Fatal Prescription

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

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?”