Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5) Read online

  She crouched in the middle of the dim space, windows covered with cloth, a large and battered briefcase opened to reveal computer hardware. A collapsible antenna rose a foot and a half over the table, connected to the case. For Lopez, the sight of her lithe form sprawled over the computer in a cramped hideout triggered memories of a dark time. Hotel rooms and car chases. Murder and mayhem. A time of desperate flight from authorities trying to stop a toxic CIA program run out of control. A time when he’d lost everything—his brother, his church, his former life. When I found her.

  Zaringhalam slapped him on the shoulder. The Iranian hacker gesticulated, talking shop.

  “You’re using a nested series of key encryptions to connect. Fairly secure, but not perfect. We’ve broken a lot of them at the IRGC.”

  “We do use better, but that’s Angel’s department,” Houston answered. “She set up all the secret digital handshakes that fly through the satellites.”

  “Who is Angel?” He glanced at Lopez. “You? You’re called Gabriel.”

  “I’m not Angel. I’m just called one.” His face was expressionless.

  Houston smiled as she typed. “Who is Angel? Now that’s a question. Right now, let’s just say she’s a contingency.”

  “Angel, Gabriel, and Mary.” The Iranian shook his head. “I never knew dealing with the Great Satan would be such a religious experience. Anyway, for your short communications bursts, your setup is secure enough.”

  “There’s also organic,” said Houston.

  “Organic?”

  She frowned at him. “Pretty standard for field work in hostile settings. Memorized lists of phrases and facts. Code words to indicate status. Nothing proceeds until the right combination of codes and status information is received on both ends. Code lists are rotated.”

  He grinned. “Paranoid. I like it.”

  “Life and secret saving.”

  Lopez leaned over, staring at the screen. “And about to be implemented.” Knock, knock, New York.

  The monitor flickered and transitioned from random static to a man’s rasterized face.

  “Captain Overlord, sir,” said Houston, smirking.

  Former FBI agent John Savas frowned on the screen. “Seriously, Mary, Angel is bad enough with that crap. I assume Gabriel is there.”

  “All the hosts of heaven.”

  Zaringhalam whispered to Lopez. “Is this the organic part?”

  Lopez held his finger to his lips.

  “Protocol, Fearless Leader,” said Houston.

  Savas cursed under his breath. “It’s all Greek to me. Broadcasting from under a very rotten apple. I’m with the Jew and the gun-toting CEO. We’re flatlined.”

  “Mary and Gabriel here. FUBAR as normal. Area 51, but we’re hoping ET.”

  Savas nodded. “All clear. So, you’ve got company.”

  “Boss’s CIA liaison,” said Houston.

  “CEO’s following this closely in the command room,” said Savas.

  “Tell her he’s been instrumental.”

  An older woman’s voice sounded over the video feed.

  “I read you loud and clear,” said President York. “He came highly recommended. Do you trust him?”

  “We have to. We’re deaf and mute here. He’s our only way to Mirnateghi.”

  Savas cut in. “We know she’s there. We lost good agents tracking her after Bilderberg. She’s the last, and a hell of a chase she’s given us. That monster leaves a trail of bodies wherever she goes.”

  Lopez spoke up. “Her operation is more extensive than we thought. She controls elite forces in the country. Her reach is to the highest levels in the Iranian government.”

  A younger woman’s face appeared on the monitor.

  “Jew speaking,” said Rebecca Cohen. “Your contact okay with that?” Her eyes burned.

  Zaringhalam stared at the intense face and swallowed. “Yes, of course. We have Jews in Iran, you know.”

  “Less than ten thousand left,” said Cohen. “Your oil money went to Hezbollah. They blew up a bus killing half my extended family.”

  He swallowed again. “Not my oil money.”

  “But moving on. You said you’ve got an in.”

  Houston spoke. “Reza Zanjani.”

  “The executive?” asked Cohen.

  “He’s much more,” said Zaringhalam, eyes darting to the screen. “His black market business includes arms and tech smuggling. Spyware. State secrets.”

  York spoke. “There were rumors. But links to Bilderberg? How deep did that damn organization go?”

