reaper stepped out of the shadows. His hand reached casually into his pocket and he palmed the bills. Sadly, there would be no cries for help tonight.

  Can’t believe I have to pay these sluts now.

  He sure hated the bitches. They deserved what came to them. But after Attica, well, he wasn’t going back behind bars. He had to be smarter. He’d do her hard, get a little fun in. Maybe. But not too much. And he’d fucking pay.

  The whore sized him up across the street. Arcing her exposed breasts in his direction, she sauntered toward him, wisps of fog escaping her painted lips. He felt an erection stirring, and a burning need to grasp her throat, see the fear in her eyes.

  Too perfect.

  “You wanna party tonight?”

  Where did they get these lines? Whore school? Reaper licked his lips.

  She smiled. It was fake. “I know a nice place, ’round the corner.” She slid her arm around his waist and rested her hand in his pocket, long fingernails clawing near his groin. His breath deepened. “We’ll have a good time.”

  The pair left the wan radiance of the streetlights and walked along shuttered businesses.
Reaper watched drug pushers distributing product and other whores dancing for their Johns on the street. They approached the doorway of a neglected apartment building, the señorita pressing her hips against his. He scowled. It burned that she toyed with his body, flicked switches, pushed buttons and what could he do?

  Fucking pay.

  Once, I took what I wanted. I had control.

  He taught them lessons. Lessons they never, ever forgot.

  You get what you can now.

  She led him into the building, stopping at a ground-floor room. A filthy window overlooked trash and grime in the alley. The little whore rocked her hips side-to-side and smiled, her tongue to her teeth. Well, he would at least drive this car.

  “Unzip that. To your waist.”

  She dragged the zipper out and down. He throbbed, aroused from the teeth pops, her magnificent breasts a revelation erupting from the tight fabric. His mouth was a desert.

  “On your knees,” he managed.

  She complied, placing her purse on the ground beside her as she sank to the stained carpet. Gazing up at him, her big brown eyes and fake eyelashes and bounding breasts, it was utterly, completely, perfect.

  He remembered the blade.

  You still took it tonight, Jack.

  He approached. “Eat me, bitch. Slowly.”

  She grinned and unfastened his belt, dropping his pants to his ankles. She gasped as he yanked her hair back.

  I’m in charge.

  Reaper pulled harder. Like some little girl, she grabbed her purse for security. Her muscles tensed. The fear response blossoming. A thrill raced through him.

  It’s going to be a beautiful night.

  A sharp sting burned his left thigh.

  “Fuck!”

  He grabbed the leg, squeezing with both hands to stop the pain. The whore leapt backward, a miniaturized jet injector in her hand.

  What the hell?

  He gaped at the muscle, an inflamed circle bursting from his skin.

  “You bitch!” I’m really going to hurt this one. He stepped toward her.

  And fell on his face. His leg didn’t respond. He tried to stand, but couldn’t coordinate his motions. He slurred his words.

  “What’d th’you gib me?”

  She backed further away. Icy rivers ran up his leg through his body. He couldn’t speak. His hands twitched, refusing commands, muscles paralyzed. Only his thoughts flowed.

  Time dragged and stumbled. Words spilled toward him in waves.

  “Gave him the shot. Yeah, just like you said. He ain’t moved. Yeah, he’s breathin’. No, still awake. He’s lookin’ right at me. Now? Sure, yeah, unlocked.”

  What’s happening!

  Her zipper ripped across his consciousness. Heels clicked as she strutted past him, the disturbed air burning hypersensitive skin, the rough carpet on his face an agony. Drool dripped from his mouth, his leg a fire of a thousand needle pricks. His body twitched, helpless and alone.

  The door opened with a sound of heavy steps. Powerful hands lifted and tossed him on the bed like a postal package. My eyes are screwy. He couldn’t focus on the blurred giant. Her pimp? What was this thug doing here?

  He couldn’t ask. Couldn’t bargain for his life or whatever they wanted from him. He gazed helplessly as the shadowed figure removed several tools from a dark and heavy bag.

  Oh, God.

  But the tools weren’t for him. The shape turned to the window and disengaged the two sashes, a foul breeze pouring into the room. A long zippering sound tore at his ears. His vision darkened, a synthetic surface raked over his face. Hands shoved his body into a bag face first. A tightening of fabric and pressure on his back muffled the sounds outside.

  He was entombed.

