Fatal Prescription

by Don Pendleton

  Fingering the ball’s rough surface, he paused, aimed, bent slightly at the knees and sprang upward, sending the ball into a high arc toward the basket. Just as it was descending, the door to the gym opened and Rodney Nelson hustled in, red-faced and breathing hard.

  The ball hit the rim and cascaded off. One of his gym attendants scurried after it.

  Stevenson swore and yelled at Nelson. “You fucking idiot. You made me miss my shot.”

  Nelson stopped and looked at his boss, then the basket, and swallowed.

  “Sorry.”

  Stevenson grabbed another ball from the metal container and quickly took another shot. This one, too, bounced off the rim.

  Stevenson swore again and kicked over the container, sending the stacked balls rolling in various directions. The two gym attendants hurried after them.

  Stevenson turned to Nelson. “This better be good.”

  “It is,” Nelson said, plastering a weak grin over his face. “Our surveillance team picked up the reporter, Perkins. Guess where he is.”

  “Quit playing fucking games.”

  Nelson blinked. “He’s at BWI airport, waiting on a flight to St. Francis.”

  That caused Stevenson to perk up. He motioned for a towel and the woman handed him one. Stevenson wiped the perspiration from his face and tossed it back to her.

  “Is Quarry down there yet?”

  Nelson nodded.

  Stevenson walked toward the locker room, motioning for Nelson to follow. When they were side by side, the industrialist looked down at the shorter man and whispered, “This could be our chance to get back on track. Kill two birds with one shot, so to speak.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “We still have our mole in Bellamy’s security?”

  Nelson nodded.

  “Good,” Stevenson said. “Use him. And make sure Quarry understands that he has to recruit enough local talent down there to make it look like your standard, run-of-the-mill robbery. Did he take enough burner phones?”

  “He has everything he needs.” Nelson picked up his step and trotted forward so he could grab and hold open the door to the locker room. “This’ll be good practice for when you’re part of the next government.” He fashioned his right hand into the shape of a gun and started imitating using it. “Knocking one duck down after another.”

  Stevenson smiled. The thought excited him.

  Somewhere over southern Florida

  30,000 feet

  BOLAN CAME BACK from the cockpit with two cans of cranberry juice. He sat in the seat facing Special Agent Jefferson and handed one of the cans to her.

  “I can look around the galley for a paper cup if you want,” he said, popping the tab on his can.

  She did the same and shook her head.

  “Jack says we’ll be there in a little over an hour,” Bolan told her.

  Jefferson took a dainty sip and smiled. “You guys are really something. I’m still in awe at how quickly you were able to get this plane authorized, and a private Learjet at that.”

  Bolan smiled. “We’ve got friends in high places.”

  “We’re going to need them when we try to get Perkins to cough up his journalistic sources and files,” she said. “You know he’s going to cry First Amendment all the way.”

  Bolan said nothing.

  “How did you find out he was flying to St. Francis?” she asked, taking another sip.

  “Like I said, we have friends in high places. Low places, too.”

  Jefferson laughed. “Seriously, how did you know?”

  Bolan took a long pull on the drink and shrugged. “It wasn’t that hard, really. After Perkins’s failed attempt to interview Oakley, what other option did he have? Plus, I got the impression from what Haggerty said that our intrepid reporter was a bit shaken up after seeing the murders.”

  “That explains your suspicions,” she said, smiling. “But not how you traced him to the airport so quickly.” Her dark eyes looked at him over the rim of the can. “You’re not really with DoJ, are you?”

  Bolan flashed a benign smile. “Want to check our IDs again?”

  Jefferson shook her head, her expression showing that she was still skeptical. “Just keep in mind that I’m an agent of the federal government. I have to do things by the book.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Bolan said. He wondered how much he should tell her. “Actually, getting the plane was not that difficult. Jack’s a pilot, and we have an understanding with the owners that we can use it, from time to time, if an emergency arises. It saves a lot of hassle not having to make out a firearm’s declaration and go through TSA. How come you don’t carry a weapon?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t like them much. I mean, I had to qualify on the range and everything, but I’d much rather rely on my wits and the Constitution for protection.”

  Bolan decided to let the matter drop, but couldn’t resist adding, “I hope your copy’s bulletproof.”

  His cell phone buzzed with an incoming message. Bolan took it out and saw that it was from Kurtzman.

  Videos erased from recorder unit at Pittsfield parking garage prior to being shot up. Re hospital: second autopsy you requested showed both victims positive for potassium chloride. Trying to get hospital security videos. Will advise.

  More pieces to the puzzle, Bolan thought, but he still felt like many of the pieces were still facedown with no overall big picture. They’d have to keep connecting the dots to figure out what they were dealing with exactly, but things were getting clearer. He told Jefferson about the latest findings.

  “Potassium chloride?” she said. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “It causes cardiac arrest if injected. Looks like a fatal heart attack.”

