Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5) Read online

  We’re almost at the safe house!

  Zaringhalam read her thoughts. “We shouldn’t go to the house. Not until this clears.”

  “We need to contact New York,” she said. “We’ve got the arms dealer. He’s one step from Mirnateghi herself!” Houston removed her Browning from an inside holster.

  Lopez put his hand on her shoulder, his firm grip calming.

  “We’re blind here, Sara. Isolated. Let’s be careful before we start shooting. Okay, hothead?”

  The corner of her mouth ticked upward. She holstered the weapon.

  “Yes,” whispered Zaringhalam, eyes darting between them and the approaching van. “Walk normally. Make no eye contact. They’ll pass by. We’re nobody.”

  They walked forward, the headlights blinding, Houston glancing away not to lose her night vision.

  The van did not pass by.

  “I don’t understand,” said Zaringhalam as the vehicle stopped, the brake engaged. Two men stepped out of the van in worn police uniforms. He dropped his voice. “Scammers? At night, here?”

  The men shouted in Farsi. Zaringhalam took the lead, walking toward them as Houston and Lopez hung back. Lopez spoke under his breath.

  “Like we practiced. I’m a foreign imam, you’re my wife, Nader is our host. We say nothing. If we’re engaged, we sterilize.”

  She nodded, adrenaline flowing like cold water to her extremities, sweat building under the fabric even in the chilly October night. The pitch of the discussion rose, Zaringhalam gesturing with both hands. The policemen stared over his head at them.

  “Okay, Francisco, the needle’s in the red. Get ready.”

  The men brushed aside the computer scientist and marched toward Lopez and Houston. They reached down.

  For weapons.

  Instinct took over and two raptors pounced. Their aggression startled the policemen, weapons kicked from their hands and clattering against the stones. Then the chaos flared in earnest.

  These can fight.

  Professionals, not random Iranian beat cops. The initial surprise gone, Houston’s target thrust her into a defensive mode, the man’s size and strength hard to counter. The move to disarm weakened her position, and her attacker pressed the opening. Vibrations from a battle beside her resonated, thundering impacts suggesting someone getting the upper hand.

  She fought for leverage, using her greater speed and flexibility, never giving the man a hard target.

  Just one slip, friend. I’ll give you a surprise.

  Bone cracked, splintered with an expulsion of air to her right. She ignored it, ignored the fate of her lover, and maintained her focus. But her foe wavered, his eyes darting toward the sound.

  Slip.

  Her Ka-Bar knife whistled as it cut the air. The man raised an arm in defense, but too late. The knife slashed his throat, major arteries severed. Blood burst from the wound and he fell to one knee, hands at his neck, gasping wide-eyed at a red river flowing down his arm. He collapsed. Houston tasted copper in the mist around them.

  Francisco.

  Her chest tightened as she spun in the direction of Lopez. She lowered the knife, exhaling. He clenched and unclenched his fist, knuckles red and inflamed. At his feet lay the unconscious form of the other policeman. His lower jaw jutted to the side of his face.

  Zaringhalam sprinted over, his eyes wide. He stared at them and the downed forms of the policemen. Kneeling, he examined the bodies, avoiding the growing pool of blood.

  “Mary and Gabriel. God be praised. Your reputations are deserved.” He grimaced. “This one’s dead, of course. I think the other’s jaw is shattered.” He stared at Lopez. “You’re a strong man.” Turning back to the bodies, he ripped the tattered shirts open, revealing body armor underneath. “Shākh dar āvordam!”

  Houston knelt beside him, the energy rushing from her body, her voice hoarse. “Okay, Nader, who the hell are these guys? And don’t tell me police.”

  “No, not the police. But they were meant to seem so. The black kevlar underneath, their skills? They’re NOPO.” He looked back to her and held her gaze. “You’ve been compromised.”

  Lopez’s bass reverberated over them. “The NOPO?”

  “Yes!” he said. “Iranian special forces. Under the NAJA, the special police units. Such men do not patrol run-down sections of Tehran. They are put on missions. They take out serious targets. Someone powerful is looking for you.”