  Reaper screamed, but nothing came out. He strained madly, but nothing moved. The strong arms raised him off the bed and onto a solid shoulder. He struggled to breathe. A dizzying lurch, and he was airborne, falling several feet to a painful landing on the trash in the alley.

  Someone landed heavily to his left, and jerked him upward like a sack of cement. An angry hinge screamed as doors opened, and the giant flung him to a hard floor. The doors slammed, rending the air.

  I’m going to die.

  His bones tingled, a fateful certainty like poison inside. How did this happen? His life crashed so terribly off course? He didn’t deserve this!

  Someone help me!

  A final hour remained for Jack Reaper to contemplate these mysteries. The vehicle coughed and started, lurching forward, disappearing into the night.

  2

  Tehran

  Sara Houston adjusted the folds of her custom abaya in the failing light of the Tehran sunset. Custom was a kind word. Her garment simulated Arabic tradition, not Persian, but function did not follow form. Combat ready, she’d designed it to give her complete flexibility and range of motion, the fabric a microfiber turning most bladed weapons. Hidden pockets lined the interior, storing unladylike contents.

  Like my Browning.

  A matching black niqab left only her eyes in view. The formal Islamic garb singled her out as conservative in comparison to more modern women sporting a manteau and stylish roosaris. But it covered her face and skin, hiding her Western appearance, and the full black fabric suggested men gaze elsewhere. For the new INTEL 1, secrecy was everything in this mission.

  So what else is new?

  Deception and concealment—Houston was well acquainted. Years of running, a fugitive plastered at the top of the FBI’s most wanted list, framed for terrorism and the assassination of the former VP of the United States, she was hardened to it all.

  At least the Iranians are clueless.

  Her lover and partner in crime, the former priest Francisco Lopez, walked beside her more openly in a rundown corner of Tehran’s District 14. The ramshackle neighborhood was isolated, a long walk from the metro lines.

  And state security cameras.

  His muscular frame strode through streets built by rural immigrants decades ago, his salt-and-pepper beard thick and trimmed like a cleric’s. His Central American bronze stood out even in former Persia, giving him the look of an Imam who worked construction on the side.

  A pace in front shuffled Nader Zaringhalam, a bookish and bent computer scientist who was their contact in Tehran. Zaringhalam worked in the covert Revolutionary Guards Corps with an elite collection of hackers who had targeted US banks, water, and power companies. A double agent, he sympathized with the West. Following a long tradition of Iranian revolutionaries, he resisted the ruling powers, funneling information to the CIA and other agencies. Rumors tagged him as instrumental to the Israeli malware destroying hundreds of uranium centrifuges a decade ago.

  INTEL 1 now had access to such assets. After the crippling cyberattack of the Anonymous hacker Fawkes, after his revelation of a global ruling conspiracy INTEL 1 helped bring down, President Elaine York had taken control of the decimated FBI special division. York buried INTEL 1 and resurrected it, creating a shadow corps of some of the most unorthodox and talented counterterrorism and espionage agents in the United States government.

  And not of the government.

  Houston smiled. What a scandal! Hunted terrorists, part of covert intelligence forces, answering only to the President. Their newfound power thrilled her. Lopez, the priest in him remaining despite excommunication, mulled the darker undercurrents. But Houston saw the possibilities. She liked to get things done.

  “This city never sleeps,” mumbled Lopez as vehicles raced along larger roadways surrounding them. “And it’s like every block is a new socio-economic sector.”

  Zaringhalam chuckled. “Yes, we have Rolexes and minarets. Drug addicts, prostitutes, and the Holy Qur’an. Much oil, no rivers, deserts, and a giant sea.” He gestured around them. “This neighborhood used to be called Beseem-E Najafabad. Peasants moved in for decades in the millions. Then the state decided it was too much and moved them out. Capitalism and socialism. Mountains and plateaus. Shahs
, revolutions, rich and poor, building up and earthquakes taking down.” He shook his head. “Only a fool tries to understand Tehran.”

  Headlights flashed as a van rounded the corner in front of them. Zaringhalam held up his hand.

  “Wait,” he hissed, ushering them off the road to the broken sidewalk. The lights bounced and flickered through the windows of parked cars. “Something isn’t right.”

  “What?” asked Houston.

  Zaringhalam eyed the approaching vehicle. “I’m not sure. See the antenna they tried to hide in the back? Not civilian.”

  Wonderful.

  Houston ground her teeth behind the abaya. Her eyes, blue turned dark brown from colored contacts, squinted down the road.