  Jefferson’s eyes widened. “So you’re saying that both the infected aide and the security guard were murdered?”

  Bolan nodded. “The security guard probably stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time. The aide is more problematic. Somebody wanted the guy dead sooner rather than later.”

  “Possibly to prevent the spread of the Keller Virus?”

  Bolan shrugged. “I don’t know yet. But if my theory’s right, the murders of Oakley and his attorney are connected to a massacre in Belgium. An international assassin known as the Talon is responsible.”

  “The Talon? Sounds like someone out of a horror movie.”

  “This guy’s his own horror movie,” Bolan said. “Nobody’s ever seen him and lived to tell about it.” He held up his open palm. “The only thing we know about him is that he’s slender and has small hands.”

  Jefferson smiled. “So that’s what you and Jack meant about dynamite coming in small packages?”

  Bolan nodded. “I’m looking forward to meeting him soon. And figuring out who hired him and why. Then maybe we’ll have a better idea of the big picture.”

  Jefferson looked pensive. “I certainly hope so. I’ve suddenly got the feeling that something really bad’s about to happen.”

  Me, too, Bolan thought.

  9

  Island of St. Francis

  The Bahamas

  Bolan pulled the rental car, a small Fiat, over to the side of the road, making sure he was far enough off to the side so as not to be a traffic obstruction, and shut off the headlights. He checked the app on his phone again. “Looks like he’s stopped just up ahead.”

  The winding road was dark and completely devoid of lights, although a full moon was helping with some natural ambient illumination. There were plenty of spots to pull over, designed, no doubt, to allow adventuresome tourists to gather and enjoy the mountain scenery during the day. In the dark, on this serpentine stretch of paved roadway, the passage was more risky.

  Bolan and company were on Perkins’s tra
il, after landing and smuggling their weapons and equipment off the plane, which was primarily accomplished after flashing their U.S. government IDs and then handing over a hefty bribe to the airport security police.

  Bolan shut off the engine and listened. The night was quiet. He consulted his phone again and verified that Perkins’s position was stationary. He’d no doubt stopped alongside the road, as well.

  “I’m going to have to leave a lot out of my report,” Jefferson said from the backseat. “Especially the part about you planting an unauthorized tracking device on him.”

  “Aw, loosen up, Agent Jefferson,” Grimaldi said. “We’re not even on U.S. soil. What’s the harm?”

  “That doesn’t change who we are,” she said. “Or what we stand for.”

  Bolan opened the driver’s door and started to get out. “You two can continue your ethics debate if you want,” he said. “I’m going to move up and take a look-see.”

  “But it’s so dark out there,” Jefferson said.

  Bolan ignored her and went to his duffel bag in the trunk. It contained his Beretta 93-R, several loaded magazines, a high-powered flashlight and a set of night-vision goggles. As he was slipping his belt through the loops of the pancake holster, he heard the passenger door open and saw Grimaldi emerge.

  He came around to the trunk and reached for his bag, shaking his head. “That chick’s as pretty as a new twenty-dollar gold piece,” he said. “But she’s got a lot to learn.”

  Bolan held his finger to his lips. Jefferson was getting out of the car, as well.

  She walked toward him. “Since I’m already party to these questionable proceedings,” she said, “I might as well tag along for the ride.”

  “Fasten your seat belt then,” Grimaldi said, pulling his night-vision goggles out of his duffel. “Ever seen starlight, star bright?”

  The space between Jefferson’s brows wrinkled.

  Bolan left them and began a quick jog toward the bend in the road. Stopping next to a section of jutting rocks, he flattened against the trimmed rocks and took a quick look around the corner. Even in the pale moonlight, without the advantage of the night-vision goggles, he could see two men and a motorcycle down by an extended, flat picnic area that had been carved into the mountainside. Numerous large, wooden tables adorned by huge, open umbrellas decorated the spot.

  The Executioner fitted the night-vision goggles onto his head and flipped them down. The view immediately became a clear-as-day image tinted in shades of green. Perkins stood in front of one of the roadside tables, pacing back and forth. He was wearing his large-framed glasses and was talking on his cell phone. His backpack sat on a nearby table. Another man, apparently a local islander, stood near the high railing that ran along the edge of the precipice. He was smoking a cigarette. The tip glowed brightly in Bolan’s viewfinder. Most likely the man was the driver of the motorcycle, which sat between them. It looked to be a British model.

  “It sure ain’t no Harley, is it?” Grimaldi said, stepping next to Bolan and flipping down his night-vision goggles.

  The ghost of a smile lifted Bolan’s lips. He could always depend on Grimaldi to bring a little levity into the most mundane situation. Jefferson stood behind him.

  “What’s it look like?” she asked.

  Bolan slipped off his goggles and held them toward her. “Take a look.”

