Fatal Prescription

by Don Pendleton

  He hoped his calm tone would allay her fear enough to get him through the next few minutes. At least until he had what he needed. Exiting the elevator, he led her down the hallway, staying behind her. The woman seemed to be catatonic, forcing each step with considerable effort. He nudged her with the end of the silencer to quicken her pace. She took a few more steps and then stopped, cocking her head at the door.

  The Talon pushed her against it and reached down to try the knob. It was unlocked. Score another one for lax security. He twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, shoving the woman into the room in front of him. She went sprawling onto the floor.

  Two men who had been sitting at a card table smoking and playing cards looked up in shock as the intruder shot each man twice, once in the chest and once in the head. They both crumpled onto the tabletop then rolled lifelessly to the carpeted floor.

  Two rows of monitors sat in horizontal lines above a long counter. None of the rooms on this level, he noted as he scanned the screens, appeared to be occupied.

  As he stooped to retrieve a large ring of keys from the belt loop on one of the dead men, he thought about putting a round into the recorder but decided to wait. Getting the disk was something he could do on the way out. Right now, he had a building to clear. And it was time to have the lackeys move up and start herding however many employees remained.

  “Come on,” he said to the woman, lifting her gently to her feet. “Let’s go see your boss.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a flash drive and held it in front of her face. “Do you have access to the computer files here?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s good,” he said. “I have a file I wish you to download for me.”

  They exited and he closed the door behind him.

  Heading back down the hallway toward the elevator, he checked the stopwatch: 348 seconds.

  Just under seven minutes... Right on schedule.

  USS Fuller

  Signorelli Naval Air Station

  Signorelli, Italy

  BOLAN AND GRIMALDI STOOD on deck watching as the captain and crew eased the enormous vessel into the docking space as easily as a chauffeur parallel-parking a limo. Several of the sailors tossed the enormous mooring lines downward to waiting hands on the pier.

  Grimaldi took a deep breath and began a horribly off-key rendition of “Mombo Italiano.”

  “Jack,” Bolan said. “You want to cool it? They may not let us off this ship if they hear you.”

  Grimaldi stopped singing and snorted. “You just don’t appreciate talent, that’s all.” He spread his arms wide. “This is the land of my ancestors. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin...”

  “Sinatra was born in Hoboken, New Jersey,” Bolan pointed out. “And Dino was from Ohio.”

  Grimaldi shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. My roots are here. As soon as we get on shore, I want to take you to the best little cantina I’ve ever set foot in. The vino, the mozzarella, the young ladies...” He closed his eyes and kissed his knuckle. “Just wait.”

  Bolan was watching with an amused expression when his satellite phone vibrated on his belt. He slipped it from its case and looked at the number.

  “What’s up, Hal?” Bolan asked, answering the call.

  “Bad news. Looks like there was another terrorist attack in Belgium.” Brognola’s sigh was audible. “Twenty-six people massacred.”

  “Where?”

  “A drug research facility near Luxembourg. The killers walked through the place like it was a turkey shoot. No survivors.”

  “Anybody taking credit for it?”

  “Not yet,” Brognola advised. “But somebody wrote Allah akhbar on the wall in blood. In Arabic, no less.”

  “Any Americans involved?” Bolan asked.

  “Three. All research scientists. The place did a lot of studies for drug companies.”

  “You want us to check it out?” Bolan saw Grimaldi’s head swivel toward him with a wretched expression.

  “Yeah, I’d appreciate it,” Brognola said. “I know you guys are tired and just got off a mission, but you’re the closest we’ve got to the scene and we need to get a handle on this thing, especially if it’s the start of a new wave of attacks.”

  “We got plenty of rest on the ship,” Bolan said, grinning at Grimaldi.

  “I took the liberty of arranging some quick transportation for you,” Brognola said. “There’s a plane standing by at the Naval Air Station.”

