Fatal Prescription

by Don Pendleton

  “What was the DoD involvement?” Brognola asked.

  “Still trying to trace that one down,” Kurtzman said. “Whatever it was, it’s highly classified. But according to some veiled hints, or I guess you could say threats, our buddy Mr. Perkins is saying that he’ll blow the lid off everything. Just stay tuned.”

  “Well, you know what I always say,” Grimaldi interjected. “The guy with the biggest mouth is usually the one who’s the most full of shit.”

  Kurtzman laughed. “Jack, one of these days you’re going to have to write all those sayings down in a book.”

  “It’ll be a bestseller if I do.”

  “Where’s this Perkins guy based?” Bolan asked.

  Kurtzman grinned. “He’s originally from Gunnison, Colorado, but recently he’s taken up residence in none other than Prince George County, Maryland.”

  “It might be worth a quick trip to go talk to him,” Bolan said.

  “Quick trip?” Grimaldi repeated. “The only quick trips in D.C. traffic are the ones made by chopper.”

  “If you want to get your hands on Dragon Slayer,” Brognola said, “forget it.”

  Grimaldi got a wistful look at the mention of his famous, deluxe, specially outfitted helicopter. “Aw, geez. You never let me have any fun.”

  Bolan stood and started for the door when Kurtzman called out, “Not so fast, big guy. There’s one more thing.”

  Bolan turned and looked at the man in the wheelchair.

  “Alocore was acquired by a new company about six months ago,” Kurtzman related. “And you’ll never guess who the new owner is.”

  “Surprise me.”

  “One of the richest dudes in America—” Kurtzman pointed the remote toward the screen “—if not the world.” He clicked the device and the image of a tall, handsome male with dark hair and a neatly trimmed Vandyke appeared. “None other than the man himself. William J. Stevenson.”

  Grimaldi emitted a low whistle. “Man, if he’s involved in this, we’ve got trouble. He’s got more money than Fort Knox and Wall Street put together.”

  “And the inside word is,” Brognola added, “that he’s thinking about running for president one of these days.”

  Winthrope Harbor Hospital

  Prince George County, Maryland

  THE TALON WAITED by the elevators as the sound of the STAT alarm was broadcast over the intercom on the ICU floor. People began rushing toward room 502. He kept his face placid and indifferent as he waited for the elevator doors to open. Emergency codes and people rushing were common in hospitals, so he did his best to appear nonchalant.

  Glancing at his watch, he did some mental calculations. The potassium chloride he’d injected into the IV line connected to the late Frank Clayton had done its job precisely within the timeframe allotted—three minutes—allowing the Talon to inconspicuously leave Clayton’s room as soon as the emergency telemetry alarm sounded.

  The Talon had then walked to the syringe disposal container mounted on the wall inside the nurses’ station and dropped the used syringe inside. The empty vial had no label, no fingerprints, so he’d dropped it into the biohazard waste can. He’d thought about leaving his gloves, as well, but he still needed to retrieve his backpack from the restroom ceiling and change clothes to complete his inconspicuous exit.

  The elevator seemed unusually slow to respond. It would have been far easier to take the stairs, but he didn’t want to risk being seen in the vicinity of the body of Officer O’Keefe on the midway platform of the stairwell. An unforeseen wrinkle in an otherwise smooth plan.

  More people rushed down the hallway, two of them leaning against the wall, putting on biohazard suits. Clayton had been encased in a plastic tent, the oxygen pumped in to keep him comfortable and respiring, the IV lines suspended conveniently from the stainless-steel tree just to the right of the bed, allowing for the introduction of antibiotics, plasma and, eventually, the fatal dose of potassium chloride.

  The tent would now have to be removed so that his apparent, ill-fated myocardial infarction could be dealt with. The unfortunate delay of the attending nurses and doctors having to put on the biohazard suits to get up close and personal with the infected Mr. Clayton would make his demise even more explainable.

