Fatal Prescription

by Don Pendleton

  Deadly Plague

  There seems to be little connection between the viral devastation of a small, African village and the massacre at a drug research facility in Belgium... But Mack Bolan has learned the hard way that appearances can be deceiving. In fact, a wealthy industrialist is about to expand the release of a highly contagious virus out of Africa and into the States, and use the “miracle” antidote as his ticket to the U.S. presidency. It’s up to the Executioner to take down the villain’s mysterious assassin and stop the pending epidemic...

  “The security man was shot in the face,” Inspector Dorao said, pointing to the blood congealing on the desk.

  He held his forefinger to the spot between his eyebrows.

  “We found an ejected shell casing from a 9 mm about three meters away.”

  Right between the eyes, Bolan thought. Whoever did this had good marksmanship.

  Dorao motioned them forward and they moved through the security gates, the alarms going off as each of them went through. Dorao’s eyebrows lifted as he regarded Bolan and Grimaldi.

  “May I assume that you have special permission to carry concealed weapons?”

  “We came right here from another assignment,” Bolan said. “There was concern that this might be the first of several attacks.”

  Dorao shook his head. “Let us hope not. But your weapons are of little importance to me at this point.” He gestured toward the elevators. “There were two bodies in the elevator. Others in the security office. Come. I will show you the rest. Upstairs. Be warned. It is not pretty.”

  #375 Salvador Strike

  #376 Frontier Fury

  #377 Desperate Cargo

  #378 Death Run

  #379 Deep Recon

  #380 Silent Threat

  #381 Killing Ground

  #382 Threat Factor

  #383 Raw Fury

  #384 Cartel Clash

  #385 Recovery Force

  #386 Crucial Intercept

  #387 Powder Burn

  #388 Final Coup

  #389 Deadly Command

  #390 Toxic Terrain

  #391 Enemy Agents

  #392 Shadow Hunt

  #393 Stand Down

  #394 Trial by Fire

  #395 Hazard Zone

  #396 Fatal Combat

  #397 Damage Radius

  #398 Battle Cry

  #399 Nuclear Storm

  #400 Blind Justice

  #401 Jungle Hunt

  #402 Rebel Trade

  #403 Line of Honor

  #404 Final Judgment

  #405 Lethal Diversion

  #406 Survival Mission

  #407 Throw Down

  #408 Border Offensive

  #409 Blood Vendetta

  #410 Hostile Force

  #411 Cold Fusion

  #412 Night’s Reckoning

  #413 Double Cross

  #414 Prison Code

  #415 Ivory Wave

  #416 Extraction

  #417 Rogue Assault

  #418 Viral Siege

  #419 Sleeping Dragons

  #420 Rebel Blast

  #421 Hard Targets

  #422 Nigeria Meltdown

  #423 Breakout

  #424 Amazon Impunity

  #425 Patriot Strike

  #426 Pirate Offensive

  #427 Pacific Creed

  #428 Desert Impact

  #429 Arctic Kill

  #430 Deadly Salvage

  #431 Maximum Chaos

  #432 Slayground

  #433 Point Blank

  #434 Savage Deadlock

  #435 Dragon Key

  #436 Perilous Cargo

  #437 Assassin’s Tripwire

  #438 The Cartel Hit

  #439 Blood Rites

  #440 Killpath

  #441 Murder Island

  #442 Syrian Rescue

  #443 Uncut Terror

  #444 Dark Savior

  #445 Final Assault

  #446 Kill Squad

  #447 Missile Intercept

  #448 Terrorist Dispatch

  #449 Combat Machines

  #450 Omega Cult

  #451 Fatal Prescription

  Fatal Prescription

  Man’s enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself.

  —Lao Tzu

  I make myself the enemy of those who would victimize their fellow humans. As long as people continue to kill each other, I will not lay down my weapons.

  —Mack Bolan

  Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

  But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

  Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

  He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

  So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

  But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

  Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  1

  Stevenson Dynamics

  Fairfax County, Arlington, Virginia

  William J. Stevenson sat in the padded leather chair holding a remote in his right hand. He leaned forward on the large mahogany table, rested his elbows on the polished surface and clicked on the television.

  Stevenson was in his mid-fifties with a well-trimmed Vandyke, chiseled cheekbones and a tall, powerful-looking body. His face was perfectly tanned and his dark brown hair was coiffed to perfection.

  A glass sat on a coaster in front of him and a heavyset, balding man with glasses sat to his left. To Stevenson’s right, a thin, younger man in a light blue suit stood nervously rubbing his jaw, as they all watched the prototype for the commercial begin to play.

