Agents of Chaos (Agents of Change #2)

Agents of Chaos

By Guy Harrison

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Guy Harrison

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

A huge thank you to fellow novelist Harrison Drake for serving as de facto editor for this book.

To my readers, whose passion inspires me to write every day.

To my dearest Lindsay, for putting up with my latest creation/obsession while carrying our first child.

And to my first-born son or daughter, for giving me a renewed sense of purpose. Too bad you won’t be able to read this for a couple of decades.

Table of Contents

Agents of Chaos

About the Author

Prologue

Outside Jackson Memorial Hospital, Veronica Lee runs through the parking lot, her body soaking in a driving, late afternoon thunderstorm.

Typical Miami.

She unlocks her rental car and sits behind the wheel before pulling out her cell phone and calling her superior, Heath Pendleton.

Hello?

I found her, Ronni says.

Elena Jimenez?

I got her room number and everything. How should I proceed?

Don’t.

What?

I said don’t proceed.

Why?

You haven’t the slightest, do you?

Um, I’m guessing no.

Calvin Newsome did it.

Did what?

He stole the Arrowhead.

Ronni gasps and sits back in her seat. What? How?

Went right in to A of I headquarters and took the bloody thing.

Are you s—does he still have it?

No. It’s in two pieces at the bottom of the Jackie Onassis Reservoir.

How do you know?

Tried using your power lately?

Well, no, but I … She holds her forehead between her thumb and pointer finger while she bears the gravity of Pendleton’s announcement.

Calvin’s changed everything, Ronni.

Her jaw tightens. What about Elena?

What about her?

I’m in the parking lot. How should I proceed?

Abort.

Abort? But I’m here already. She’s …

… Of no consequence at the moment. Go to the airport. Get on the next flight to San Francisco. We’ve got quite a bit to discuss.

Ronni sighs.

This is our greatest opportunity, Agent Lee. If we’re successful, you’ll get what you’ve been seeking.

You don’t know what I want, she says, realizing—in mid-sentence—that she’s questioning her superior.

Of course I do. That’s why I’m asking you to come back to San Francisco.

Fine.

Good. Justice will be done.

Justice will be done. Ronni pulls down the sun visor and checks her reflection in its mirror. Dammit, Calvin, she says, her true appearance staring back at her.

After moving her sopping hair out of her face, and ensuring the absence of food from within her teeth, she turns the ignition and drives toward Miami International.

Chapter One

Agency of Influence Headquarters

New York, New York

Lasse Gantert looks up from his notes at the podium and studies the assembled mass, its attire homogeneous and its skin tone monochromatic. Some forty Agents of Influence, all without local branches to direct, stand before the German and scream at him with fire in their eyes and nothing but oxygen in their wallets.

Gantert holds up a hand in a meager attempt to quiet the enraged. You have my assurances. Your money is safe.

Not for long, it’s not, one of the directors shouts. The rest of the crowd chimes in, roaring in agreement.

Our clients have voted to give us two weeks before pulling their funds, Gantert says.

Two weeks? another director says. He could be anywhere!

Careful not to acknowledge his heckler with a nod, Gantert swallows hard and looks over the crowd filling the facility’s lobby. He rests his eyes at the camera behind the horde broadcasting this event to the many Agency of Influence branches around the world.

It’s true, he says before waiting for the crowd to calm itself. Two weeks is not a very long time.

What are we supposed to do? Sit around and wait?

Yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do. As the crowd dissents again, Gantert takes a remote off of the podium and turns on a video projector. Finding him in two weeks may be difficult. But it’s not impossible. That’s why the Agency of Justice has agreed to help us in our search for Calvin Newsome.

Appearing on the recently-torn projection screen behind him is a man nearly thirty years Gantert’s junior. Despite his smallish features and a thick set of curly hair, both of which belie his current role, Heath Pendleton boasts three years of service as the Agency of Justice’s executive director. He stands at a podium, which looks almost identical to the one Gantert stands behind.

Before escaping our facility, Gantert says, Newsome summoned a very powerful telekinetic rift. Assuming he’s still alive, he couldn’t have gone far; he’ll have needed medical attention. If we can’t find him in two weeks... Gantert allows his quasi-announcement to hang in the air before turning to look at the screen. Heath, can you hear me?

Pendleton quickly primps his hair and responds with an awkward gaze into the camera as he holds an earpiece firmly in his ear. Yes, Lasse, I can hear you. His British accent echoes through the A of I lobby. Shall we begin?

Gantert nods in approval and turns back to the crowd of branch directors. The question on many of your minds at this point, I’m sure, is how we intend on finding Agent Newsome. Finding a man like this requires a special person, someone trained to find those that others cannot see. That is why, he says, motioning to the left of the crowd, I’ve called upon on old friend.

The directors in the crowd follow Gantert’s gaze to a diminutive, yet dignified man with graying hair and hardened features. The man walks up the three stairs on the way to the stage and saunters over to the podium with the swagger of a man all too aware of himself—twenty successful years in the Bundesnachrichtendienst, Germany’s foreign intelligence agency, will cause that kind of hubris. His boots tap the hollow stage as though it were a bass drum.