  Houston stood and wiped the knife on the dead man’s shirt. “Mirnateghi. Iran’s her home base. She’s like an octopus here, tentacles in everything.”

  Zaringhalam also stood, clouds of air puffing between clattering teeth. “So you say. Until tonight, I admit I was skeptical. But if she can control the NOPO, well, she controls Iran.”

  Lopez grunted. “She used to control a lot more than that.”

  The Iranian glanced up and down the street. “You were wise to stop them without shots fired, but we’ll have to move to the other safe house. This neighborhood’s dead to us now.”

  Houston pointed. “Pull them inside, off the streets. Tie this one up. Search them and the van for GPS devices. We move to the second location, tonight. But first we contact New York.” She glanced toward the idling van. “Things are moving fast now.”

  3

  Man Parts

  Detective Tyrell Sacker pulled the dilapidated Crown Victoria to the curb and sighed.

  Yellow police tape was all over the picturesque Upper East Side brownstones near Central Park. The flashing lights of police cruisers blinded him in the early morning darkness. Pedestrians strained from a distance to glimpse the victim. Flashes burst from windows above, the upper crust Manhattanites documenting the grisly scene at their doorstep. They were likely tweeting them already.

  And pictures of the lanky black dude at the crime scene.

  He’d lost count of how many times he’d been mistaken for a suspect.

  Sacker grunted as he eased his six-two frame out of the vehicle. At thirty-five, telltale signs of age simmered in his muscles and joints. Two tours in Iraq, shrapnel wound in the thigh—easier to take at twenty-two than yesterday’s workout. His younger self took a personal oath to stay in fighting shape, not understanding the future struggle.

  The alcohol isn’t helping either, Tyrell.

  He grabbed his vintage Bailey Ice Topper hat, slammed the door, and marched toward a man and woman shivering beside the tape. Two assistant detectives he’d been saddled with. Their young faces were slack, blank. Shock flooded them. The pair weren’t ready for this.

  I need to take charge.

  He fitted the hat on his head.

  “Morning, detectives,” he said, rubbing a hand across his smooth cheek. Sacker rarely needed to shave. “Got the boss up early for this one. What we got?”

  The two parted, saying nothing, allowing him to peer into the center of yellow tape. The crime scene did enough talking for the both of them, a corpse staged as some spectacle of street art. Naked, propped up on stacked bags of garbage, the victim rested with his back to the plastic, arms and legs splayed out. Bruises covered the skin from head to foot like some purple Rorschach test. But it was what was absent that focused all attention.

  “Well, damn.” Sacker turned a piercing gaze toward his trainees.

  “Garbage crew found him this morning,” said one of the pale detectives.

  “Just like this?”

  The young man swallowed, his blond hair disheveled in the wind. “Ah, yeah. No clothes. Someone beat the shit out of him. And, um, missing, well, you know, his man-parts.”

  Sacker grimaced. I need a smoke. “Man-parts? New jargon they teaching you at the Academy?”

  The pair squirmed.

  He turned to the male. “Snyder, right?”

  “Ah, yes, sir.” The kid looked seasick. Nothing like a mutilated body at dawn to get those stomach juices churning.

  Sacker eyed the woman. “Hill?”

  “Kathy Hill, sir, yes.”

 
“Ladner wants me to babysit you two. That’s fine. But my case load isn’t always pretty. You’re gonna see scenes like this,” he gestured toward the body. “You gotta be able to handle it or ask for a transfer. Am I clear?”

  They nodded.

  “So let’s game up. Act professional. Look on the hard things.” He smiled. “You’re detectives for some reason, I assume. I trust your reports will have real medical terms?”

  “Yes, sir,” they stammered.

  “Right.” Sacker shook his head, donning nitrile gloves and coverings over his shoes. He exhaled soft clouds in the late October chill, stepping over the tape. “Where’s the medical examiner?”