  “We’ll never find out everything,” said Cohen. “Tell us about Zanjani.”

  Lopez spoke. “Your contact hacked a list of connections out of some deep web cache. Looks like he’s been on Mirnateghi’s books for some time. She aimed to rival Bilderberg itself.”

  “Nemesis had ambitions,” said Houston.

  Zaringhalam furrowed his brows. “Nemesis?”

  “Her code name within Bilderberg,” said Lopez. “She tends to extract vengeance on anyone who messes with her.” He turned back to the monitor. “We’ve arranged through Zaringhalam’s contacts to meet for a potential sale of highly classified NSA equipment.”

  “How’d you get him to agree to do that?” asked Savas. “You’re nobodies. No history.”

  Lopez laughed. “You’d be surprised what US gear the Iranian government already has in its lockers. Our hacker here picked out some choice equipment for a sample and knows the lingo and needs. Sounds like Zanjani was practically salivating.”

  “Sounds like Nemesis is getting a little desperate,” said Cohen.

  Houston shrugged. “Bilderberg’s collapsed. So has their infrastructure. She’s isolated. We have to get to her before she can regroup and rebuild.”

  “We’ll bag him at the meeting,” said Lopez. “Your contact was skeptical at first,” he said, glancing toward the Iranian, “but I think we’ve convinced him we can do the job.”

  York replied. “The special forces team we smuggled in place might help a little.”

  Zaringhalam’s eyebrows twitched upwards. “Special forces? How did you do that?”

  Lopez ignored him. “Angel’s with them and will coordinate. Now we just need to get our man.”

  York leaned forward, her expression stern. “And what do you plan to do with him?”

  Lopez set his jaw. “Nothing a CEO need know about.”

  “Not sure that’s the kind of leader I want to be, whatever this monster’s crimes. But the way things are going with this election, you might just get a very different one come January. We might all need to think about that and about what we are leaving behind.”

  “If we don’t stop Nemesis, Bilderberg might return,” Houston said. “Whatever the campaign rhetoric, that’s what we have to fear the most.”

  York sighed. “Maybe. Regardless, Mirnateghi’s on our watch. Stop her.”

  “We will,” said Lopez. “We have to.”

  6

  Eye for an Eye

  “Jack the Reaper,” said Hill, dropping a folder on Sacker’s desk. Snyder frowned at her as she beamed at the two men. “Prints are a lock.”

  Sacker sighed. “Why have the gods so favored me?”

  He’d resigned himself to the new operational structure Captain Ladner had imposed. Mentor Hill and Snyder, two young cops who just made detective. Sacker hoped Ladner might balk at this murder case and bench them. Instead, his chief declared it the perfect learning environment. Get them up to speed.

  And slow me down.

  He studied the trainees. The brunette Hill attracted his interest. Little Latina in that one. Tall, athletic, Bronx Science and CUNY graduate, she was bright. She was good-looking. She had charisma to spare, a sense of humor and a wholesome look putting many at ease. Rick Snyder was another story. The blond kid wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He tended to get under the skin with stupid questions.

  Sacker turned to the desk and opened the folder. He double-che
cked Hill’s work, scanning through the forensics summary. But there wasn’t any doubt.

  “Good ol’ Jack,” he said with a laugh. “I’m not going to say he didn’t have it coming, but, damn! That had to hurt.”

  “Wait,” said Snyder, forever two steps behind. “You mean the Bronx rapist?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” Sacker unwrapped his nicotine gum and popped it like candy. “Who else?” he mumbled, tossing the wrapper into a wastebasket. “Terrorized the city for three damn years. We’ll never know how many women he raped.”

  “Did you catch him?” asked Snyder. Hill rolled her eyes.

  “No, not my case. Hell, not my generation—I’m not that old. I’d just joined the force. But it was a public relations disaster for the department. Then he started hitting high society types. Forget about that. The commissioner was asked to resign. The mayor nearly lost the election. All because of old Jack.” Sacker exhaled. “But that’s how they got him. Dim alleys and poor prostitutes are one thing. Park Avenue debutantes are a whole different hornet’s nest.”