The two gentlemen shake hands and embrace. Before pulling away, Gantert leans in toward the man’s ear.

Good to see you, old friend, he whispers in German.

The newcomer nods and smiles, then stands beside Gantert.

Max Krueger made a living protecting Germany’s interests for two decades. He’s one of the most lethal assassins I know. But since he’s not actually trying to kill anyone this time, this should be—oh, how do you call it? A piece of cake.

One of the directors claps his hands before the rest of the crowd wholeheartedly follows suit. Applause can be heard coming from the facility’s sound system. A similar throng is watching on Pendleton’s end.

Of course, the only thing better than one bounty hunter is two of them. Gantert turns to look at the screen again.

Pendleton cracks a self-assured grin. "Impressive, Herr Gantert. We, however, have taken a much different approach. No outsourcing. I believe this requires a more … personal touch."

He waves to someone off camera before stepping away from the podium. Applause can be heard through the speakers again. At the Agency of Influence, a murmur spreads through the crowd as a hooded figure, someone of a much smaller stature than Pendleton, appears onscreen.

Why not take off your hood so everyone can see you?

The assembled Agents of Influence gasp as the shrouded figure pulls back the hood to reveal a full head of long black hair. The woman tilts her head in a severe angle to look up at Pendleton as they shake hands.

He then motions for her to turn toward the camera. Beautiful, isn’t she?

The camera slowly zooms in on the woman’s face, silencing the growing dissention from the Agency of Influence. Scarred and deformed, the woman holds the camera’s attention with a steely gaze.

Veronica Lee is one our most prolific agents, Pendleton says. She has carried out some of our most important missions.

Ronni offers an unnatural grin as they trade glances.

And I don’t think there’s any doubt about her motivation in this campaign, is there?

As a hush continues to permeate throughout the Agency of Influence, the camera at the Agency of Justice goes back to Pendleton. Thank you. Your silence speaks volumes.

The Agents of Influence reluctantly applaud.

Gantert leans into the podium. Now, to put your minds at ease, I’m happy to tell you that Director Pendleton and I have agreed to resume our profit-sharing model upon the creation of a new Arrowhead.

The crowd applauds yet again.

Gantert smiles and raises his voice to speak over the applause. Both agencies shall prosper upon the capture of Agent Calvin Newsome. He joins in the applause before turning to face the screen. Good luck to you, Director Pendleton.

And to you.

The screen turns blue before Gantert turns off the projector. He motions for the crowd to temper its zeal. Lastly, I have appointed one other person to assist us with this campaign.

The directors look amongst themselves before an older man with white hair and days-old stubble emerges from the crowd and slowly, with the assistance of a cane, takes his place onstage to Gantert’s left. The crowd soundly approves of the man.

When Agent Newsome infiltrated our facility, he impersonated Donald Richardson. Nobody was angrier upon learning the truth than this man. I immediately knew I had to ask him out of retirement. Agent Richardson hired Newsome, studied him for months. Nobody knows him better.

Richardson waves to the crowd like a politician on election night.

Gantert places both hands on the top corners of the podium. His eyes turn serious as he looks at the directors scattered around the lobby.

Make no mistake, Calvin Newsome may have already paid dearly for his actions, but his suffering has just begun.

The directors cheer, some whistling.

This meeting’s adjourned. Gantert looks at the two men that have accompanied him onstage and nods to the back of the lobby.

As the crowd files out and onto the stairwell leading up to the facility’s hydraulic-powered door, the three men step down from the stage, walk across the lobby and enter a large office.

Situated on the wall beside Gantert’s desk—cherry wood in color, fit for an executive—is a framed jersey from his hometown football team, FC Bayern Munich. Next to the jersey is a photo of Max and Gantert taken many decades ago in front of a pub in downtown Munich. In the image, the Gantert’s arm is wrapped around the Max’s shoulder.

Gantert slips behind his desk, pulls out his chair and sits. Thank you for joining me, gentlemen. Have a seat.

Max and Richardson each sit in chairs in front of the executive director’s desk.

I wanted to give you both a chance to get to know each other before we started this campaign. I’m going to be relying heavily on the both of you.

Gantert’s two guests turn to look at one another, but before they can exchange pleasantries, he speaks again.

Since you both got here on short notice, I also wanted to formally gauge your commitment to this campaign. In person.

Richardson grins and furrows his eyebrows as he straightens his tie and wipes down the wrinkles in his suit jacket. Well, I don’t have much to gain by cheating you, if that’s what you mean.

Of course you do. Whoever controls the Arrowhead controls the world. But, no, that’s not what I meant.

The old man gives Gantert a look of puzzlement.

The executive director sits forward and stares into Richardson’s eyes. Where does your allegiance lie?

Richardson holds Gantert’s gaze, never letting it waver. With the Agency of Influence, of course. Agent Newsome deserves to pay for what he did.

Gantert continues to peer into Richardson’s eyes for a few uncomfortable moments longer. Good. He then turns to Max. And you, old friend?

The bounty hunter shrugs. I don’t even know what the Arrowhead is.

