The Extinction Agenda

by Michael Laurence

  It also didn’t hurt that he was a genuinely nice guy who believed in the job he was doing.

  “You and me both,” Mason said.

  Angie wasn’t telling these officers anything they didn’t already know, but Mason could tell by the way the right corner of her mouth rose ever so slightly that she was about to.

  “Which is where regulation TD9584 comes into play. While it was originally enacted to complement the Foreign Account Tax Compliance Act to help us pursue tax evaders, it allows us to identify anyone hiding money in another country for any reason. Assuming we have specific target information, like the account numbers provided by your CI working for the Sinaloans. We traced them to a bank in Matamoros containing close to two million dollars and registered to this man.…” She clicked to a picture of a plump Hispanic male with a light complexion and gray hair. He wore a plain blue suit and spectacles. “Meet Fernando Trejo, who—thanks to his construction company—was able to launder more than fifty million dollars for any number of untraceable entities by simply wiring it across the border into accounts he set up for dummy land-development companies in Texas and Arizona.”

  “So what’s his connection?” an officer from the Lakewood PD asked.

  “I’ll field that question,” Blaine Martin said.

  The special prosecutor for the Justice Department emerged from the shadows at the side of the stage and turned on the lights. He looked more like an actor playing the role than an actual attorney, which told Mason everything he needed to know. Martin had designs on politics. He guided Angie from center stage with his hand on her lower back.

  Mason sat up a little straighter in his chair.

  Martin leaned against the lectern in a practiced, easy way that must have played well with juries.

  “Of that fifty million,” he said, “we’ve traced twenty-six million in what we believe to be bribes from the Sinaloa cartel to government officials in Tamaulipas and Nuevo León, five million to Trejo’s personal holdings, and another four million to accounts scattered throughout the American Southwest. The remaining fifteen million was dispersed over the course of the past twelve months in amounts of less than two grand to hundreds of accounts, from all of which that money was then transferred into a total of ten accounts right here in Colorado. Bogus accounts established for shell companies. Thanks to Angela’s relentlessness, we learned that they were all cleaned out and closed within the past ten days.” Not Agent Mason. Angela. “That means we potentially have fifteen million dollars out there on the streets right now and our only option is to treat it as though it’s actively in play.”

  “What’s our working assumption?” someone asked from up front.

  Angie stepped forward.

  “We’re cultivating a source who claims to have information about a human-trafficking organization with that kind of resources.”

  “Here in Denver?” Trapp asked.

  “Possibly,” Martin said, and glanced at Angie. “Assuming the information checks out.”

  “Not at that price tag,” Mason said. “Fifteen million’s too much money, even for the skin trade. At five to ten grand a head, you’re talking about literally thousands of people being sold like cattle. There’d be a line of buses on the highway from here to Wyoming.”

  Angie glared at him.

  “We can’t be dealing with a simple buy, either,” one of the DEA agents said. “No one could move that quantity of drugs up the I-Twenty-five corridor without us knowing.”

  “My sources would have heard if there were going to be any major shipments of heroin or meth,” another officer said.

  “Weapons?” a Denver PD officer suggested.

  “That would have to be either a huge cache or one really big bang,” Trapp said.

  “And that’s precisely why we can’t afford to rule anything out,” Martin said. “For all we know, that money could be halfway around the world by now, but we have to do our due diligence on this one.”

  Angie caught Martin’s eye, tapped her watch, and gathered her belongings. He nodded and started to wrap up the meeting while she slipped out the side door.

  Mason excused himself and exited through the rear door. He caught up with his wife in the hallway.

  “I didn’t know you were going to be here today.”

  “Despite my telling you ten times?”

  “Look, Angie, I’m sorry—”

  “You shouldn’t have called me out in front of everyone like that.”

  “I didn’t call you out.”

  “Did you consider the possibility that maybe I know something that you don’t?”

  “Of course, but I know how traffickers work.”

  “And I know how they think.”

  “Angie…”

  The fire faded from her eyes, but her cheeks remained flushed.

  “Consider how much planning went into this,” she said. “How much patience you’d need to transfer that much money over such a long period of time and in such small amounts. How deep your pockets would have to be not to miss fifteen million dollars. These aren’t your average traffickers. I’m convinced there’s more to this than either of us—”

  The side door burst open, filling the hallway with the clatter of chairs and a riot of voices. Martin emerged with his briefcase, checked his watch, and headed straight toward them.

  “We really need to talk,” Angie said. “Make time for me tonight, okay?”

  She straightened her jacket, turned toward Martin, and flashed her professional smile.

  “Yeah,” Mason said, although with the way she’d said it, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to have that conversation.

  Martin offered him a curt nod and swept his wife away down the hallway, again with his hand on her lower back. He leaned closer and spoke directly into her ear the moment they were out of range. The men exiting the meeting shoved past Mason to either side. Still, he stood there, watching his wife and Martin until they rounded the corner and vanished from sight.

  Maybe none of the officers on the task force had any idea what was potentially being smuggled into the state, but now that he really thought about it, he just might know someone who did.