  Two attractive women, dressed in typical soccer-mom attire, escorted a group of children through a CGI image of an idyllic, green pasture. The women smiled with bright, ultra-white teeth and conversed in inaudible sentences as the announcer’s mellifluous voice-over listed the benefits of taking Pacifica 7, “the surest safeguard against the Keller Flu
Virus that you can get.” The scene shifted to a pair of young girls on some swings, their moms laughing as they pushed the children forward with light, exuberant exertions.

  “Do not take Pacifica if you have inflammatory bowel syndrome,” the announcer continued, speaking in a rapid, subdued monotone. “Certain studies have shown that adverse side effects may be noticed in certain individuals. These side effects may include vomiting, diarrhea, swelling of lymph glands... Tell your doctor if you experience shortness of breath or rapid heartbeat. In rare cases, cardiac arrhythmia, stroke and death may occur. Pacifica should not be used in combination with any non-recommended medications, and should not be taken in dosages exceeding prescribed limits. If any of these symptoms occur, notify your physician. In case of life-threatening reactions, consult immediate emergency room hospitalization.”

  Stevenson frowned and pressed the pause button on the remote.

  “What the hell?” he said, emphasizing the last word. “Inflammatory bowel syndrome, shortness of breath, arrhythmia, death... Christ. What are you trying to do? Kill the damn drug before it even gets approved by the damn FDA?”

  The standing man’s face jerked into a quick smile. “Well, sir, we are required by the FCC to verbally mention any potential hazards or risks.”

  Stevenson stood slowly, stretching himself to his full, six-foot-seven inches, and then threw the remote at him. The other man tried to duck, but it bounced off his face, breaking apart and ejecting two small AAA batteries. His knees buckled slightly and his face contorted into a wince, which he immediately tried to transform into a smile.

  “But, Mr. Stevenson, sir—”

  “Rod, get this weak asshole out of my sight,” Stevenson ordered, his voice laced with derision.

  Rodney Allen Nelson stood, waving his hand to usher the other man toward the door. Nelson’s face showed a placid, conciliatory expression. The younger man winced, then nodded, holding his cheek as he headed for the door. As it closed behind him, Stevenson picked up the glass and threw it at the LCD screen. The frozen image buckled and distorted slightly, and then went black as the glass shattered against it, leaving a trail of spilled liquid and broken shards.

  “Jesus Christ, Bill,” Nelson said. “That’s the third TV you’ve destroyed this week. You trying to break Elvis’s old record?”

  Stevenson’s face was still a mask of livid rage.

  “Don’t mess with me, Rod,” he said. “I’m not in the mood for assholes or jokes.”

  Just then they heard a light knock on the door. After a few seconds it opened and a startlingly attractive woman stepped inside. She had strawberry blond hair, and her blue dress clung to an obviously enhanced body.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Stevenson,” she said.

  Stevenson glanced at her, his eyes sweeping over her breasts. “What?”

  “It’s Mr. Quarry, sir,” she said, hesitating slightly before adding, “He’s on Skype.”

  “Skype?” Stevenson looked at the shattered television screen and swore. The woman looked perplexed.

  Nelson stepped forward, his hand held in the same conciliatory pose as before. “Jenna, have the call rerouted to the situation room.”

  The woman nodded and slipped out the door.

  Nelson turned back to Stevenson with a wry grin.

  “I hope it’s not bad news,” he said. “I was looking forward to watching some live news streams later on that TV.”

  Stevenson snorted a laugh and they headed for the door. “Come on,” he said. “I want to hear what he has to say, and it better be good. What the hell time is it over there, anyway?”

  Nelson glanced at his watch. “Around half-past midnight.”

  * * *

  STEVENSON WATCHED AS Jenna Callahan adjusted the large screen toward the conference table and fingered the PTZ lens along the top border. She pressed some buttons on a remote and then handed it to Rodney Nelson. Callahan turned and smiled at Stevenson as the television screen illuminated and the pigments brightened. An image of a man appeared. The broad, flat plains of his face and shaved head looked about 120 times their normal size. The background behind the face showed only darkness.

  “Thank you, Jenna,” Nelson said. “That’ll be all.”

  Callahan smiled at both men, turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind her.

  Stevenson’s eyes, fixed on her buttocks as she walked, now turned to the large screen. “This better be good news, Quarry,” he said, his voice low and guttural.

  The face on the screen was distorted momentarily by a series of lines, then came back. “There’s been a slight development, sir.”

  “‘Development’?” Stevenson repeated. “What the hell does that mean?” He and Nelson exchanged a glance.

  “Everything’s going according to the professor’s estimates,” Quarry said. “But...”