  “En route,” said Hill

  “This one’s sure gonna break the monotony.” He crouched beside the body, his head inches from the gaping wound in the groin. “There’s no blood here at all,” he muttered, voice monotone. “Those man-parts—yeah, looks like they were cut out.” The young detectives struggled to look at the body. “Damn. Just a big, clotted hole.”

  Snyder coughed. “No clothes. No ID. Nothing.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “Just the garbage guys,” Hill noted. Her voice was a mellow alto. “Body was already here. No one saw the murder.”

  “Hmmm.” Sacker straightened. “John Doe was certainly murdered, but not here. Our killer worked the poor bastard over something fierce. Mutilated him, then dumped him in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Manhattan.”

  Hill frowned. “Doesn’t make any sense, sir. Why leave the body where it’s certain to be found?”

  Sacker removed his gloves and stepped outside the tape. First day of criminology 101. He needed another coffee.

  And a damn smoke.

  “Why indeed? Unless you want it to be found.”

  Hill furrowed her brows. “Why would the killer want the body to be found?”

  “Look at the crime scene. Most bodies I’ve come across are in dumpsters, the river, or some alley or room where the perp capped them. Crimes of passion are in random places. More careful killers use the trash. Usually, that’s as clever and far as they go. Here the vic’s propped like porn. Sure to catch everyone’s attention, especially considering the whole missing man-parts problem.”

  “Killer’s making a statement,” said Hill. Snyder glanced at Sacker for confirmation.

  “Why else? Our killer wanted the world to know about this murder and to utterly humiliate the victim. One nasty piece of work. I’m going to call the captain.”

  The two young detectives scribbled on notepads as Sacker took out his cell phone. He tapped the screen to make a call. A reddening sky signaled the creeping dawn.

  “Yeah, Ladner? It’s Sacker at the 92nd crime scene.” Sacker listened. “Yes, Sutherland’s on his way. He’s going to have a party over this one—not that his ass ever saw a party.” Again the silence. “Right. Well, it’s pretty bad. I’d say newsworthy, if you get my drift. Every damn phone’s popping like Christmas. It’ll be everywhere in a few hours.”

  Several police vehicles approached and additional officers got out. With them strutted a tall, older man in a lab coat, issuing orders with gentle points of his finger.

  Sacker frowned. “Speak of the devil. Sutherland’s here. Full I’m-a-doc mode. I’ll let you go and brief you at the precinct.” Sacker kept the phone to his ear as the tall doctor approached him. “What do I think?” He smirked at Hill and Snyder, who hung on his words. “No disrespect intended to any man-parts involved, looks like we’ve got a Bobbitt on ‘roids.”

  He winced at the first arrival of news vans.

  4

  Gone to the Office

  Grace Gone pulled the rusting Jetta to a stop in front of a run-down block in Astoria, Queens. The car sputtered to silence and she glanced at the bent sign beside the curb: two-hour parking after nine. She’d leave it the whole day. The traffic cops only cared about Manhattan and other upscale locations. Where the fines got paid. Where you wouldn’t get shot.

  She yanked down the sun visor and slid the mirror cover to the side. Passable. Bordering on graduate student, but it would have to do. Besides, without clients, what did it matter?

  She flipped the visor up, gathering the river of black from her shoulders and stuffing it into a ponytail. She tried to suppress the afterimage. Vietnamese features on a Chinese girl brought schoolyard bullying in Shanghai. Photos populated with pale skin and a mouth forever assuming a pensive pout. Gone couldn’t abide makeup, but longed for more color. She always looked tired.

  You always are tired, Gracie.

  The hinges groaned harshly as she opened the door. Her left leg stumbled and jerked from the floorboard and she swung the right leg over, planting it on the ground as an anchor. Falling was losing its novelty, and she wasn’t going to test the strength of the poor limb again. Grasping the steering wheel in her right hand and the seat in her left, she propelled herself upward.

  Steady as she goes.

  Gone closed the door, prayed for a desperate car thief to pass by, and limped from the curb to her office door. A bright, new sign hung over the entrance, black lettering on a white background: Gone Investigating, LLC.

