Fatal Prescription

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.”