Fatal Prescription

by Don Pendleton

  The Talon set his backpack on the sink, removed his shoes and slipped out of the gray-and-pink pantsuit. He then opened the backpack and removed a light blue uniform identical to the ones the nurses wore in this particular hospital. After slipping it on, the Talon reached into the backpack again. This time he removed a pair of black-framed glasses and slipped them on. He glanced in the mirror, made a slight adjustment to his makeup and pulled the blond hair of his wig back into a ponytail, securing it with an elastic band. The final items he removed from the backpack were a vial and a hypodermic syringe.

  Glancing at his watch, he noted he’d been in the restroom almost four minutes. Certainly not an unusual length of time, but he wondered about the guard, O’Keefe. If the man was sharper than he looked, he could be a problem. But that bridge could be crossed if and when he came to it. The tiled floor felt cold under the soles of his bare feet. He stepped back into the running shoes and laced them up.

  After placing the pantsuit in the backpack, he slipped on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed the backpack with his left hand and stepped on top of the toilet, extending his right up toward the ceiling tiles. His reach was about six inches too short. The Talon checked the metal pipes of the flushing system. It looked sturdy enough, so he stepped on top of that, taking a moment to maintain his balance, and was able to reach the tiles with ease. Pushing the tile up and to the side, he stashed the backpack in the ceiling. Some dust filtered down, causing him to cough.

  After replacing the tiles, the Talon descended and went back to the sink. He uncapped the syringe and thrust the needle into the soft rubber stopper on the top of the vial. He withdrew 10 cc’s of potassium chloride from the 20 mEq/50 milliliter solution into the syringe, recapped it, and then placed both items in his uniform pants’ pocket before moving to the door.

  He had more than enough for another 10 cc dose, should that be required, but he didn’t think it would.

  The possibility of the nosy guard concerned him, though. It wouldn’t do if the man noticed a nurse exiting the restroom after a visitor had gone inside.

  He twisted the knob slowly and pulled the door open a few centimeters.

  The guard was nowhere in sight, but that didn’t preclude the possibility that he might still be watching.

  The Talon debated what to do, but quickly realized that the longer he stayed inside the restroom, the more dangerous it would become.

  Fortune favored the bold, he thought, and opened the door, walking with a confident stride toward the stairway.

  The tall guard was standing in the corridor looking straight at him with a perplexed expression. “What? Who are—? You’re a nurse?”

  He smiled and kept moving toward the stairway, motioning for the guard to follow. “Oh, Officer O’Keefe,” the Talon said, using the whiskey tenor voice again. “I’m so glad you’re here. Come on, I need to show you this.”

  The Talon reached the stairwell door and pushed it open, stepping partially through. The platform between the stairs was perhaps four meters in length. It would be tight quarters, but doable.

  The guard’s arm reached up and caught the door, holding it as he stepped through.

  “Hey, why are you wearing gloves?” he asked, his face quizzical. “Maybe I better see your hospital identification badge.”

  The Talon nodded, putting two fingers of his left hand on the guard’s forearm. The touch was gentle, but urgent. As the door closed pneumatically behind them, the Talon smiled and said, “What did you say?”

  As the guard started to repeat his request, the extended, curled fingers of the Talon’s stiffened right hand lashed upward and struck the guard in the neck, at the base of the throat. The man gasped and stepped back against the door, his face a mixture of surprise and alarm as he emitted two hacking breaths.

  The Talon pivoted on his left leg, bringing his right leg upward with a hooking back-kick, the heel of his right foot colliding with the guard’s temple. His shoulder slammed against the door. The Talon recovered his balance in an instant and grabbed the man’s left arm, walking him forward toward the descending staircase. The guard’s eyes opened wide. He tried to scream but no sound came out as the Talon gave a final push, sending the man plunging headfirst down the stairs. They were made of concrete and capped with metal, so each impact was audible and accompanied by a muffled grunt.

