He knew that much.
Like he knew, for whatever reason, his identity was something he carried beneath the Matt Cooper alias. That his name was Mack Bolan. That he was skilled with weapons and handling himself in dangerous situations. The way he had reacted against the men who had held Laura, placing the young woman in danger. His actions had come instinctively. There had been no hesitation when he was confronted by the hostile attitude of the trio. No holding back. The way he had used the weapons in his hands had been the actions of a man well used to combat situations. His responses had simply happened. He had done what needed to be done.
Bolan considered his situation. The injury from the crash had interfered with his thought processes. But not completely. Slivers of memory had filtered through, allowing him to know his name and retain his physical skills.
Bolan concentrated on his driving. The harder he tried to pull memories out of the fog in his mind the more they receded. Maybe if he allowed the natural healing process to develop the easier answers might emerge from the darkness.
The matter was taken out of his hands when a large SUV appeared in his rearview mirror. It sped up close to the rear of Bolan’s vehicle.
“Matt,” Devon yelled.
The enemy had called in additional help.
A second vehicle slithered into view ahead of them, closing in rapidly.
“Where the hell are these people from?” Devon asked.
Bolan was caught between the pair of vehicles. There was no way to avoid them on the narrow road. No avenue of escape off road. They had him boxed in this time. It wouldn’t have mattered how much firepower he had. This wasn’t a situation where Bolan could shoot his way clear. And he couldn’t risk Devon being caught up in any further violence.
The soldier braked and brought the SUV to a stop. Armed men emerged from the two vehicles, covering him from all sides.
Beside him Devon shook her head. “And I asked to come along.”
“Looks like we’re going to find out what’s going on at least,” Bolan said. “Not the way I wanted, but I guess we’ll get some answers.”
Chapter 6
Lawrence Pembury barely glanced up from checking the figures on his tablet when the door opened and the cuffed figure was pushed into the room. He continued to tap information into the device. It was only when he was satisfied that he glanced up.
“This him?”
One of the armed escorts nodded. “He’s not looking so smart now,” he said.
Pembury took his first close look at the captive, a tall man, over six feet. He had dark hair and a good physique. The eyes fixed on Pembury were unwavering; a cool ice-blue. There was an extremely heavy bruise on his left temple, a gash in the flesh. It showed deep discoloration. There was a fresh bruise on his jaw. The man’s clothing was wrinkled and still bore traces of a recent soaking.
“He give you trouble?”
“He didn’t seem to enjoy our invitation, so we had to take appropriate action,” the escort commented.
Pembury nodded. That would explain the fresh bruising on the man’s jaw.
“Sit him over there.” Pembury indicated the chair.
The escorts moved Bolan to the chair and sat him down. While one held his weapon on Bolan, the other secured him with the restraints fitted to the chair.
“Do we have his name?” Pembury asked.
“Are we going on a date?” Bolan asked.
“Spirit. That means he’ll resist.”
“How about we soften him up a little, Doc. I don’t like smart-mouthed guys. Or bastards who kill my buddies.”
Pembury glanced at the speaker. “Such aggression, Nash. You should learn to control your emotions.”
“That’s good advice, Nash,” Bolan said. “Maybe you can take a pill to calm yourself down. Ask the doctor.”
Pembury stifled a laugh.
Nash stepped forward, his face dark with unsuppressed anger.
“You want to see calm...”
Pembury placed himself between Bolan and the escort.
“You’ve had your turn,” he said. “Now it’s mine. You can go.”
For a moment it seemed Nash was going to protest. Something held him back, and then he turned abruptly and stalked from the room, his partner close behind. The door closed with a solid thud.
“That man is a thug,” Pembury said.
“We can’t all be diplomats,” Bolan said.
Pembury had crossed the room and was bending over a metal table. When he turned, he had a hypodermic needle in his hand. He depressed the plunger just enough to expel air from the chamber.
“This will help to make you responsive to questions. My employer is going to want some answers from you. For your own sake I would suggest cooperation. I have a plentiful supply of the drug, and he will have no compunction about having me administer more. Believe me, Rackham insists on getting his own way.”
Bolan’s right sleeve was rolled up. He felt the prick of the needle, then the uncomfortable sensation as it was pushed into his arm. When Pembury depressed the plunger, Bolan felt the warmth flow into his flesh. The sensation expanded. A comforting glow that spread. Pembury slid the needle out and stood back.
“You can fight all you want,” he said pleasantly. “It won’t stop it working. I’ll give it ten minutes before you’ll feel like talking.”
He leaned forward to examine the gash in Bolan’s scalp. He pushed back the hair, observing the span of the wound. Although the gash had crusted over with dried blood, he could see the extent of the damage.
“Something hit you hard there.”
“A car doorframe.”
“Did it leave you with a headache?”
Bolan nodded. “An understatement.”
He studied Pembury’s face as the man peered at the scalp wound again before turning away and crossing the room. He picked up a phone receiver, punching in an internal number.