  A booming voice cut in behind them. “Seems like something else did him in, Detective.”

  Sacker rose. “Captain.”

  The stout form of Mike Ladner stood before them, hands on his hips, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lighting. He spit out his phrases like gunfire.

  “Damn press is having a field day with this. Sacker, I want this investigated quickly, quietly, with no bones to the press. Snyder, Hill—best to watch detective Sacker closely, do whatever the hell he tells you to do. All we need is more fuel for this fire. Understood? Good! With any luck, this will quiet down and you can conduct an actual investigation.”

  “We’re still waiting for the forensics, sir,” said Sacker. He held Ladner’s gaze.

  Ladner rolled his eyes and turned toward his office. “I’ll call Sutherland. Every damn thing’s got to be drama with him.”

  “Sutherland?” asked Snyder.

  “The Medical Examiner,” Hill responded. “Tall old guy. Practically acted like we didn’t exist on the elevator.”

  “That’s Sutherland,” said Sacker, easing back into his chair at Lander’s departure. “He’s good enough at his job to keep it, but not to be parading around the damn precinct like he’s Albert Einstein. But we’ve got to talk with him about the autopsy.” Back to criminology 101. “In any murder case, the victim’s body is usually a key part of the evidence, both in identifying the killer and cause of death, also in the trial. In this case, it’s all we have. Reaper was killed somewhere else and we might never have access to the crime scene. The body may be all we have to go on.”

  “What do you think happened, sir?” asked Snyder. “What’s your theory?”

  Sacker sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It’s way too early to speculate seriously. Dangerous to get too involved with a pet hypothesis with little data. But if I had to guess, I’d bet on a revenge killing. How many women did this perp violate? Gotta be at least one who’s thought about hitting back.”

  “He served time,” said Snyder.

  “Sometimes that isn’t enough for a vic. But there are other possibilities.”

  “Like what?” asked Hill.

  “Boyfriend or husband of a vic. Some men have a caveman response to their wife or daughter being raped. I’ve seen it before. Usually they just grab a gun and do something stupid that gets them hurt or locked up. But maybe we had a more careful crazy here.”

  Hill nodded. “The mutilation seems more than just coincidence for Jack the Reaper.”

  “Exactly,” said Sacker. “Serial rapist murdered with his junk removed. You don’t exactly have many ways to make a stronger statement than that.” He crossed his legs. “At least I hope there aren’t.”

  7

  Flash and Bang

  Sara Houston strapped several magazines full of ammunition to the inner pockets of her black abaya. She fastened a layer of dark fabric over them and adjusted the body armor beneath.

  She glared at the Iranian hacker. “If Nemesis knows we’re here, this could be a trap.”

  Zaringhalam tried not to stare as the two lined up weapons and devices on the small table between them.

  “Of course. I am not stupid,” he muttered. But joining this pair in whatever they planned? He was indeed beginning to question his intelligence.

  Lopez swept to the side two flash-bang grenades to make room for firearms. He scowled. “What are the odds that Nemesis spills secrets to someone so far down in her pipeline? An arms dealer?”

  Houston fitted knives and throwing stars into slots in black boots. She stood straight, the fringes of her abaya flowing down to cover everything but the toes. Her brown-tinted eyes flashed.

  “Trap is definitely a possibility,” emphasized the former priest.

  She pressed her body against Lopez and grabbed his head with both hands, bringing his mouth to hers.

  Zaringhalam couldn’t look away, not sure what was more disconcerting. Was it the cold lethality in their actions or its juxtaposition with such a passionate disregard for proper norms? Embracing like the world was about to end?

  Maybe for them, it’s always near.

  “No way to know,” she said, pulling away breathless. “So, the usual. Prep for the worst. Hope for the best.”

  “Lord hear our prayer.” He stashed the grenades and grabbed two handguns from the table.

  “You both have enough weapons to arm a squad,” mumbled Zaringhalam.

  Lopez scanned the street from a small window. He nodded to Houston. She sighed and moved to the door, grasping the handle.

  “He’s wise to us or not, one thing’s for sure: he won’t go quietly.” She opened the door. “Let’s move.”