  The Talon pulled open the door and checked the corridor.

  No one.

  He let the door close and then descended the stairs himself, stopping by the guard’s body on the platform between the diagonal staircases. The man was unconscious but still breathing, although it sounded like a rasp being pulled over wood. Squatting, the Talon checked the guard’s neck for a pulse.

  He could feel the steady beat of the carotid artery. Once again glancing around, the Talon removed the syringe and uncapped it, holding the plastic top between his even teeth.

  It looked like he’d need that second dose, after all, he thought, gently sliding the end of the needle into the guard’s carotid.

  5

  Stevenson Dynamics

  Fairfax County, Virginia

  William J. Stevenson, clad in a hand-tailored workout suit, watched as the ball whooshed through the hoop. It was his fifth consecutive basket. Three employees were on hand to chase the balls as they bounced away on the fine, wooden floors. Shooting long shots from the foul line was the only aspect of the game that really appealed to him.

  He sunk another long shot.

  As the saying goes, Stevenson thought, I got game.

  A star of sorts in college, Stevenson had played varsity all four years of his undergraduate studies, but had never embraced the discipline of extensive practice. His father’s huge, annual contributions had assured that he would be in every game, even though he’d missed more practices than he’d attended.

  To him it was more of a status arrangement, anyway. Despite his height, Stevenson found he was significantly lacking in the overall coordination needed to be an actual star, so he was content to be relegated to the bench, except for a few minutes in each quarter when the coaches would insert him.

  The pattern was always the same: toss the ball to him, wait for him to get fouled and let him take his shots. He’d continued this pattern throughout college, and then in life: being an efficient counter-puncher. But soon it would be time to take the lead, emerge as the leader. He just had to attend to the details in the meantime. Cover all the bases, to use a conflicting sport’s metaphor.

  One of his employees tossed the ball to Stevenson. He held it in front of his chest, looked up at the net and bent his knees slightly. The ball went up and through.

  Nothing but net.

  He was about to take another shot when the intrusive sound of a cell phone ruined the flow.

  Nelson, who sat about forty feet away on the partially extended bleachers, answered it before the second ring.

  Stevenson watched the man’s face, which went from neutral to ecstatic in a few seconds. He raised his arm and made a thumbs-up gesture.

  Stevenson took a last shot. The ball bounced off the rim and one of his ball boys darted after it. Another one held up a ball, but Stevenson shook his head and walked over to Nelson, who was now standing.

  “It’s done,” Nelson said.

  “Good.” Stevenson grabbed a towel from a female attendant who had approached with an armful. He wiped a thin film of perspiration from his forehead. “Have Quarry run Debussey over there. A little publicity for how we offered to help with this deadly Keller Virus at this juncture might be just what the doctor ordered.”

  Nelson laughed and put the burner phone in his pocket. He then took out his smartphone and pressed a button.

  A death, especially of an altruist like an aide, was always good for raising the stakes, Stevenson thought. The unforeseen intervention of the aide mi
ght yet be turned into a positive. Life was like manipulating pieces on a chessboard. Sometimes a sacrifice had to be made to gain a tactical advantage.

  Stony Man Farm

  Virginia

  MACK BOLAN, HIS hair still damp from his shower, watched as Kurtzman rolled his wheelchair into the War Room. The cyber wizard had a grin on his face, which Bolan took to be a good sign.

  The Executioner had gone for a long run around the compound while Grimaldi had opted for a nap as Kurtzman was doing his usual magic on the computers. At one time or another, he’d hacked into virtually every conceivable system, and no file was out of reach for his cyber fingers. The tray on top of the wheelchair arms held four mugs of steaming coffee and a flash drive.

  “Help yourself,” Kurtzman said.

  Bolan grinned and thought Grimaldi had chosen wisely being late to arrive, given the customary awful taste of the man’s brew.

  “Here’s one for you, Hal,” Kurtzman said as he rolled up next to Brognola and handed him a mug.