  10

  In that fleeting moment in the quarry before his world had erupted into flames, Mason witnessed the true depths of humanity’s capacity for evil, depths he had previously been unable to fathom. He searched for it in the eyes of the people he passed on the street, listened for its presence in their words, but each and every one of them looked and sounded just like him.

  Well, not every one of them.

  The man sitting in the purple vinyl booth with the window overlooking the club at his back had no pretentions that he was like everyone else. He existed on the fringes of society, in the shadows all people cast, servicing the baser needs everyone has, but would rather no one knew about. As such, the man with the jet-black hair slicked back from his long face and the ash-colored suit, which undoubtedly cost more than Mason’s car, considered himself in the business of discretion.

  His name was Ramses Donovan and he’d been one of Mason’s best friends since he was twelve years old.

  As far as criminals went, Ramses followed a civilized code reminiscent of the early mafiosi, courtesy of his father’s influence. He was merely a purveyor of vices, a middleman of sorts who connected individuals of questionable taste with their interests of a more discerning nature.

  As such, no one moved anything along the Front Range without triggering the peripheral alarm system of Ramses the Great, whose idea of legitimacy didn’t quite mesh with Mason’s. He had a conscience, seemingly arbitrary though it was, and took exception to anyone doing anything that might bring unwanted attention to some of the more unsavory aspects of his legitimacy. He and Mason would never agree about the distinction between an escort and a prostitute or the definition of a recreational drug, but when it came right down to it, his morals more closely resembled Mason’s than those of most of the agents with whom he worked. Ramses also kne
w that a certain measure of give-and-take was necessary to maintain a working relationship with the various authorities.

  “Something’s going down tonight,” he said. “In an abandoned building out near the old airport. Back behind the runways. Based on how little anyone seems to know, it has to be something pretty big. That’s all I’ve got, though. Any of this comes back on me and I’m taking it out of your ass.”

  Mason had called Ramses the moment he left the Federal Building. He knew his old friend wouldn’t say anything over the phone, regardless of whether or not he had any information, but that wasn’t the point. That Mason was even asking him in such a manner conveyed the direness of his request, one that was rewarded with an invitation to join Ramses at his newest club later that evening, which, presumably, would give him time to look into the matter.

  “Don’t you trust me anymore?” Mason asked. “That really hurts.”

  “You think that badge of yours is going to keep me from hurting more than your feelings? I’m serious, Mace. You know that I’m a legitimate businessman and have a reputation to uphold.”

  Even he couldn’t say it with a straight face.

  Ramses had always been able to make Mason smile.

  “You know I can’t protect you if this goes south.”

  “Please,” Ramses said. “Who do you think you’re talking to here? When have I ever needed anyone’s protection?”

  “All I’m saying is that if these are the guys I’m looking for, there’s definitely the potential for blowback.”

  “Then you’d better not screw up.”

  “Words to live by,” Mason said. “Say hi to your old man for me.”

  “Tell him yourself. I’ve got a pathological aversion to going to prison.”

  “Better keep your head down, then, Ramses.”

  “I could say the same.”

  Mason smirked and headed for the door.

  “You know I wouldn’t have done this for anyone else,” Ramses said to his back.

  “And you know I wouldn’t have asked if it weren’t important.”

  “Just try not to get yourself killed, okay?”

  Mason left him in his private suite and felt the bass pound against his chest the moment he opened the door. The lights strobed and the music blared. Generic oomph-oomph techno music. He descended the stairs and pressed through a sea of writhing bodies. Go-go dancers in long boots and short skirts were suspended above the throngs in cages that fit the general motif. Club Five had once been a slaughterhouse, one of the building’s many incarnations, and Ramses had gone to great lengths not to spend a dime on its renovation. He deserved a little credit for the name, though. Not only was it his fifth club, but also a subtle nod to the Vonnegut classic.

  Trapp was waiting in the emergency exit alcove beneath the staircase on the opposite side of the dance floor, looking like he’d rather be just about anywhere else.

  “It’s happening tonight,” Mason said. “In an abandoned building out by Stapleton.”

  His partner nodded and shouldered through the door into the alley. The flashing lights from the club washed across the mud and wet asphalt, highlighting the parabolic dimples on the puddles. The cold sleet drenched his head and shoulders. The door closed once more and darkness descended.

  Mason’s Grand Cherokee was parked on the far side, behind a Dumpster, so it wasn’t visible from the main road. Mason got in the car and called in the location Ramses had given him. He was rewarded with a rendezvous point and confirmation that a tactical team would be waiting when he arrived. His partner hesitated outside the passenger door until Mason revved the engine and gestured for him to hurry up.

  Trapp didn’t say a word as they weaved through the congested downtown streets. Mason waited until they hit the highway before calling him out.

  “Do you have something to say to me?”

  “You trust this guy?”

  “Ramses?”

  “He’s running escorts out of all his joints and probably owns half of the marijuana dispensaries in town.”

  “He’s never claimed he doesn’t.”