  Houston vanished into the misty October evening. Lopez strode forward and past the Iranian without a glance. Zaringhalam stared ahead and wiped sweat from his forehead. He exhaled and followed the pair outside.

  Madness.

  There were no formal introductions outside the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Tehran. No names spoken, no checks for weapons. Security for the arms dealers was found in the overwhelming show of force: men with automatic weapons in a semicircle around a thin executive in an Armani suit.

  Three enigmas faced the thugs across a span of ten feet. The broad shape of Lopez on the far left, his mass palpable even at a distance. The lanky form of Zaringhalam trembled in the middle. And on the right, the strangest sight of all: a woman. Houston’s garments blended with the darkness, the tension of her body coiling outward like an electric field.

  Breaths danced in the chilled air. The moon ducked behind an encroaching cold front, the main light the beams of the BMW idling behind the dealer.

  “That him?” Houston whispered, eyes focused on the killers.

  Zaringhalam swallowed. “Yes. Reza Zanjani. CEO of the MW Group.”

  “Chief supplier to Nemesis,” said Lopez.

  “Not a man to be crossed idly,” hissed Zaringhalam. His teeth chattered.

  “Six guards, closely spaced. Perfect orientation and distance.” She flicked her head toward Zaringhalam. “Clock’s running. You’re on, cowboy.”

  Zaringhalam felt his stomach drop. He longed for religion, the warm comfort of eternal certainty. What did grandmother use to say to us at night? Now was the time for a prayer to come to mind, anything to calm his nerves.

  Instead, he cleared his throat and stepped forward, pulling a wheeled suitcase. Houston and Lopez remained motionless as he approached Zanjani. The men with weapons aimed in his direction. Zaringhalam paused, holding his arms up, forcing a smile that hurt his face.

  “Salam. Asr bekheyr,” he opened in Farsi.

  Zanjani did not move. He replied in the same language. “Who are those two? You never mentioned others! What’s a woman doing here?”

  “Americans,” he said, his attempted shrug a short spasm. “Bebakhshid. No sense of propriety. But they have access to the tech. We cannot always choose our su
ppliers.” He held the face-splitting grin. His bladder ached.

  “They look like assassins.”

  “They live dangerous lives.”

  The CEO muttered to the guards, who trained their weapons on Lopez and Houston, ignoring the hacker.

  “Show me the merchandise.”

  Zaringhalam froze, his smile failing.

  And now it plays.

  A forgotten fragment of prayer returned. He begged to God these insane Americans knew what they were doing. The area’s most ruthless dealer didn’t show mercy.

  He bent down and opened the suitcase, the contents facing the dealer. He stepped behind the case and tried to make himself as small as possible.

  The CEO twitched toward the case. A henchman approached, his eyes darting between the contents and the dark forms behind Zaringhalam. The man looked inside, turned to Zanjani, and nodded.

  Zanjani stepped forward, his entourage of guards shadowing him, weapons at the ready, their forms tense and prepared for any assault. Lopez and Houston remained statues. Only Zaringhalam moved, shivering in the cold breeze, one hand after another reaching up to an ear, pressing, and repeating.

  Crouching, Zanjani reached into the case, removing a fist-sized bundle of circuit boards. He studied the devices, turning them over in his hands. The guards around leaned in to glimpse the prize sought. Zanjani smiled.

  Now, damn it! Zaringhalam spun away from the suitcase.

  A dark shadow of his form materialized as he crouched, the ground around lit like a lightning strike. Even with the earplugs, the blast stunned the hacker, knocking him to his knees. He looked back toward the Americans.

  But now they sprinted forward, blurred, cats-eyes rushing past him with weapons in their hands. Time slowed. He tracked them rocketing past, metallic glints from Houston whistling through the mist, slow-motion explosions of gunfire from Lopez. Before Zaringhalam turned, stumbled to his feet, and focused his spinning head, it was over.

  The guards were down. Four motionless, two thrashing on the ground. One gurgled with a razored star in his jugular. CEO Zanjani screamed on his knees, hands over his eyes. Powder burns darkened his fingers.