Fatal Prescription

by Don Pendleton

  “Let’s keep in touch on this.” Bolan handed her one of his cards.

  “Sounds good.” Jefferson handed him one of hers.

  After she’d walked away, Grimaldi said, “I wish she’d given me one of her cards.”

  “I’ll save it for you.” Bolan slipped the card into his wallet. “But in the meantime, we’ve got some ground to cover.”

  “Like interviewing that CEO, Oakley?”

  Bolan nodded. “Let’s go see if we can find him.” He took out his phone and texted Kurtzman for the information on Oakley and his attorney.

  “You know, we’d better check out that reporter jerk, too,” Grimaldi said. “I wonder where he is.”

  Bolan punched in a special code into his phone. A map appeared and he said, “He was at a fast-food joint a few blocks away, but it looks like he’s on the move now.”

  A grin flashed across Grimaldi’s face. “Did you do what I think you did?”

  “If you’re asking if I slipped a miniature GPS tracker into his backpack,” Bolan said, “I did.”

  Grimaldi’s grin widened. “Good. The next time we catch up to him, I’m looking forward to shoving that punk’s phony glasses where the sun don’t shine.”

  7

  Pittsfield Building

  Montgomery County, Maryland

  The Talon stood by the elevators and used the mirror of his compact to fix the location of the PTZ camera domes. One mounted here at the juncture of the hallways, another on the ceiling at the opposite end. They no doubt offered a convenient record of all comings and goings on each floor. At least there had only been one in the parking garage, by the point of entrance and egress. He’d used the parking lot to gain access to the fourth floor of the building.

  America, he thought, so many cameras everywhere. Such an irony in a country that took pride in its devotion to privacy and civil liberties.

  It made things a bit more challenging for him, but he enjoyed that part of it. His only concern was the quality of his helpers this time around. The big man, Quarry, seemed to exude a subdued hostility. Obviously, as the head of Stevenson’s security, the man thought himself capable of handling the special situations and no doubt resented that his boss had brought in a specialist.

  Foolish man, the Talon thought. I have no designs on his position.

  And whatever the rich man was planning, as far as the Talon was concerned, was his client’s personal business. Their paths would never cross again once these assignments had been completed.

  Such was his intention, but now he had to deal with the task at hand. Closing the compact, he placed it into his purse and removed the burner phone Stevenson had given him. He dialed the number and waited. Quarry answered after the second ring.

  “They are both in the office,” Talon said. His American accent was flawless. He’d decided to keep the Southern twang affection due to this state actually being beneath the famed Mason-Dixon Line. “Are you in position?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Be ready to proceed in five minutes. I will meet you in the parking garage, fourth level.”

  “What about cameras?” Quarry asked.

  “I am going to take care of them now.” The Talon pressed the button for the elevator and the doors slid open. “Wait for my signal.”

  Without saying another word, the Talon terminated the call. While he didn’t relish the fact that he had to rely on Quarry’s punctuality, the Talon knew he had little choice. It was just like the Foreign Legion. The squad was only as strong as its weakest link.

  Interstate 95

  Maryland

  BOLAN HAD LET GRIMALDI drive and was regretting it. The pilot constantly tailgated any vehicle in front of them, almost to the point where he could nudge the bumper. After telling his partner to slow down, Bolan took out his cell and punched in Brognola’s number.

  The big Fed answered on the second ring, just as Grimaldi hit the brakes, narrowly avoiding a collision as the brake lights on the car ahead of them flashed on and then off. Grimaldi swore, checked his left side mirror and zoomed around the vehicle, giving the finger to the other driver. “Learn to drive, or get off the road,” Grimaldi shouted.

  Bolan allowed himself a brief chuckle. Such was the price of having to touch base with Brognola with an update.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Brognola asked.

  “Jack’s driving.”

  “I guess he drives just like he flies. You guys tag up with that reporter?”

  “We did. He’s a very unorthodox character. We’re tracking him now.” Bolan gave Brognola their location. “On another matter, we need to check out Simon Oakley. We obtained a bit of info on his former employer, Alocore.”

  “Interesting you should say that. We figured you’d be wanting to talk to him sooner rather than later, so we looked up his particulars. I’m sending them to you as we speak.”

  Bolan felt his phone vibrate with an incoming email.

  “I just got it,” he said.

  Grimaldi laid on the horn and shot around another vehicle, swearing the whole way.

  Brognola chuckled. “Sounds like Jack’s got a case of road rage. I’ll let you go so you can be his copilot.”

  “Okay.” Bolan terminated the call and opened the email. After studying the address and glancing up to monitor their direction of travel, he said, “I think I have a strong hunch where Mr. Perkins is headed. If I’m right, this might be interesting.”

  “Great,” Grimaldi said, grinning as he went around another car. “I’m tired of playing catch-up. I’m ready for some action.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Bolan said as he switched his phone back to the GPS tracking app.