  The big Fed and Bolan exchanged glances as the Executioner took the mug nearest him. The steam still rose from the dark liquid. He took a sip, felt the bitter acidity wash over his tongue and swallowed.

  “Well?” Kurtzman asked. “As good as always?”

  “You’ve outdone yourself once again,” Bolan said, not taking another sip.

  “It’ll put hair on your chest,” Kurtzman said.

  Brognola, recoiling from his first taste, blew out a combination of a groan and a cough. “Not only that, but it’ll part the hair down the middle.” He carefully set his mug on the conference table. “Find anything?”

  “Plenty.” Kurtzman picked up the flash drive and handed it to Brognola. Then he picked up a coffee mug and drank some. “Put that one in your USB port and we’ll get started. I think you’re going to like these pictures.”

  Brognola inserted the device into the laptop in front of him and moved the mouse over the file when it came up. A few seconds later a full-size image of a bird of prey—an ebony hawk—with flaring wings and prominent talons, appeared.

  “The Talon?” Bolan said.

  “Right the first time,” Kurtzman said. “He operates on the dark net.”

  “What’s that mean?” Jack Grimaldi asked, walking in the door.

  “Nice of you to join us,” Brognola said.

  “Hey, I needed my beauty sleep.” Grimaldi shot a look at the last mug on the tray. “That one mine?”

  “Sure is,” Kurtzman said.

  “You make it?” Grimaldi asked.

  Kurtzman nodded.

  Grimaldi snorted. “I’ll pass then.”

  “We know a bit about the Talon,” Bolan said. “He’s wanted in Europe, and was possibly involved in that incident in Belgium. We were told he’s possibly en route to the U.S. What are the chances we could contact him and set up a meet to trap him?”

  “Slim and none,” Kurtzman said. “And slim’s left town. The guy’s more cautious than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

  “Any photos of him available?” Bolan asked.

  Kurtzman shook his head. “As far as I can tell, nobody’s ever seen him and lived to tell about it.”

  “An invisible man,” Grimaldi commented.

  “He sets up his business contacts through communication on the dark net,” Kurtzman said. “Money transfers per his special instructions for whatever you pay him to do.”

  “What’s his specialty?” Bolan asked.

  “Assassinations, from what I can tell.”

  “Do we have any idea why he might be in the U.S.?” Bolan asked.

  Kurtzman shrugged. “That’s unknown, but I have put a couple things together that are either meaningful or the world’s biggest coincidences.”

  “And you know how I feel about coincidences,” Brognola said, handing Kurtzman the remote.

  “About the same way I do,” Bolan added. “What do you have, Bear?”

  Kurtzman pointed the remote toward the wall monitor and the image of the Chevalier Institute appeared.

  “Okay,” he said. “From what we know about this place, and from what your buddy Albert Dorao sent to you, they’re pretty sure the Talon was involved in this massacre.” He paused for a moment then took a deep breath. “Twenty-six people killed, property destroyed in a selective fashion, and some Arabic written on the wall in an attempt to pin it on the Muslim radicals.”

  “Which most likely was a subterfuge,” Bolan said.

  “Right,” Kurtzman agreed. “You got any theories on that?”

  Bolan considered the question. “I was mulling over different ideas on my run. The Arabic writing had the look of a ruse, but for what purpose, I’m not sure.”

  “If it was truly meant to throw suspicion on radical Islamists,” Kurtzman said, “why wasn’t there any follow-up? No claims of responsibility, and the secondary crime scene looked suspicious, too, from what I gathered from Dorao’s report.”

  “You can read French?” Grimaldi asked.

  Kurtzman rolled his eyes. “There are such things as translation programs, Jack.”

  “What did you make of that second crime scene?” Brognola asked.

  Bolan summarized it, highlighting the collected rifles, the scattered euros and the departing tire tracks for a third vehicle. “It was our conjecture that whoever killed the seven henchmen knew them well enough that they’d lowered their guard. He probably passed out the money and then punctuated the final payoff with lead.”