  “Roger that,” Bolan said. “We’ll get our gear and be on our way.”

  He ended the call and placed a hand on Grimaldi’s shoulder. “Don’t feel too bad, Jack. Look at it this way, we can grab a couple of bologna sandwiches at the base snack bar and pretend they’re fettucine Alfredo.”

  Grimaldi nodded as Bolan pulled him toward the hatch to go back to their quarters for their duffels.

  The Elgin Buchanan Davis Country Club

  Fairfax County, Virginia

  WILLIAM J. STEVENSON watched as Theodore Buchanan, the man Stevenson was bankrolling to run for president, worked the large, dimly lighted banquet room shaking hands, telling jokes, laughing and looking quite comfortable through it all.

  The man was, Stevenson thought, a natural politician. Just the type of puppet who could be totally manipulated once propelled to the Oval Office.

  Rodney Nelson sidled up to Stevenson with a pair of drinks and leaned in close.

  “He looks like he’s really in his element, doesn’t he?” Nelson asked. “Now that he’s announced, everybody’s lining up to kiss his ass.”

  Stevenson looked at his corporate administrative assistant and lifted an eyebrow. “They are at that.” He took one of the drinks but did not take a sip. “I presume you’ve got an update for me.”

  Nelson nodded and cocked his head to the right, indicating for Stevenson to follow. They walked to a corridor off to the far side of the banquet room, away from any prying eyes and, more particularly, any cameras.

  “It hit the news,” Nelson said. “Another terrorist attack.”

  Stevenson nodded. “Good. Any particulars?”

  Nelson took a gulp of his drink and Stevenson again quirked an eyebrow to show his disapproval. He hated dealing with inebriants, not that Nelson didn’t handle his booze pretty well. Stevenson just preferred not to experience the loss of control over his faculties that alcohol inevitably caused. One drink could throw a man off, even if it was only an infinitesimal amount, which is why he seldom imbibed in a public setting.

  Nelson started to bring the glass to his lips again but stopped. “You can go ahead and drink yours. It’s only cranberry and apple juice.”

  Stevenson frowned, smelled the edge of the glass and frowned. “Once I get out of here I’ll need a real drink.”

  “I know you never touch the hard stuff at these things,” Nelson said, his face the perfect picture of semi-drunken merriment. “So I’ll drink enough for both of us.”

  Stevenson cocked his arm back and hurled his glass into the corner. It shattered as it hit the floor. “I’m not in the mood, Rod.”

  Nelson’s neck twitched slightly and he nodded, then looked around. Apparently satisfied that no one had taken much notice of the boss throwing the glass, he looked at Stevenson, who towered over him.

  “I asked you for the particulars,” Stevenson said.

  “It’s all over the news. Another terrorist attack in Belgium. Twenty-six fatalities. Arabic writing on the wall.” Nelson paused and grinned with the burgeoning stupidity of an incipient drunk. “In blood, no less.”

  Stevenson grabbed the glass out of Nelson’s hand and hurled it against the wall, as well.

  After the tinkle of breaking glass, Nelson took a step back, his simper fading. “Be careful. There are a lot of people here, and remember, every
one of them has a smartphone with video capabilities.”

  “Something I’ll change once I get my puppet, Buchanan, into the Oval Office,” Stevenson said.

  “Most assuredly. Anyway, everything’s coming up roses—” he tried unsuccessfully to suppress a belch “—for the time being.”

  Stevenson’s frowned. “How much have you had to drink?”

  Nelson held up his hand, palm out, and shook his head. “Not a lot. Hardly touched my rubber chicken dinner, though.”

  “Well, knock it off,” Stevenson said, scowling. “Is the Talon on his way?”

  Nelson nodded, again glancing around for prying eyes or intrusive video-takers.

  “I asked you a question,” Stevenson said, his tone clipped.

  “He is. He is. Should be here in about eight hours. Everything’s been arranged.”