  Pittsfield Building

  Montgomery County, Maryland

  THE ELEVATOR DOORS opened for the first floor and the Talon got off, marveling at how well things were working out. It was midafternoon and the building was practically deserted. He couldn’t have asked for a better setup. His eyes glanced upward, taking in the PTZ camera on the ceiling, catching and recording his every movement. He added a bit of sway to his hips as he walked, hoping it was catching the attention of any security guard monitoring the cameras.

  He came to the ladies’ room and paused. The security office was just down the hall. Pushing open the door, the Talon went in and began his silent counting. After verifying that the room was indeed empty, he slipped on the clear, latex gloves. He had reached the slow count of twenty-two by the time he was finished and checked his practiced look of distress in the mirror.

  Perfect.

  Then he ran to the door and yanked it open, slipping through and doing a girlie run down the hallway. He’d worn flats so the sprint would be easier, even though he was certain stilettos would have been more fashionable. Stopping in front of room 115, which he knew housed the security office as well as the video monitors, he began knocking insistently.

  “Please, please, open the door,” he yelled in his best whiskey-tenor voice, made artificially breathless. “I need help.”

  He didn’t stop his knocking despite hearing sounds emanating from behind the locked door. It opened and a young man’s face appeared in the gap between the door and the jamb.

  “Can I help you?” the guard asked.

  The Talon affected a look of sheer terror.

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes,” he said. “There’s something terrible going on in the ladies’ room. You must come quickly.”

  He pushed on the door, allowing him to glance inside the room. It was small. Hardly bigger than the size of a large broom closet, full of several video monitor screens, each subdivided into multiple, smaller screens. Another man, this one older and heavier, sat behind the desk munching on a doughnut.

  “Huh?” the guard said. “What are you talking about?”

&n
bsp; The Talon reached out and tugged the young man’s arm, checking to see if he was armed. He wasn’t, but he did have a pistol belt with a Taser on his right side and a can of pepper spray on the left. Cell phone in a holder. No radio. The seated guard manipulated a toggle switch on the console.

  Everything was most likely stored to a hard drive in the machine in front of him.

  “In the ladies’ room,” the Talon said. “There’s a man in there.”

  The older, fatter guard chuckled. “Maybe the men’s room is busy.”

  “No, no,” the Talon continued, keeping the urgency in his mid-octave-ranged voice. “He’s attacking a young woman.”

  The two guards exchanged glances.

  “You check it out while I call it in,” the older one said.

  “You must come with me,” the Talon said, knowing that having the police on the way at this point would screw up the timetable. “Both of you now. Please.”

  They looked at each other again, as if debating what to do. The Talon tugged on the younger one’s arm and motioned toward his partner. “Please, come now.”

  The older guard got up, taking a cell phone from his belt. He had no radio, either, which meant that they were the only two on duty and that they contacted the authorities via phones.

  “I’m already calling 9-1-1,” the Talon said, holding up his cell phone. “Now hurry. Please. You have to save that poor woman.”

  As the two security guards jostled through the opening, the Talon saw a large ring of keys jangling on the older man’s belt. The keys to the kingdom.

  All three of them hurried down the hall, the Talon pretending to be on the phone with an emergency operator. “Yes, send the police...the Pittsfield building...first floor...there’s a woman being attacked... I’m with the security team now.”

  They came to the door and the Talon stepped back, dropping the cell phone into his big, oversize Celine purse. The younger security guard had his Taser in one hand and his pepper spray in the other. He glanced at the older man, who nodded, removing his Taser.

  As they pushed through the door, the Talon reached inside his purse and removed the Beretta M-9 A3 with the sound suppressor affixed to the end of the barrel. The extra weight of the sound suppressor made the weapon a bit more awkward than he would have liked, but it had been fitted with the Vertec grip to accommodate his small hands.

  The Talon brought up the pistol and shot the older guard in the back of the head. The gun made a loud popping sound. The first trigger pull was a long, double-action effort, and it threw his aim off a tad, causing the round to dip slightly. It still penetrated the base of the guard’s skull, effectively ending the man’s life immediately.

  The younger guard was turning as his partner fell, his face showing a combination of surprise, shock and terror. The Talon adjusted his grip on the trigger and shot the man in his gaping mouth. The guard’s long legs twisted and he began reaching for his throat before collapsing in a heap, landing with his back against the stall.

  Careful not to step in the widening pool of blood, the Talon replaced the weapon in his purse and leaned down, feeling the carotid arteries of both guards.

  No pulse.

  The blood from the older guard was running toward the grate of a metal drain in the center of the floor. The Talon noted with satisfaction that both expended shell casings had landed clear of the drain. They would be easily recoverable by the authorities.

  The Talon unclipped the ring of keys from the dead man’s belt and sorted through them, finding the one with the Do Not Duplicate stamp—the master key, no doubt. He went to the washroom door, pulled it open and slipped the key into the lock. As he twisted, the dead bolt sprang outward. Reversing the motion, the Talon grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser, moistened it and wiped down any surfaces that he may have touched. Keeping the towel in his hand, he grabbed a nearby Out of Service sign from under the sink and placed it in the aisle in front of the door. Then he stepped out and secured the door, dropping the keys into his pocket.

