Fatal Prescription

Debussey’s face wobbled up and down like a bobblehead doll’s. “That was unfortunate. They were on a humanitarian service trip. He was an unexpected intrusion to the test, and was taken away before I could examine him.”

“Who took him?” Stevenson asked.

“The other aides. They’re working in a Doctors Without Borders program.”

Stevenson bit his lower lip slightly. “How serious is his exposure? What’s his prognosis?”

“Well, given that he’s already most likely been given a range of standard inoculations prior to coming here, I would imagine he’d fall into our Category Two.” Debussey paused and licked his lips. “I can go to the hospital and give him—”

“Don’t give him shit,” Stevenson said. “No contact with him, understand? I don’t want anybody to know you’re there.”

Debussey’s eyebrows rose in twin arches over his glasses, his image freezing just as Quarry’s had moments before. When he came back on, Debussey was already speaking, unaware that the first part of his wording had been unintelligible. “—to review the effectiveness of the adjusted virus’s prescribed life span. Of course, if the antidote is administered with a dosage of greater than 250 milligrams—”

“Hold on, for Christ’s sake,” Stevenson said. “Half of what you say isn’t coming through. Just put Quarry back on.”

Debussey’s mouth drew into a pout but he nodded and stood. He began turning and then turned back, sticking his face close to the camera lens.

“Do you want me to accelerate the administration of the antidote to the villagers at this time?” he asked.

“I’ll advise,” Stevenson said. “Now put Quarry back on. Alone.”

Debussey disappeared from the screen momentarily and then could be seen walking to exit the tent. Quarry’s big face and shoulders appeared again.

“Is that pussy gone?” Stevenson asked.

Quarry nodded. “I told him to wait outside.”

“What are the chances that infected aide can be taken care of quietly?” Stevenson asked. “Over there.”

Quarry shook his head. “Right now it’d be pretty hard. The capital was already crawling with journalists covering the Doctors Without Borders inoculation program. Word is they’re regrouping to check on the outbreak shortly, once he arrives at the hospital.”

“Shit,” Stevenson swore. “How the hell are we going to contain this now?”

“We’d better go into damage control mode right away,” Nelson said.

“Damn straight,” Stevenson confirmed. He looked back at the screen. “Who’s this infected aide? What’s his name?”

“Frank Clayton,” Quarry said.

Stevenson brought his hands to his face and massaged his temples. “Okay, let’s get a handle on this. First, we need to find out where this guy Clayton is and how to deal with him. We also need to wrap things up before word gets out. This thing has to be contained immediately.”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Debussey’s preparing a load of antiviral shots to curtail things in the village.”

“Forget that,” Stevenson said. “Go with the quick-action plan we discussed.”

Quarry’s face twitched. “You sure, sir?”

“Yes, I am,” Stevenson said in a clipped tone. “And don’t ever question me again.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Stevenson glared at the image on the screen, hoping his anger would be effectively conveyed by the camera. “Make it look like the work of frightened locals.”

“Understood, sir.”

“And then get Debussey on a plane back here ASAP,” Stevenson said. “The sooner, the better.”

Quarry nodded. “He won’t be happy. Like I said, he’s been preparing the antivirals to give to the entire village.”

“That goddamn idiot. Tell him you’re leaving a team behind to do that. Just get him out of there, and then take care of business as planned. Got it?”

Quarry’s face showed no emotion. “Yes, sir.”

Stevenson snapped his fingers and Nelson handed him the remote.

“Get back here as soon as you’re done,” Stevenson directed, and pressed the button to end the transmission. He held the remote in his hand for a moment then turned and hurled it against the wall. It broke apart, spilling batteries and plastic backings.

Nelson chuckled. “Well, at least Elvis spared the TV this time.”

Stevenson eyed him sharply and then smirked. “Good old Rod... Always able to make me laugh, even in the darkest of times.”

“What’s there to be mad about?” Nelson flashed a wide grin. “From the sound of it, Debussey’s modifications to the CEZ-A2 were a complete success, and Quarry and his boys will eliminate the tribe and burn the place to the ground. He matches the local skin color, so it’ll just look like another case of vigilante action in the face of indigenous hysteria.”

“Indigenous hysteria,” Stevenson said. “I like that. Has a nice spin to it. We’ll have to use that phrase somewhere down the line.” Stevenson paused and took a breath, a look of ecstasy in his eyes. “We made a good choice for our field test. It’s a damn good thing that life’s so cheap and those bastards are so stupid.”

Nelson’s grin widened. “Now is that any way for the man who’s going to be controlling the President of the United States to talk?”

Stevenson grinned back, basking in the ingenuity of his master plan. Yet he knew he had a ways to go before he could bring it to fruition.

“How long before the Talon checks in?”

Nelson glanced at his watch again. “Eight or nine hours. Remember, it’s still nighttime over there now.”

Stevenson nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I know. This country wasn’t built in a day.”

“But pretty soon you’ll own it, so you can change that,” Nelson said.

2 (#u495e8884-c4bc-527a-aa1e-1e878681eec3)

USS Fuller

Off the coast of Italy

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, let the rivulets of hot water wash over his face and chest. He turned, letting the flow go down his back. Nothing felt better than a hot shower after a mission in the field.

Well, a few things did, he thought with a grin.

He shut off the water, stepped out of the stall and began to towel dry his dark hair.