Fatal Prescription

“Parlez-vous français?” the Talon asked, relishing that the French sounded so much more sexy in his altered, husky-tenor voice.

“Oui.” The man smiled this time, his eyes roving over “her” exquisitely padded bosom, and asked how he could be of assistance.

The Talon decided to play it with coyness, smiling and saying in French, “This is the Chevalier Institute, isn’t it?”

The man nodded, his eyes still fixed on her breasts.

“I’m Ms. Juliette Fornay,” he continued in French. “Is Mr. Chevalier here? I have an appointment.”

The guard smiled and picked up the phone, obviously checking on the appointment.

“Thank you. Where is the ladies’ room?” The Talon punctuated the question with a smile and salacious wink.

The guard pointed to a door marked Dames.

The Talon went inside, once again using the tissue to grip and twist the door handle. He made certain he was alone, then braced himself against the door and quickly removed the 9 mm Heckler & Koch VP9 pistol and the two extra magazines from the zippered section in his purse.

In total, he had sixty-five rounds...well, sixty-six with the one in the chamber. He deemed that more than sufficient for the task at hand: going through the building, killing all of the employees, which the estimates had placed between twenty-three and twenty-seven, depending on vacations and sick days. It wasn’t a pleasant task, nor was it particularly unpleasant. It was merely time-consuming. But his employer had specified that none of the employees be left alive, and the Talon was all about carrying out whatever assignment he undertook.

He stuffed the extra mags into the special holders by his hips. After screwing a sound suppressor onto the front barrel of the pistol, he carefully placed it into his crotch holster, after first checking the de-cocking lever once more.

He took out his cell phone and made a quick call, speaking in Italian this time. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, we are ready,” a voice replied.

The Talon told the man to be prepared to proceed on the signal. He placed the cell back in his purse. After taking care to flush the toilet, using the tissue on the lever, he left the restroom and walked back to the security desk.

“I am sorry,” the guard apologized, still holding the phone, obviously confused at not having been told of any such appointment. “But Mr. Chevalier does not have you down for an appointment.”

“Tell him I represent William J. Stevenson,” the Talon said. It was risky using the real name of his employer, but the big man had assured him it would not be a concern since he’d done business with the Chevalier Institute before.

The guard spoke softly into the phone again. After a moment he nodded and hung up. “Someone will come to greet you shortly,” he said.

As the Talon waited, he observed. The building had three levels. Once he’d achieved entry, the rest should be a simple matter. Messy, but simple. He tripped the stopwatch function on his phone. His estimate was five to seven minutes total, at the outside.

Beyond the row of metal detectors, the elevator doors opened, accompanied by a warning ping. A heavyset, middle-aged woman with dark brown hair frosted with gray, stepped out and ambled toward them, identifying herself in French as Sylvie Bois, Monsieur Chevalier’s personal assistant. She stayed on the other side of the row of metal detectors.

“Do you speak English?” the Talon asked in French. “My French isn’t fluent.”

“Yes,” the woman said, “I do. How may I help you?”

“I must see Monsieur Chevalier,” he said, stepping forward, past the security guard. “It is a matter of the greatest urgency.”

The middle-aged woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise and she stepped back.

The Talon kept moving forward, despite the woman’s protestations. The metal detector’s alarm went off as he stepped through the first portal. The guard’s head turned toward them.

The Talon laughed and feigned surprise, apologizing and saying first in English, “I’m sorry. I have an artificial hip,” then adding in French, “J’ai une prothèse de la hanche.”

The wrinkles in the guard’s brow increased.

The Talon laughed again, almost girlishly, and reached down to pull up the front of his skirt. “Here, let me show you.”

He withdrew the H & K VP9, aiming it at the security guard’s shocked face.

“Have a nice day, asshole,” the Talon said.

The weapon recoiled slightly with an accompanying plunking sound. Milliseconds later a small, black, circular hole appeared between the man’s eyes and his mouth sagged open, disgorging a gusset of blood. His head jerked backward then forward. He slumped in the chair momentarily and then rolled forward, his forehead smacking the desktop.

The Talon nodded slightly in appreciation of the shot.

The middle-aged woman recoiled in horror, but the assassin had already grabbed her by the arm and was forcing her toward the elevators. He swept the woman’s feet out from under her and forced her down on the slick, tile floor. She moaned in agony and the Talon raised his finger to his lips, hissing softly.

“Be quiet, if you want to live,” he said, pressing the elevator call button. He then took out his cell. It was time to summon the expendables.

It was answered a moment later.

“Block the road,” the Talon said in Italian. “Have someone shut off the sprinkler valves.”

“Sì,” was the terse response.

The Talon grabbed the woman’s upper arm, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, and lifted her to her feet, his body and especially his face, pressing close to hers. He let the cylindrical end of the sound suppressor caress her cheek then her nose.

“We have a few visits to make,” he said. “If you make any attempt to cry out or warn anyone, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

She nodded, tears running down her cheeks.

The elevator doors opened and two men in lab coats started out and then stopped, expressions of surprise etched on their faces.

The Talon shot each man in the forehead. They dropped instantly. The killer placed his foot against the rubber auto-safety device between the halves of the doors to keep them from closing.

Pulling the woman inside, he said, “What floor is your boss on?”

The woman glanced down at the crumpled bodies.

“What floor is Mr. Chevalier on?” he growled.

“Two,” the woman said, her voice cracking.

“Where is the security office?” he asked.

She raised her arm and pointed down the hall.

It made sense. Security would be on the main floor for quick access to the entrance and exit. He pulled her erect, feeling her body trembling under his grasp.

“Do not worry,” he said in a soft voice, using his foot to shove one of the bodies in place to block the doors. “It will be all right. Everything will be fine.”

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.