  “Sounds brutally efficient,” Brognola said. “But we’ve got to figure out why the Talon is coming to this side of the ocean. What’s his game?”

  “What have you got on the Chevalier Institute?” Bolan asked Kurtzman.

  The cyber expert hit a button on the remote and brought the picture of the facility back up on the monitor. “We know they did research studies, principally for drug companies.”

  “That’s something,” Bolan said. “It might explain why such pains were taken to destroy their records and computers.”

  “Fortunately for us,” Kurtzman said, “once something is posted on the Net, it’s there forever.” He hit another button on the remote. “I did a parallel search for the Chevalier Institute and recent drug testing studies.” A seemingly endless list of companies and product names appeared on the monitor. “Unfortunately, quite a few popped up. They were used quite extensively by drug companies, world-wide.”

  “Can you narrow it to U.S. companies only?” Bolan asked.

  “Ask and ye shall receive,” Kurtzman said, flipping the remote with a flourish. The list appeared again, this time considerably shorter but still substantial. “I took it a step further doing another cross reference between the Chevalier Institute and U.S. companies in the news.” He clicked the remote again and the image showed two men, both wearing suits and ties, seated at a table. One was middle-aged, broad-faced and placid. The other was slender and younger.

  “I saw that one guy on the news,” Grimaldi said. “The skinny one.”

  “Simon P. Oakley,” Kurtzman said. “Currently being called before a Congressional Committee investigating the possible unfair business practices of a drug company called Alocore Incorporated.”

  “What type of unfair practices?” Bolan asked.

  Kurtzman flipped the remote again, showing a pair of lavender pills with CZF-269 imprint across the front of each. “These pills were developed by Alocore as cancer-fighting drugs. The one on the right went for about three bucks. The other one? Three hundred dollars a pop.”

  “Hell,” Grimaldi said. “They both look the same to me.”

  “They are.” Kurtzman flipped back to the picture of the two men. “After the skinny guy, the one you’ve seen in the news, took over as CEO of Alocore, the price went
up a bit.”

  “A bit?” Grimaldi quipped.

  “Which, I imagine, is one of the reasons he got called before Congress,” Kurtzman said.

  “What did the FDA have to say about the increase?” Bolan prompted.

  “Funny thing about the good old watchdog FDA. They have the power to approve drugs for public consumption, and recommend their removal if they find cause, but they have no control over the pricing of anything.”

  “Figures,” Grimaldi said. “So why did the jerk get called before Congress?”

  “Chiefly due to this man.”

  Kurtzman flicked the remote again. A brightly decorated website appeared next, featuring the picture of a long-haired, bearded man next to bold, block letters spelling out “Bloggergate” with the subtitle The Truth is Always Right Here. “Enter George Perkins, blogger for truth, justice and the American way.”

  “Blogger?” Bolan repeated. “You mean reporter?”

  “Actually,” Kurtzman said, “he technically doesn’t work for a legitimate news organization, but his website has a substantial following. He’s been blasting Alocore for the past year or so, and promising to be almost ready to divulge some real bombshells.”

  “Any idea what those might be?” Bolan asked.

  Kurtzman shook his head. “He’s playing it pretty close to the vest, but from what I can tell from his previous blogs, despite his appearance, the guy’s a pretty good investigative journalist.”

  “You want to connect the dots for us?” Bolan asked.

  Kurtzman smiled. “It seems, a couple of years ago, Alocore hired the Chevalier Institute to do some test studies on one of their drug products. The exact nature of the studies was kept under wraps and never released. Rumor has it that the DoD got involved somehow, and Alocore shut the research down and sat on the report. Then Oakley, the company’s new CEO, got his you-know-what stuck in the wringer by trying to raise profits by increasing the price of the New Horizons cancer drug, and now he’s being investigated.”