  The Talon glanced back down the corridor and saw a sudden cessation of movement on the part of the hospital staff. Obviously the conclusion had been reached that the patient had not survived. The death had been called.

  The elevator doors finally opened and three men began to walk out. One, who looked like a bespectacled, bearded, long-haired refugee from an American 1960’s hippie movie, was shooting off rapid-fire questions at another man, a scientific type with black glasses. A huge black man moved between them and held out a massive hand, his index finger pointed at the hippie’s face.

  “I told you,” the huge man said. “The doctor has nothing to say to you.”

  “And how about you, Quarry?” the little, bearded man shot back.

  The black man looked surprised at the mention of his name.

  “Yeah,” the hippie continued, slipping a camo-colored backpack off his shoulders. The man’s T-shirt had huge circles of sweat under each armpit. “I know who you are. How does it feel to be a twenty-first-century slave to William J. Stevenson?”

  The big man’s hand tightened into a fist the size of a cantaloupe.

  “I’ve got a lead on Roy Bellamy’s whereabouts,” the bearded man went on. “I’ll bet he’ll have plenty to say about what Alocore is up to.”

  Quarry. William J. Stevenson. This was interesting, the Talon thought.

  At the mention of such familiar names he decided not get on the elevator but to trail instead behind the three men, listening intently. There was something to be learned here, even if it did impinge a bit upon his exit plan.

  “I told you—” Quarry said again, his fist now hovering in front of the hippie’s face.

  “You touch me once,” the hippie said, “and I’ll sue you and your employer for everything you’ve got.” He grinned and tapped the frame of his spectacles. “Besides, you wouldn’t hit a man with glasses, would you?”

  “Please,” the third man said. “We’re only here to see if we can do some good.”

  “Like all the good you did over in Angola?” the hippie asked. His lips twisted into something akin to a triumphant-looking smirk. “Yeah, that’s right. I know about you being over there. I know a lot.”

  “You don’t know shit,” Quarry said, imposing his big body between the two men again and trying to usher the professorial type down the hall toward room 502. “Now get the fuck away from us.” The big man was as tense as a wound spring. He looked ready to strike the smaller man.

  The hippie must have sensed that he’d pushed far enough because he abruptly stopped, stood with his hands on his hips and stuck out his tongue, making a derisive, farting sound.

  Quarry glared at him but maintained his stride along the hallway.

  An orderly blocked their path, shaking his head.

  “Dr. Debussey,” the hippie called after them. “When you’re ready to talk about your work with Alocore, give me a call. And it better be soon, too.”

  Quarry and Debussey kept walking.

  The hippie watched them for a few moments then turned and sat in one of the chairs by the elevators. He unzipped his backpack and removed his glasses, stashing them inside. Then he took out a smartphone and affixed it to a selfie-stick. As he extended the stick and began talking, the Talon took it as his cue to leave. Being caught on video, even remotely, by this reckless idiot would not be prudent. He immediately turned and headed for the elevators.

  The hippie was no doubt the pesky reporter Rodney Nelson had mentioned, the Talon concluded. The founder of the third-rate, journalistic wannabe news website “Bloggergate.” />
  The black man was obviously Shadrock Quarry, Stevenson’s security man. The third man, Debussey, was not known to the Talon, but he had the air of a professor or a physician. Plus, the hippie reporter had called him “doctor.” His presence here and the reference to Alocore indicated that he was connected somehow to the drug research on the Keller Virus—the same records Stevenson had hired the Talon to destroy at the Chevalier Institute. Things were all coming together, and this reporter obviously knew more than just a little. Although Nelson hadn’t mentioned it as of yet, it would seem likely that Stevenson would eventually want this pest taken out, as well.

  The Talon smiled. That was a contract negotiation best left for another time. And the longer the wait, the greater the urgency, and hence higher the price.