  “Good. Keep him on ice somewhere until we need him.”

  “Already in the works.”

  “What about Africa?” Stevenson asked.

  “Hardly a blip on the five o’clock news.” He shrugged. “As we figured, nobody gives a shit about a bunch of dead Africans, no matter if they died of natural causes or a bullet.”

  “And that infected American asshole?”

  “The health care worker?” Nelson sighed. “They’re making arrangements to fly him back to the U.S.”

  “Shit. Where to?”

  “Right now, the CDC is talking Atlanta. Like they did for those Ebola cases a while back.”

  Stevenson raised both of his hands, almost in a boxer’s stance, but extended his very long index fingers on each hand and pointed at the other man’s face. “See that he’s put in one of our hospitals. Tell the CDC that we set up a special section at Winthrope Harbor in anticipation of the Ebola outbreak a few years ago and it’s ready to go. We’ll have more control that way. We need to jump on this. Damn that incompetent bastard Quarry.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him. There’s no way he could have foreseen this development.”

  “That’s what I pay him to do,” Stevenson said. “Quite well, in fact. Just as I pay you quite well. And I expect results. Or things could change.”

  Nelson’s face twitched a bit. “Boss, everything’s totally under control.” It was clear he’d received an involuntary jolt of adrenaline that somewhat sobered his mildly intoxicated brain. “Believe me. The Belgium thing worked like a charm, the Talon’s on his way, Quarry wiped out all those telltale villagers and look how well Debussey’s altered version of the Keller Virus worked out.”

  “Yeah.” The sarcasm in Stevenson’s voice was palpable. “Letting that aide get infected was brilliant.”

  “I still think we can work that to our advantage.” Nelson made a self-deprecating shrug. “After all, a little advance publicity of the killer virus on the loose can’t hurt, can it?”

  Stevenson considered that and allowed his lips to twitch into a slight smile. “Perhaps you’ve got something there.”

  Nelson glanced around. “Don’t worry. We’ll deal with that aide development as soon as he touches down on U.S. soil. Everything’s cool.”

  “Where are Quarry and the mad doctor now?”

  “Also on the way back. Should be here very soon. We’re bringing them in through Puerto Rico.”

  Stevenson stared down at him a moment more then blew out another exasperated breath. “It better be. I’ve got too much riding on this to fail.”

  Nelson started to place a hand on Stevenson’s shoulder but stopped, as if suddenly realizing it would look like he was placing a jar on the top shelf of the closet. Instead he forced another smile. “Everything will be coming up roses in just a little while.”

  Stevenson watched his man, Buchanan, work the room with the accomplished ease of a perfect, puppet politician, and then smiled. In his mind’s eye he pictured himself sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office with Buchanan standing timidly in front of him.

  Soon, he thought. Soon.

  3

  The Chevalier Institute

  Mack Bolan watched from the passenger seat of the police car as the driver used his siren and horn to warn the growing throngs of reporters gathering on the road. Although he slowed as he drove through the parting crowds, several tried to approach with microphones in hand, apparently trying to obtain a bit of new information.

  “Reporters are the same the world over,” Grimaldi said from the backseat. “Soon as there’s a dead body or two, they converge like a pack of hyenas.”

  “I like your comparison, monsieur,” the Belgian officer said.

  “Speaking of which,” Bolan said, raising his hand to cover a good portion of his face. “Looks like we’ve got a bogie approaching.” Grimaldi did the same. Neither of them wished their face to appear on any sort of news media.

  The car jolted to a stop as the particularly bold reporter virtually thrust himself into the vehicle’s path. He then ran to the window, holding out his microphone, a cameraman about three feet behind him.

  The driver rolled down his window and yelled, “Arretez!” The reporter and cameraman both halted and the officer said a few angry words, which Bolan figured included a bit of French profanity. He smiled and wondered how that would play on the local evening news.