“I’ve given him the first shot. Have to wait and see. I’ve told you it could take time. Fine. I’ll do that and wait for you to join us. How long? Give it a half hour.”
Bolan watched as Pembury replaced the receiver and walked back to the table where he refilled the syringe. As much as he didn’t want another dose of whatever was being pumped into him, Bolan had no say. He tensed his muscles as Pembury brought the thin needle close to his arm.
“If you tense up, all that will happen is the needle breaking off in your arm. That wouldn’t be pleasant.”
“As opposed to what?”
Pembury slid the needle in just above the site of the first injection. He looked uncomfortable. Something in his manner told Bolan the man was working under some kind of resistance.
“You do this to Bremner?” Bolan asked, watching for Pembury’s reaction.
He saw the man flinch. The name wasn’t unfamiliar to him.
“Is that why you came here?” Pembury seemed apologetic. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Bolan remained silent. He had planted the seed. Now he wanted it to grow.
The sensation from the second injection was stronger as the double dose began to take effect. Bolan could feel the warm sensation spreading.
It relaxed him.
It invaded his senses.
It took away any desire to fight the sensation. Bolan drew in deep breaths, trying to resist the warm pleasure rolling over him. He didn’t succeed.
He stared at Pembury. The man stood close by, but in Bolan’s vision he was a distance away, a distorted image. When he spoke his voice had a hollow, echoing tone to it.
The room shimmered even as Bolan tried to control his vision. It felt as if he was moving, the chair almost drifting. The corners of the room closed in, then parted.
The comforting sensation invad
ed Bolan’s skull, seeped into his brain and rolled his thoughts around. The ache in his head expanded. The pain magnified, and Bolan uttered a low moan as it reached the extreme. White light flared behind his eyes and the intensity blinded him. The spread of warmth from the injections flooded his whole body. If Bolan hadn’t been secured to the chair, he would have slid off it.
He experienced an unpleasant floating feeling, a disconnection from his surroundings. His limbs vanished and he drifted... Bolan felt his world implode, and he struggled to keep his eyes open. In the shadows surrounding him, Bolan picked up the low murmur of voices. The voices were too low for him to pick out words.
The disconnection could have lasted for minutes. Or hours. Bolan had no time indicators. No sensation of dark or light.
He tried to focus on what could keep him grounded. Names. People. Places he knew.
He failed. Past and present were slipping away. There were no names to recall. No faces in his mind. All the important markers that determined his existence vanished like water down a plug hole.
Yet he still maintained his hold on his name.
He was Mack Bolan.
So who was Cooper?
Matt Cooper?
Why did he use the name Cooper?
He fought the abyss draining away his memories. Everything he knew. People he knew.
And when they were gone all he had left were the names.
Bolan.
Cooper.
And asked himself the same question again. Who was Bolan/Cooper?
The enveloping warmth swamped his body. He fought against it for a while, but it was too strong. He allowed himself to be taken into the cocoon of sensual comfort, drifting away, and it didn’t seem important any longer to even consider resisting.
* * *
BOLAN CAME OUT OF IT slowly. Even after he had opened his eyes he made no attempt to move. His senses were tangled, uneven, and he wanted to regain some kind of cohesion before he did anything else. After his blurred vision focused in and he was able to check his surroundings, he realized he was no longer in the room where Pembury had injected him. Now he lay on a bed. The ceiling above him was a pale cream with a couple of long fluorescent lights throwing cold, stark illumination across the room. The light pushed into every corner of the room. Nothing was in shadow.
Not even the man seated on a steel chair, the configuration of a shotgun resting across his thighs. When he saw Bolan was awake, the guy stood and crossed to a wall phone. He tapped in a number and spoke briefly. Then he dropped the receiver back on its cradle and crossed to the side of the bed. He was big. Well over the six-foot mark and had the broad-shouldered physique of a dedicated bodybuilder. He wore his dark hair in a buzz cut. He stared down at Bolan.
“Sleeping Beauty awakens,” he said. “I was starting to wonder if the doc gave you too much juice and you were dead.” He grinned at that. “Rackham would be purely pissed if that happened.”
“We wouldn’t want to upset Mr. Rackham,” Bolan said. He had no idea yet who Rackham was; he was having enough problems with his own identity to concern himself with someone called Rackham.
“Rackham is not a guy to piss off.”
Bolan decided he didn’t care too much for Mr. Rackham.
“Heavy artillery,” he said, indicating the shotgun. “That just for me, or are you expecting a war to break out?”
The big guy’s brow furrowed. “I never had a chance to use it.”
“Well, hell,” Bolan said, “that must tick you off.”
“It does. What the hell use is a big gun if...?” He paused. “You making fun of me? I could get pissed if I thought you were.”
Distracting his jailer had given Bolan the opportunity to check out his condition. The hand restraints were gone, but he had a metal cuff around his left wrist that was attached to a steel cable fixed to a wall bracket.