  More people hustled past him down the hall. The Talon ventured a quick glance over his shoulder. The expanding group at the end of the hallway was milling around in front of room 502. Quarry and Debussey had been ushered off to the side. It was a swarm of humanity.

  Unexpectedly the stairway door opened and a uniformed security guard stuck his head out. “We need a doctor down here between floors,” he said. “STAT. It looks like Kevin fell down the stairs.”

  Hearing that pronouncement, the Talon immediately quickened his pace toward the elevators. It would be too risky now to go back to the restroom to retrieve his backpack and change of clothes. Too many people might see him, notice him, remember him.

  No, it was better merely to walk out of the building in a calm fashion. He stripped off the latex gloves and mashed them into a small ball as he waited again for the elevator. He kept looking down, so any recording surveillance cameras wouldn’t have a clear image of his face.

  The doors opened and he stepped inside the elevator car, using the wadded latex to press the button for the first floor. He thought about leaving via the employee entrance, but decided against that. It would be less traveled, and raised the possibility that someone might notice his departure. Leaving by the front, the same way he’d entered, had a risk, too, but not as great of one.

  After all, who would remember that he’d entered as a visitor and was leaving as a nurse?

  Interstate 95

  Prince George County, Maryland

  “YOU SHOULD’VE LET me drive,” Grimaldi grumbled, pushing his head back against the headrest. “We would have been there already.”

  “If we didn’t get pulled over by a state trooper first,” Bolan said. He glanced in his rearview mirror. Traffic was moderate, but it was still early enough in the day that rush-hour congestion hadn’t begun yet. As his gaze returned to the highway, his cell phone rang. Bolan pressed the button to activate the Bluetooth and put the call on speaker.

  “Ready for an info update?” Aaron Kurtzman asked.

  “Always,” Bolan said.

  “Well, first of all, I hope you guys aren’t up by George Perkins’s place of residence yet,” Kurtzman said.

  “We would be if Jack was driving,” Bolan quipped, grinning. “But, thankfully, he’s not.”

  Kurtzman’s low chuckle emanated over the speakers. “Okay, make a detour and get to Winthrope Harbor Hospital. Your buddy, Perkins, is making a live broadcast from there.”

  “What’s he broadcasting about?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Something about a government conspiracy that he’s promising to blow the lid off soon.”

  Bolan glanced in the rearview mirror and signaled to change lanes. “We’re in luck. It’s the next exit, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Hey,” Grimaldi said. “Why does the name of that hospital sound familiar?”

  “It’s where they took that infected aide from Angola,” Kurtzman said. “The one with that highly infectious virus.”

  Grimaldi straightened in his seat. “No way. I’m not getting out of this car.”

  “Hey, Jack,” Kurtzman continued, “just remember to wash your hands after you come out of the place.” His laughter trailed off as Grimaldi reached forward and broke the connection.

  It took them ten minutes to get to the parking lot of Winthrope Harbor Hospital. As they walked up the front steps, they saw two uniformed security guards escorting a long-haired, bearded man out the front doors. The man was shouting about freedom of the press, while he held a cell phone on a selfie-stick in front of him.

  “You’re all are my witnesses,” the man yelled. “These gestapo rent-a-cops are denying me my Constitutional rights to pursue this story.”

  Bolan stepped in front of the trio of men and held up his false Department of Justice credentials. Grimaldi did the same.

  “Department of Justice,” Bolan said. “What’s going on here?”

  “Maybe you can explain to this jerk what private property means,” one of the guards said, his face flushed from the struggle. “We kept giving him warnings about being up on the fifth floor. Now he’s been officially told to leave.”

  “Gestapo fascist,” the bearded man said. “You can’t do this to me. I’m a journalist. Ever hear of the Bill of Rights?”

  “Ever hear of a boot up your ass?” the other guard said. His face was wet with sweat.

  The bearded man shifted his selfie-stick. “I’ve got you both on video.”