  The reporter shifted to the rear window and yelled something at Grimaldi, who, still covering his face with his left hand, raised his right fist and extended his middle finger. “That’s universal in all languages,” he said as the vehicle sped up again.

  Bolan could see a quarter-ton police truck parked diagonally to block the road about thirty yards ahead. It was ringed by police officers dressed in helmets and dark uniforms and armed with rifles. One of them spoke into a radio and then stepped to the side, motioning their police car around the blockade. The man’s face looked grim as they passed.

  The Chevalier Institute came into view as they rounded the next curve. It was a three-story brick building surrounded by well-landscaped grounds. The beauty of the scenery was marred by the presence of more tactically outfitted police officers and several police cars, one of which Bolan assumed was a forensics van. Their driver pulled up and spoke into his radio, and Bolan knew the man was informing his supervisor of their arrival. He nodded his thanks to the officer and slipped out of the car. Grimaldi did the same.

  Bolan scanned the group of officers. To a man, they all looked morose, as though they had seen too much carnage. Unfortunately it had become an all-too common sight these days.

  The Executioner caught a glimpse of movement at the front of the building. One of the doors opened and a man in a wrinkled brown suit exited. The man’s hair was laced with gray and his face had a world-weary look. He approached the two Americans, removed a latex glove and then offered his hand.

  “I am Inspector Albert Dorao,” he said, shaking Bolan’s hand and then Grimaldi’s. “May I assume you are with the FBI?”

  “Close,” Bolan said, showing the man his false credentials identifying him as Matt Cooper from the Justice Department.

  Grimaldi held up a similar fake ID.

  Dorao raised both eyebrows. “I do not understand. Why is the U.S. Justice Department involved in this?”

  “We were in the neighborhood,” Grimaldi said.

  “Standard procedure,” Bolan added. “We try to monitor and track what could be any terrorist activity around the world.”

  Dorao considered that and then gave a slight nod. “I will be interested to see if your observations and conjectures match my own.” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a fistful of latex.

  “May I request that you wear these?” he said. “It is a large building, and we are still in the process of examination for trace evidence.”

  Both Bolan and Grimaldi donned a pair of gloves.

  “What type of facili
ty is this?” Bolan asked.

  “It is my understanding,” Dorao said, “that they did research on the effects of drugs.”

  Bolan looked around as they walked. “Kind of a remote place for an attack.”

  “Plus, a drug research company?” Grimaldi queried, hunching his shoulders. “You’d figure terrorists would pick a more high-profile target.”

  Dorao shrugged. “As I said, I look forward to hearing your impressions and comparing them with my own. Until then, I shall refrain from coloring your observations.”

  “Fair enough,” Bolan said. “We appreciate you allowing us to observe.”

  “The crime was discovered at four o’clock,” Dorao said, walking up the steps to the front of the building. “A delivery boy came upon the scene and saw the dead security guard. He summoned the police and...”

  Dorao grabbed an elongated gold-colored handle on the main entrance door. As he pulled the door open, Bolan caught a glimpse of a bevy of people inside, some standing guard, while others in white crime scene uniforms meticulously photographed items and twirled fingerprint brushes. An ornate, futuristically designed desk sat about twenty feet from the front entrance. Two men twirled bushes over the surface. As they got closer, Bolan noted the puddle of congealed blood on the flat surface.

  “The security man was seated there,” Dorao said. “He was shot in the face.” He held his forefinger to the spot between his eyebrows. “We found an ejected shell casing, from a 9 mm, about three meters away.” He pointed to the area in front of a section of metal detector portals.

  Right between the eyes, Bolan thought. A head shot, most likely done with a split-second target acquisition. Whoever did this had good marksmanship skills to effect a head shot at that distance.

  Inspector Dorao motioned them forward and they moved through the portals, the alarms going off as each of them passed.

  Dorao’s eyebrows lifted as he regarded Bolan and Grimaldi. “May I assume you have special permission to carry concealed weapons?”