Gantert waves him off. That’s not it, Max. Your situation’s different. You’re a changed man.

Uncomfortable with the turn this conversation has taken, Max glances away briefly and sighs. That has nothing to do with this.

The loss of your wife and daughter is not insignificant.

It won’t keep me from doing what needs to be done.

Well, I hope that will include killing the girl, this Veronica Lee.

Max’s eyes meet Gantert’s. That wasn’t part of our agreement.

It is now, especially if she gets in your way. Believe me, they’re having the same conversation about you as we speak.

I thought you guys had a deal, Richardson interjects.

In name only. Our customers loved the idea. Gantert sits back and folds his hands before turning his attention back to his fellow countryman. There’s no one else I trust to carry out this mission, Max. For your sake, I just hope you’re not … compromised.

Max shakes his head. I’m here to do a job.

Good. Gantert motions to Max that he is dismissed.

The bounty hunter stands up and walks to the door.

Wait, Gantert says. He taps his finger on his desk as he searches for something better to say. Be careful.

Max nods. "Danke."

After his friend leaves, Gantert turns to the old man and stands up. Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.

Richardson follows his boss out to the lobby.

I have full faith in Max, Gantert says. If Newsome gets away, it won’t be his fault.

But?

But, we’re prepared for the worst.

The two walk past the stage, reaching a door around the corner from it.

I think you know that ever since Daphne Tierney first stole the Arrowhead, we’ve been trying to devise a way to make it easier to find those who would steal it again. Gantert unlocks and opens the door, revealing a dark chamber.

Yeah, I’ve heard rumors.

It’s no longer a rumor, Agent Richardson. It took a lot of time and money but we’ve finally developed the perfect weapon. Gantert steps into the room and flips on a light switch.

Richardson follows him into the room. When Gantert steps aside, the old man gasps as his eyes widen.

It’s exactly what you think it is, Gantert says.

Is this thing operational?

Almost. It runs off of a special mineral. Horanium.

Horanium? Never heard of it.

Probably because it’s not of this earth.

Richardson scoffs. Okay, I’m afraid to ask. Where does one get Horanium?

There’s a gentleman in Israel who discovered it in Antarctica years ago. Thinks it was a meteorite that was buried for years, decades. Wherever it came from, he’s made a fortune off of it.

How much?

Ten grams will cost the agency seven million dollars.

Richardson whistles.

But that’s just a backup plan.

So, this Horanium … If we get it—

Then, this weapon is ours to use.

Richardson looks at the contraption again before nearly bowing to its presence. Lord, have mercy.

###

FBI Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

His brown eyes bloodshot and drowsy, Ryan Ragsdale sits in front of a pair of monitors with his head in his hand and the light from the screens giving his face a pale hue. He can’t quite remember the last meal he had, nor does he even recall what his condo looks like. Ragsdale’s been pouring over the video since well before the rising of the morning sun. But this is nothing new for him.

He knew he should have waited until morning to pull the surveillance footage on four recent North American disasters—the semi accident near Wrigley Field in Chicago, the Montreal riot, the plane crash into the Tuttle Causeway in Miami, and the train derailment at Suburban Station in Philadelphia—but he couldn’t help himself; he was playing a hunch he got in the middle of the night.

And when Special Agent-in-Charge Ragsdale has a hunch, it consumes him. His ex-wife notwithstanding, many pursuits have consumed the young Fed over the years. This investigation, however, is different.

Many of Ragsdale’s peers within the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division considered all of these disasters to be a series of unfortunate coincidences. After all, there was no evidence to suggest that foul play was afoot in any of these catastrophes. The plane’s black box recordings revealed that it hadn’t been hijacked, and mechanical failure was to blame for the aircraft’s sudden descent into the causeway. In the Chicago disaster, the driver of the semi that crashed into the EL’s stanchion—causing the structure to collapse into the city’s hallowed baseball stadium—was a Vietnam vet, loyal to his trucking company for twenty-seven years and hadn’t had so much as a parking ticket on his record. A thorough study conducted by the state of Pennsylvania concluded that mechanical failure and a faulty track were to blame for the Trenton Line’s derailment. Random as these calamities appear, Ragsdale remains skeptical.

He remembers watching SportsCenter the morning after the Montreal riot, when a police helicopter narrowly avoided crash landing on the demonstrators. The program showed an unsteady eyewitness video from right outside the Bell Centre of a black man with both hands raised in the air while the chopper made its inexplicably sudden ascent to the arena’s rooftop. There were wild rumors being spread about this mystery man, so wild that he has been mentioned in the same breath as both Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster.

It was an ordeal to get surveillance footage from the Montreal Police, but Ragsdale got it, only to be confounded even further. The footage—taken from a different angle—showed no black man, except as he ran toward the camera, away from the arena.

Many hours and cups of coffee after coming back to work, Ragsdale, now slouched in his chair, still hasn’t gotten anywhere. At the very least, he finds a commonality in the Montreal and Trenton Line tapes—two different black males, but both with the same body type.

Not enough, Ragsdale tells himself.

He finds another link between the Trenton Line and Miami tapes as well, however slight. Just before