  Grimaldi reached out and snatched the metallic stick from the bearded man’s hand.

  “Hey, you can’t do that,” he said.

  “The hell I can’t,” Grimaldi retorted. “I’m sworn to protect against air pollution.”

  Before the bearded man could say anything, Bolan grabbed his arm in a vise-like grip while brushing away the hands of the two security guards. “We’ll escort him off the property,” he said. “We wanted to talk to him anyway.”

  “Suit yourself,” the older guard said, his face still red. “Just make sure he doesn’t come back inside.”

  The bearded man started into his tirade again, but Bolan pulled him down the steps. Grimaldi took the man’s phone off the stick.

  “I need to see your identification,” Bolan said as they reached the bottom of the steps.

  “I don’t have to show you anything,” the man said. He tried staring the Executioner in the eyes, but he was about half a foot too short. Reluctantly, he slipped the backpack off his shoulder and started to unzip it. Bolan placed a hand on his and took the backpack from him.

  “Hey, what’s this?” the bearded man said. “Now you’re violating my Fourth Amendment rights. And give me back my phone. I want to record this.”

  After checking the backpack, Bolan tossed it back to him. “Never mind the ID. What’s your name?”

  “George Perkins. And what’s yours? I want your badge numbers, too. I’m gonna complain.”

  Bolan ignored the request. “What’s your business here at the hospital?”

  Perkins hesitated and then said, “I’m an investigative journalist. I’m working on a story.”

  “Investigative journalist, my ass,” Grimaldi said.

  Perkins stared at him, licked his lips, then reached into his backpack and withdrew a pair of thick-framed glasses. After carefully opening them, he slipped them on and said, “Yes, I am an investigative journalist working on a story.”

  “What kind of story?” Bolan asked.

  Perkins’s expression morphed from petulance to indignity. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was here to see Frank Clayton, the aide who was infected with—” He paused and looked askance. “That virus from over in Africa.”

  “Isn’t he in intensive care?” Bolan asked. “And quarantined?”

  Perkins laughed. “Not anymore. From the way they were scrambling up there on the fifth floor, I think he’s probably singing with the angels by now.” He looked at both of them and raised an eyebrow. “Look, guys. I’m working on a story here that’s of significant importance. National secu
rity could be involved. Ever hear of a virus named Keller?” His eyes narrowed as if to gauge their reactions, then opened wider as he looked past them and began waving his arms and yelling, “Hey, Karen.”

  Bolan turned and saw an attractive black woman in a tan skirt and blazer walking up the steps. She looked to be around thirty. Her head turned, revealing a stunningly beautiful face.

  Perkins shuffled over to her. Bolan and Grimaldi followed.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Perkins said. “These two creeps have been harassing me.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” She looked at Bolan. “I’m Special Agent Karen Jefferson, Food and Drug Administration. And you are?”

  Bolan took out his special credentials. “Matt Cooper, Department of Justice.”

  Perkins craned his neck to stare at the ID in Bolan’s hand. The Executioner flipped it closed and placed it in his pocket. “Do you and Mr. Perkins know each other?”

  “Know?” Perkins said. “Not in the Biblical sense yet but—” he flashed a grin full of teeth badly in need of straightening “—I can always hope.”

  Jefferson rolled her eyes and ignored him. “What’s Justice doing here?” she asked Bolan.

  “Why don’t we talk inside?” The Executioner gave Perkins a sideways glance and said to Grimaldi, “Give the man back his phone and send him on his way.”

  “You can’t keep me out,” Perkins said.

  “You’ve already been escorted off the premises by security,” Bolan said. “Try to come back inside and you’ll be arrested for trespassing.”

  “I’ve got journalistic rights.”

  “You’ve got the right to shut up and breathe,” Grimaldi said, tossing the selfie-stick down the steps. He made a show of cocking his hand back with the man’s cell phone. “Get ready to go long, buster. This one’s gonna put Tom Brady to shame.”