Fatal Prescription

The Talon recalled a former associate, a German, who’d developed a misplaced and almost perverse affection for his favorite pistol, a SIG Sauer P-220, keeping the gun after it had been used in several assassinations, and even going so far as to name it Adolph.

The perversion, and the gun, proved to be his undoing when two police officers caught him and matched the ballistics, tying him to the murders.

Since the Talon had assisted the German in two of them, and knowing that anyone who would be stupid enough to affix a name to an inanimate object could not be trusted, the only option was to kill the man, which he did. A long-range shot to the head as he was being escorted from the jail building to the car had resolved the problem, just as eliminating the hired thugs who had helped him with the Chevalier Institute had provided a similar resolution. He did feel a twinge of regret about Henri Lupin, however. He had been the best passport forger in the game. But all of this fell under the heading of necessity: the importance of tying up all loose ends.

After all, this was to be his final assignment.

He stretched and contemplated retirement on a beach or an island in the Caribbean surrounded by beautiful, sun-tanned bodies and icy-cold drinks in frosted glasses.

But those fantasies were best left for another time. He had much work ahead of him, and all of it challenging.

One of the two flight attendants, a pretty black woman in a gold-colored uniform with a Stevenson Dynamics patch above her left breast, walked to his seat.

“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Holland?” she asked, using the name on his false passport.

“Sure,” he said, affecting his American accent. “Ah, what time will we be landing?”

“About 8:00 p.m., sir,” she said, her smile unwavering.

“Okay, I guess I’ll take a screwdriver then.” He smiled. “After all, it’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”

She nodded and left.

The Talon unbuckled his seat belt and stood to stretch, appreciating the luxury. He was the only passenger. One thing about this man Stevenson: it was first class all the way. The Talon almost lamented that he’d never get to meet him, but keeping client contact to a minimum was his standard procedure. He preferred to negotiate all business transactions through a third party, and would complete the job only after the deposit was made into one of his special accounts in Switzerland or the Cayman Islands.

The Talon also preferred to work alone, or almost so. Recruiting the expendable group of lackeys for the first phase at the Chevalier Institute was easily handled. But this next part, which was to take place in the United States, was a bit more complex. He was going to need more operational support since he would be on unfamiliar ground. Although he’d been to the U.S. on several occasions, the targets had always been foreign nationals, who were also fishes out of water.

The flight attendant returned with his drink.

“You really should remain seated, sir,” she said, holding the glass in one hand and gesturing toward the seat with her other. “With your seat belt fastened.”

He smiled and sat before accepting the glass. It was a real glass, too, not some plastic cup like the ones they used on commercial airlines. First class all the way.

He took a sip and nodded. Looking up at her and winking, he said, “How about joining me for a real drink once we land and get through customs?”

She turned and left without comment, but her smile and expression told him there was a possibility there. Perhaps a bit of female distraction would be a nice cap upon a very busy day. He took another sip of the drink and felt the alcohol burn on the way down. It was affecting him more than he liked, and he realized he’d had nothing to eat since early that morning. Setting the drink in the holder, he decided to have no more of it. There was much to do, much to plan, and he could not afford any diversions. There would be time enough for dalliances later.

After all, he told himself again, this was his final assignment.

Luxembourg, Belgium

DARKNESS WAS DESCENDING by the time Dorao’s unmarked police car wound its way through the wooded expanse to the new crime scene. Since the inspector sat in the front passenger seat, this time both Bolan and Grimaldi had been forced to sit in the back of the Citroën.

A police officer dressed in a dark, tactical uniform used a flashlight to direct them to turn onto a side road that intersected the main highway. The headlights illuminated several other police vehicles ahead on the dirt-and-gravel roadway. Beyond them Bolan could see the vague outline of a medium-size truck. Dorao’s driver pulled up behind the parked police vehicles and shut off the engine. He placed the car in second gear and set the parking brake.