  Stevenson’s brow furrowed. “But what, damn it?”

  Quarry’s image froze again, distorted by a series of horizontal, colored lines. When he came back, part of the transmission was indistinct. “—infected. He was taken from the village and transported to a hospital in Luanda.”

  “What? Who? You faded out.”

  “An American aide,” Quarry said. “He and his crew were in the bush giving some kind of inoculations. Measles, I think. We didn’t anticipate that he’d hear about the outbreak and come to check it out.”

  Stevenson gritted his teeth. “Damn.” He looked to Nelson, who sidled over to get into the camera range.

  “All right, Shadrock,” Nelson said. “We’re having a little trouble receiving you.”

  “Are you sure this is totally encrypted?” Stevenson asked.

  Nelson looked at him, smiled and nodded. He then turned back to the screen where Quarry’s large face loomed. “Where’s Dr. Debussey?”

  “Outside the tent,” Quarry said. His big hand appeared and he jerked his thumb behind him. “I wanted to check with you first. Want me to bring him in?”

  Nelson looked to Stevenson, who nodded.

  On the huge screen, Quarry stood and walked toward the darkened area behind him. He flipped up a canvass flap and said something. After a few seconds a pear-shaped, professorial type, in similar dark, jungle fatigues that Quarry was wearing, stepped through the opening and waddled toward the camera.

  He sat and looked around nervously. Quarry’s massive upper body leaned forward, dwarfing the other man as he gave him an earpiece.

  “Just talk into there, Doctor,” Quarry said. “You can see him in the monitor.”

  “Arnold?” Stevenson said. “Can you hear me?”

  The scientist nodded. His chin sagged and he looked exhausted.

  “Give me a status report,” Stevenson said.

  Debussey took a deep breath. “The mist dispersion system and the accelerated incubation rate seem to have functioned exactly as we estimated they would. Twelve hours from exposure to onset. The antidote inoculation for the team has also proved effective in that none of us has been infected, despite initial exposure. I need to start the antiviral inoculations for the villagers.”

  Stevenson nodded. “What about this other bullshit? This aide?”

  Debussey’s face wobbled up and down like a bobblehead doll’s. “That was unfortunate. They were on a humanitarian service trip. He was an unexpected intrusion to the test, and was taken away before I could examine him.”

  “Who took him?” Stevenson asked.

  “The other aides. They’re working in a Doctors Without Borders program.”

  Stevenson bit his lower lip slightly. “How serious is his exposure? What’s his prognosis?”

  “Well, given that he’s already most likely been given a range of standard inoculations prior to coming here, I would imagine he’d fall into our Category Two.” Debussey paused a
nd licked his lips. “I can go to the hospital and give him—”

  “Don’t give him shit,” Stevenson said. “No contact with him, understand? I don’t want anybody to know you’re there.”

  Debussey’s eyebrows rose in twin arches over his glasses, his image freezing just as Quarry’s had moments before. When he came back on, Debussey was already speaking, unaware that the first part of his wording had been unintelligible. “—to review the effectiveness of the adjusted virus’s prescribed life span. Of course, if the antidote is administered with a dosage of greater than 250 milligrams—”

  “Hold on, for Christ’s sake,” Stevenson said. “Half of what you say isn’t coming through. Just put Quarry back on.”

  Debussey’s mouth drew into a pout but he nodded and stood. He began turning and then turned back, sticking his face close to the camera lens.

  “Do you want me to accelerate the administration of the antidote to the villagers at this time?” he asked.

  “I’ll advise,” Stevenson said. “Now put Quarry back on. Alone.”

  Debussey disappeared from the screen momentarily and then could be seen walking to exit the tent. Quarry’s big face and shoulders appeared again.

  “Is that pussy gone?” Stevenson asked.

  Quarry nodded. “I told him to wait outside.”

  “What are the chances that infected aide can be taken care of quietly?” Stevenson asked. “Over there.”

  Quarry shook his head. “Right now it’d be pretty hard. The capital was already crawling with journalists covering the Doctors Without Borders inoculation program. Word is they’re regrouping to check on the outbreak shortly, once he arrives at the hospital.”

  “Shit,” Stevenson swore. “How the hell are we going to contain this now?”

  “We’d better go into damage control mode right away,” Nelson said.

  “Damn straight,” Stevenson confirmed. He looked back at the screen. “Who’s this infected aide? What’s his name?”

  “Frank Clayton,” Quarry said.

  Stevenson brought his hands to his face and massaged his temples. “Okay, let’s get a handle on this. First, we need to find out where this guy Clayton is and how to deal with him. We also need to wrap things up before word gets out. This thing has to be contained immediately.”