  She unlocked the door and eased her way inside. Spartan, musty, and creaky, her office was the converted husk of a family home. She intended the living room for the queue of clients yet to queue up. Dust covered the secondhand furniture—a couch and several chairs—and danced in the morning sunbeams. To the right a door led to her office. Half a century ago, it had served as a kitchen for a growing family. Stripped of counters and ovens, only the sealed gas lines revealed its origins. A small, round carpet of faded brown rested in front of an uneven IKEA desk of matching color.

  Damn, this is getting harder.

  She limped toward the desk, dropped her keys and mail, and fell backward into the chair with a sigh. Nine in the morning and she wanted to quit. Forget the fatigue, she couldn’t get a serious client or case into her docket. She knew starting out was hard. She knew it took time to build a reputation. But, she had to start somewhere.

  And how much time do I really have?

  A few missing animal cases. A jealous pervert who wanted to hire her to take porn videos of his ex-girlfriend and her new lover. And her personal favorite, a man who offered real money to investigate whether he’d been cloned by aliens and determine if he occupied his original body.

  “Should have taken the clone case,” she muttered, tilting the chair forward and flipping through her mail. He at least had money.

  Instead, she had bills. Licensing fees for her agency. Oh, God, rent. Car insurance she stopped paying. Not much use for that anymore, I think. Coupons (she set those to the side). Three or four useless catalogs. One by one she chucked them into the garbage.

  She stopped, staring at one aimed at upwardly mobile yuppies who swarmed Brooklyn and Queens. The clothes were fashionable yet reserved, attractive without being provocative, practical rather than designed to uncomfortably accentuate body parts. She liked this catalog. She liked the clothes. She wanted to order several boxes of things.

  Gone tossed it into the garbage and opened her laptop.

  A series of scripts ran, automatically culling news and headlines from the online universe. World politics, gang violence, another political sex scandal. She flew through the articles of interest at light-speed. Using a pirated version of a speed-reading app, she focused on one region of the screen. Words flashed like machine-gun rounds. Her eyes stationary, she halved the time to process printed language. Gone digested four thousand words a minute, racing through the day’s information in a fraction of the time anyone else would spend.

  Her hand hovered over the trackpad as she stared forward. A large and bold headline covered the top of the screen: Junk Male: Killer Castrates Manhattan Man. Grisly photos accompanied the New York Post article. Gone leaned back in the chair and pressed her fingertips together.

  I need this.

  A game-changer. Something loud and big an
d interesting to plant her flag as a PI. She didn’t care if it came from the garish Post or sounded like a bad summer slasher. Something big. Something forever linked to her name, ensuring a steady flood of customers for her unique services. Of course, the point was to bring in other interesting cases, spread her reputation, increase her earnings.

  Survive.

  Her head crashed on the desk. I’ll never change. One dream after another to secure her now dwindling future. A desperate need to contribute, to make up for so much, to use her talents for good.

  Meanwhile, I’m about to be evicted.

  Gone’s soft brown eyes peered above the fold of her arm and stared at the Post headline.

  “So who’s the lucky bastard who got this case?”

  5

  Phone Home

  Two forms slumped in a closet, one pale as snow, a large and clotted gash across his throat, the front of his shirt a giant blood stain. The other bound with wire, his shattered jaw roped with one of Houston’s black hijabs.

  It was a good thing the safe house was close. That it was late. That no one was out this hour in this section of Tehran. Somehow, they managed to drag the bodies in without being seen.

  We were just lucky.

  Lopez closed the prayer book and made the sign of the cross over the body of the dead man.

  “In your mercy and love, blot out the sins he has committed through human weakness. In this world he has died; let him live with you forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord.”

  Zaringhalam whispered to Lopez. “He’s a Muslim. Why do you offer this Christian prayer?”

  Lopez stared at the corpse. “For souls to find peace. I don’t give a damn how they find it.” He shut the door of the closet and turned to the center of the cramped apartment. “He’s not going to wake for a few hours. Besides, I don’t think he’ll be saying much.”

  “Ceremony’s over,” barked Houston. “Peace sounds nice, but I’m not ready for my soul to find it quite yet.”