“The crime scene is just beyond,” the inspector said, indicating the area in front of them as he got out. The driver exited and held the door open as Bolan pushed the seat forward and slid out of the vehicle. Grimaldi did the same on the other side.

“Are the bodies still in place?” Bolan asked.

“Yes,” Dorao said. “Not a thing has been disturbed.”

They walked between the parked police cars, their feet occasionally making crunching sounds on the loose gravel, until they came to another officer standing in front of a line of yellow crime scene tape.

Several portable floodlights had been set up in the area beyond the taped barrier and Bolan could see the medium-size truck and several bodies lying on the ground behind the vehicle. Two passenger cars were parked to the right of the truck, under some trees.

They stopped and Dorao spoke to the guard in French. After a conversation of approximately four minutes, during which both the guard and Dorao gestured emphatically at the truck and the bodies, the inspector turned to them and began speaking in English.

“Our—how do you say?—CSI guys are still processing the scene,” he said. His tone sounded noticeably more upbeat than it had at the Chevalier Institute. “However, it appears that these victims were not so innocent. Criminals, perhaps even the same criminals who were involved in the massacre at the institute.”

“What makes you think that?” Bolan asked.

Dorao turned his head and yelled in French to one of the men inside the crime scene. The man, who was squatting, stood and carefully made his way toward them.

“This is my good friend Leonard Jellema,” Dorao said with a broad smile. “He is Dutch, but he is still a good investigator.”

Jellema, a tall man with a mustache, grinned and said in English laced with a British-sounding accent, “Yes, I was born in the Dutch area, but I grew up fighting with so many Frenchmen that I learned their language, as well.”

“And English, too,” Bolan said.

Jellema smiled. “I studied forensics in London. I seem to have a facility for picking up languages.”

“We’re more interested in what you picked up here,” Grimaldi said. “What’s it look like?”

“Seven bodies,” Jellema said. “Initially shot from a distance of perhaps two to three meters, judging from the shell casings we found over there.” He pointed to a group of seven plastic tags placed on the ground about twenty feet away.

“Initially?” Bolan asked.

“Yes. It appears as though the seven men were shot as they stood at the rear of the truck. There are seven shell casings from a 9 mm Heckler & Koch VP9 by those markers.” He pointed again toward the scene. “Then, after downing each man, the shooter walked among them and shot each one in the head, execution style. There are more shell casings scattered among the bodies.”

Grimaldi emitted a low whistle. “Cold-blooded.”

“The shooter was thorough,” Jellema said. “I believe he created a diversion by throwing some euros into the crowd. The currency is also scattered on the ground among and under the bodies, replete with bloodstains. This would indicate that the money was most likely disseminated immediately prior to the shooting.”

Bolan surveyed the scene. “You seem pretty sure about the weapon used.”

Jellema smiled again and called to one of his assistants. He said something in Dutch and the man nodded and moved carefully to a box on the perimeter of the scene. He retrieved something and, a few seconds later, made his way toward them, giving a pistol encased in a plastic evidence bag to Jellema, who thanked him.

“It does seem a bit presumptuous,” Jellema said, “but we recovered this at the scene.” He held up the bag, showing Bolan the pistol.

Bolan studied the weapon, noting that it was, indeed, a 9 mm Heckler & Koch VP9. He also noticed that the grip had been professionally trimmed down.

“Looks like our killer has small hands,” he said.

“Yes, it does,” Jellema said. “And although we haven’t had time to compare them in the lab, I’m willing to bet that the extraction marks on these shell casings will match those we recovered earlier at the institute.”

“Tell him what else you found, Leonard,” Dorao said.

Jellema again pointed to a stack of boxes next to the one that had contained the H & K. “Rifles. Six of them. And a submachine gun. They had been stacked in the back of the truck. Again, we haven’t yet begun to compare the ballistics, but I’m betting we’re going to find matches to the casings we recovered from the institute.”