  He walked down the hallway to the security office and used the master key to gain entry. It took him under a minute to engage the video system and erase any footage of him and the security guards. But the hard drive was another matter. The erasure had already added another level of sophistication that Tom Chandler, Stevenson’s patsy, would not likely be able to accomplish before committing suicide. Plus, Quarry’s men still had to retrieve Stevenson’s recording equipment from the lawyer’s office. The Talon took out the burner phone and called Quarry.

  “Move into position,” he said. “I’ve disabled the cameras. Tell your men to stand by, and I’ll call you back when it’s safe for them to come into the lawyer’s office.”

  “Roger that,” Quarry said. “How about the security guard’s video recorder?”

  “I’m taking care of that now.” With that, he took out the Beretta again and shot a round into the recorder. That would eliminate any chance of video recovery. Bit excessive perhaps, but thoroughness was next to godliness.

  He smiled at the witticism, but then again, he was something akin to a god. Holding the power of life and death, able to shape others’ perception of reality... Perhaps he should start calling himself Zeus.

  The Talon dropped the Beretta and the phone back into his purse, moved to the door and took a quick peek to make sure the hall was empty.

  Two down and three to go, he thought.

  Interstate 95

  Montgomery, Maryland

  GRIMALDI SWORE AS they crept along in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  “I think we caught the early rush hour,” he said.

  “It shouldn’t be too much farther,” Bolan commented. “If we’ve got it figured right, he’s going to Montgomery County, where Oakley’s lawyer is located.”

  “Knowing this idiot, he might be playing Pokéman Go or something.”

  Bolan said nothing. If his suspicions were correct, and Perkins was on his way to meet Oakley and his lawyer, the chances of intercepting him were good. Banking on the reporter’s penchant for recording things with his special glasses, they could stop him afterward and confiscate them, on the pretense of investigating the unauthorized recording of federal agents. Once they’d decoded, downloaded and duplicated the information, they could turn the glasses and file over to Karen Jefferson to do with what she wished. And, hopefully, they’d be one step closer to figuring out exactly what was in the works.

  Not knowing bothered Bolan.

  “What’s the matter, big guy?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Just trying to piece this all together,” Bolan said. “We keep getting fragments of the puzzle, but we still don’t have a clear view of the overall picture.”

  “Sort of like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle when the pieces are facedown, huh?”

  “Good analogy.”

  Bolan kept his eyes focused on Perkins’s taxi, which was about two car lengths ahead.

  “Better drop back a bit,” Bolan said. “We don’t want to take a chance that the taxi driver might pick up on us following him.”

  “Not a chance,” Grimaldi said. “I got this.”

  Just the same, Bolan felt the vehicle slow slightly as Grimaldi eased up on the gas.

  Hopefully they’d find another clue at the Pittsfield Building.

  Pittsfield Building

  Montgomery County, Maryland

  STILL WEARING HIS latex gloves, the Talon used Tom Chandler’s handkerchief to twist open the hallway door to room 605, the office of Clifford J. Powers, Attorney-at-Law. The man’s name was stenciled in gold letters, outlined in black, on the opaque glass. As he stepped inside, the Talon saw a very attractive blonde sitting behind a Spartan desk. A thin monitor screen was off to her left and a telephone to her right. No one else was in the spacious waiting room. The woman looked up and smile
d. She was wearing a rather elegant brown business suit, with a pinkish blouse underneath, the collar of which was open, displaying the fine whiteness of her neck and upper chest.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  The Talon smiled, as well, moving forward as he reached into his purse once again.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Powers,” he said.

  The woman’s smile didn’t fade. She picked up the phone and canted her head as she asked, “Is he expecting you?” Her left index finger was poised above a row of plastic buttons on the bottom of the phone.

  “Of course not,” the Talon said, withdrawing the Beretta, bringing it up, watching the woman’s eyes widen in terror. Her eyes were very blue.

  The Talon smiled and lifted his left index finger to his lips, emitting a quiet, hushing noise.

  The woman’s head nodded fractionally. The Talon moved around the desk and took the receiver from her hand, replacing it in the cradle. He could hear the voices of two men talking, laughing, in the next room.

  Leaning close to her ear, the Talon whispered, “Your files. Where are they kept?”

  She motioned toward the computer.

  He nodded and whispered again. “Open it.”

  Slowly her fingers went to the keyboard on the desk, flashing a few keystrokes. The screen on the monitor blossomed into a bright picture of a field resplendent with wildflowers.

  The Talon reached into his pocket, withdrew a flash drive and then handed it to the woman. “Plug it in.”

  Her head bobbed up and down, her fingers trembling as she took it and jammed it into a USB port on the computer. The screen flashed a message that the software to open the device was being downloaded. It continued for about thirty seconds and then flashed another message that the download was complete. Another box opened, indicating a lone file on the flash drive.

  “Open it,” the Talon whispered.

  Her hands moved the wireless mouse over the file icon and she clicked it.

  A warning pop-up materialized, advising that the contents of the file could not be verified and recommending against the download.