Bolan considered his situation. His captors wanted him restrained—not dead—that much was a given. So it allowed him some leeway. As long as his life wasn’t under an instant threat he had a chance to get away. They wouldn’t have gone to so much effort at keeping him alive if they hadn’t wanted something from him.
That was the piece missing.
What did they want?
What knowledge did he have that warranted so much effort to extract it from him?
He pushed at the lethargy threatening to shut his mind down. He had already said as much to Pembury why he had come.
It had to be Bremner.
He still had no idea what was behind Bremner’s actions.
Unbidden, another name intruded his thoughts.
Devon.
How had he forgotten about her?
She had been with him in the vehicle. They had been together in the forest. Being chased. Then they had been separated and he had gone looking for her. He recalled the confrontation on the road. The men with guns...the shooting. They had almost escaped until being hemmed in by more vehicles. He remembered the drive through the forested countryside, being brought here and Laura being taken away.
Where was she now?
Safe?
She had to be safe.
And where the hell were they?
Chapter 7
The moment Greg Rackham stepped into the lab he experienced the momentary fear that gripped him each time he entered. Despite the fact the actual laboratory was enclosed in a pressurized room within the room, he still had his moment of discomfort. He managed to keep his fear locked inside. To show it would have destroyed his credibility. Any display of that fear would wipe away the power he had over the facility.
Behind the reinforced glass wall of the lab he could see the research team moving around as they worked. They all wore biohazard suits and full visor-fronted helmets. The helmets were sealed to the bio-suits, and each man carried an independent air-supply unit strapped to his back. They entered and left the lab through an airlock system that jutted from the room. On leaving the lab they stepped into an enclosed section where they underwent an ultraviolet light wash that removed any contamination on their bio-suits. From there they moved through a secondary airlock and stepped into the outer airlock before they removed the bio-suits and stepped out into the main lab. The exit procedure took almost fifteen minutes, but there was no other way the techs could be sure they weren’t bringing contamination through to the outside environment.
With the material they were handling, there were no shortcuts. The merest slip in protocol would bring swift and irreversible harm if the virus was allowed to escape. This was a deadly weapon, a silent and invisible killer that struck without mercy and had no boundaries before it became benign after a forty-eight-hour period of activity. During that active period it was a relentless destroyer of life. Airborne, it was easily passed from one host to another. Released in a densely populated area, its potential was unlimited.
In a large city it would strike soundlessly, taking down hundreds, maybe even thousands, and there was no easily available cure. No ready serum. The virus was designed as a weapon against an enemy, and the sole intention was to create sheer panic and a sense of hopelessness because once infected the victims had little chance of recovery.
Rackham watched the activity in the lab. The team was preparing a full batch for their client. The virus would be analyzed by them. The results would be quickly verified, and if the virus checked out as genuine, the client would be coming back for the full batch. Rackham had no doubt as to the success of the trial. The virus had already been tested on live subjects here in the facility. It had worked as expected.
One of the suited workers saw Rackham and raised a hand, extending his thumb as he held up the glass vial in his other hand. It was the sample for the client, ready to be delivered.
Rackham took out his cell phone and keyed in a number.
When his call was picked up, he delivered a brief message.
“Tell them it’s ready, Lise. Callum will be on his way shortly.”
Rackham ended the call and pocketed his cell phone. He left the lab and made his way through to the holding area, where the man named Cooper was being held, and pushed in through the door. Cody stood guard and Pembury was standing beside the bed. He glanced at Rackham.
“He should be ready now,” Pembury said.
Bolan saw a well-dressed man pushing his early forties. He looked fit and carried himself like a military man.
Rackham?
He stopped at the foot of the bed, looking Bolan over as if he was sizing up a side of beef.
“So why isn’t he babbling every secret in his head?” Rackham said, staring at Pembury.
“I gave up babbling a long time ago,” Bolan said.
“You’ll find I have little time for levity,” Rackham stated. “Don’t make things worse for yourself.”
Bolan raised his cuffed left arm and pointed across the room at the man with the shotgun.
“It can get worse?”
“I thought this drug was foolproof?” Rackham said.
“He’s resisting,” Pembury replied.
“Then give him more.”
“That could be dangerous. I’ve already given him two.”
“I don’t care,” Rackham said. “Just do it, Pembury. It’s what you’re here for. And let me remind you of the cards I’m holding. Cody.”
Behind them the shotgunner moved in close. “I’d do what he says, Doc.”
Pembury eyed the menacing presence of the weapon. He understood what Rackham was implying. He had to do what the man requested. If he refused, the consequences would be dire. He moved to the bed and raised the hypo he carried. He refused to meet Bolan’s steady gaze as he injected the third dose.
The solution circulating through Bolan’s system slid him from reality, and he lost all sense of where he was. His view of the room went into soft focus. The people around him ghosted in and out of view. His overriding sensation was of more warmth and a feeling of contentment....
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