  “Donovan doesn’t get a pass, Mason. One of these days we’re going to have to run him down and not even you will be able to stop it.”

  Mason hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but if it did, he’d make sure he handled it himself.

  He exited I-70 several miles from where the runways of the old airport used to cross over the highway, then wended his way through a maze of deserted streets between industrial buildings until he reached his destination. He turned through the open gate and followed a blind gravel drive behind a shipping warehouse that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. The Metro Denver SWAT vehicle was waiting in the parking lot. The Lenco BearCat—Ballistic Engineered Armored Response Counter Attack Truck—was painted black and looked like a Humvee on steroids.

  Mason parked, killed the lights, and ran to the BearCat. The rear doors opened and he and Trapp bounded up into the rectangular cargo hold. Benches lined the reinforced walls on either side beneath narrow windows that served as embrasures. The overhead fixtures had been fitted with red bulbs that cast little of anything resembling actual light. He closed the doors behind them and barely sat down before the driver took off.

  There were six men in the back with them, three on either side. They wore black uniforms and helmets with night-vision apparatuses standing from their foreheads. Their black face paint made their eyes appear disembodied. Mason sat directly across from Trapp, whose expression had become unreadable.

  “Traffic cameras recorded a total of four vehicles passing through the gate to the decommissioned zone less than an hour ago,” one of the officers said. Mason recognized him from the task force meetings. Rivers. The team commander thrust a helmet with built-in two-way communications, a half-face respirator, and a Kevlar vest into Mason’s chest. “Two came out.”

  “That could mean anything,” Mason said. “The vehicles that left could be completely unrelated or the buy could have already gone down.”

  “Which is why we need to get there before the other two cars come out.”

  “A company called Regal Properties bought all the remaining administrative and cargo buildings when the airport closed,” the officer beside Trapp said. He read from a tactical tablet, which was receiving data as fast as it could be gathered. “Regal planned to convert them into luxury apartments and upscale residential homes, but was forced to file Chapter Eleven when it was determined there were unacceptable levels of jet fuel in the soil and groundwater, and remediation buried it in debt. Renovations were halted in unknown stages of completion. The bank now owns everything out there and doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to do anything with it.”

  “How many buildings are there?” Mason asked.

  “Six.”

  “Do we know which one they’re in?”

  “Satellite imaging shows the two vehicles—a nondescript sedan and a large SUV, most likely a Chevy Suburban—parked outside the building closest to the outer perimeter. The administration building.”

  “Neither of those cars is large enough to carry fifteen million dollars’ worth of anything,” Trapp said.

  “Even if this is a buy,” another officer said, “that doesn’t necessarily mean the actual exchange will go down here.”

  “Can we access the building’s layout?” Mason asked.

  “There are three floors, although we don’t know the extent of the construction,” the officer with the tablet said. “Based on the original blueprints, each level looks the same, with a square hallway lined with offices on both sides. There are stairwells in each of the four corners.”

  Rivers turned on his own tablet and leaned closer so Mason could see.

  “We’ll park right here, behind this building.” Rivers tapped the screen. “It’ll conceal our approach from the west until we’re about fifty yards from our target. Rojas and Telford, you’ll take up cover position along this fence line. Willis and I will head around th
e back and enter from the east. You and your partner stick with Porter and Rasmussen, who’ll penetrate the building from the west. We’ll clear each level from the four corners—watch your sight lines—and continue upward as a unit. Standard rules of engagement. Anderson?”

  “Sir,” the driver said through the speaker in the partition that separated the cab from the hold.

  “You and Rodriguez stay with the truck. If things get ugly, we’re going to need you to get us out of there.” The officer swept his gaze across each of them in turn. “Any questions, now’s the time to ask them.”

  Mason slipped the bulletproof vest over his head, donned the helmet, and switched on the com. He drew his Glock and chambered a round. Took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. When he looked up, Trapp was staring right at him from beneath the brim of his helmet.

  “Are you certain Donovan isn’t setting us up?”

  “He trusts his intel. And I trust him. So, yeah … I’d wager my life on it.”

  “You’d better be right, because once we go out those doors, that’s exactly what we’re doing.”

  11

  The BearCat slowed and the driver extinguished its lights. Mason couldn’t see a blasted thing inside the truck, let alone through the slit windows. He fitted his mask over his mouth and nose and lowered his night-vision apparatus. The others reappeared in shades of green and gray, the triangular stocks of their AR-15s to their shoulders, their barrels directed at the ground between their feet.

  The smooth buzz of pavement gave way to the grumble of gravel. The truck shook crossing the uneven ground.

  Mason readjusted his grip on the Glock in his right hand and reached for the handle on the door with his left.

  The BearCat shuddered to a halt.

  Trapp and Mason each threw open a side and bounded out into the night. They covered the other men as they piled out and jogged around the side of the old cargo warehouse. Two men—Rojas and Telford—sprinted to either side and disappeared into the tall weeds, from the anonymity of which their sight lines would be clear all the way to the administration building.