  Biting her lower lip with apparent confusion, Jefferson accepted the equipment, but obviously was not familiar with it.

  Bolan eased the goggles from her hand and placed his hand on her shoulder. She stiffened at his touch but then he felt her body relax. He nudged her forward and held the goggles in front of her face.

  “Look through these,” he said.

  She did, and Bolan noticed her lips curl into a smile.

  “Wow,” she said. “These are cool.”

  Bolan saw another set of headlights appear in the distance, coming along the mountain road from the opposite direction. In all the time they’d been driving from the hotel, they hadn’t seen another vehicle except for the motorcycle. He placed his hand in front of the visor. “Those headlights will hurt your eyes.”

  Taking the night-vision goggles from Jefferson, he slipped them back onto his head. “This might be his appointment.”

  In the distance, the approaching headlights drew closer.

  “I’m going to move along the edge here and see if I can get closer,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi nodded.

  “What about me?” Jefferson asked.

  “Stay here.”

  Without another word Bolan began moving forward with swift, steady movements, causing virtually no noise. A small shack lay ahead on the opposite side of the road, at the closest edge of the picnic area. Bolan adjusted his pace, moving in a way that kept the shack between the two waiting men and him. He settled against the flatness of the wall and took another look. The headlights appeared to belong to some sort of van or truck. The vehicle was definitely not a compact car.

  The approaching vehicle turned out to be a pickup, a Chevrolet from the looks of it. Bolan slipped the goggles over his eyes and caught sight of four men with rifles jump out of the rear bed. AK-47s. He heard the truck doors open and saw two men get out.

  “About time you got here.” Perkins’s voice squeaked, the natural acoustics of the carved canyon walls acting as an amplifier.

  “What? I’m supposed to hurry to meet a dirtbag like you?”

  Bolan recognized the other man as Roy Bellamy, the former owner of Alocore Incorporated. He’d gained a substantial amount of weight, and it was centered around his waist and under his chin.

  Whiskey damage, Bolan surmised.

  Perkins adjusted his glasses.

  Obviously, Bolan thought, he wanted to at least record the audio for this meeting.

  The banter between them continued and Bolan debated his next move. The prudent choice would be to let the meeting proceed at its own pace, to listen to what Perkins was asking, and then grab the reporter afterward back at the hotel. Given Jefferson’s penchant for following the rules, she probably would recuse herself, and that would be fine.

  The Executioner knew he needed to get a handle on the overall picture of what was going on and had the feeling that an unknown clock was ticking. Perkins had a line on something and before this night was over, Bolan was determined to find out what that was, one way or another.

  Yeah, he thought. Jefferson would definitely be confined to her room.

  “Did you hear about Simon?” Perkins asked.

  The other man shrugged in a nonchalant manner. “Why do you think I brought my guards?”

  Bolan had been studying those same individuals. One of them seemed to be fidgeting, cautiously moving toward the outer ring of the picnic area, his head bobbing like a buoy in a choppy sea, like he was expecting company.

  The reason for the man’s unease soon became evident when the stillness of the night was shattered by a crack of gunfire. Bellamy’s head jerked to the side and his legs twisted downward, his bulky body following. Another shot and one of his guards fell forward, clutching his chest. The rest began scrambling toward the cover of the pickup.

  Bolan shifted position and saw three men on the sloping hill opposite the picnic area, the muzzle-flashes of their weapons winking like warning beacons against the velvet blackness. Two of the shooters were white, one was black. Bolan adjusted the rangefinder on his goggles and tried to zoom in for more details, but their features were obscured.

  The motorcycle driver twisted and fell. Perkins was lying flat on the ground, as was Bellamy. The two groups exchanged gunfire, but it was obvious that Bellamy’s guards had been caught totally unprepared.

  Headlights from an approaching vehicle, another pickup, abruptly illuminated the road ahead. It had apparently been creeping alo
ng the road from the opposite direction of Bolan’s position. That meant that both Bellamy’s crew and the new truck had come from the same area. The truck drew closer and Bolan caught the glimpse of perhaps five or six armed men brandishing rifles. As the truck zoomed toward the picnic area, Bellamy’s guards began firing at it. All of them except the man on the far end, Bolan noticed. He was either a reluctant shooter or his alliance was with the other side.

  One of the men in the approaching pickup twisted and tumbled over the side, his rifle clattering to the pavement and getting run over by the truck’s tires. Bolan checked the hillside. The three men continued to fire, as well.

  Grimaldi was suddenly beside Bolan, his grin stretching across his face, his teeth iridescently white in the viewfinder.

  “I thought we’d gone too long without getting involved in a firefight,” he said. “What’s it been? About twenty-four hours?”

  Bolan lifted the Beretta, braced against the edge of the shack and squeezed off a round. One of the hillside assailants twisted and fell. The two others looked around. Bolan tried to get a look at the black man’s face, but he was wearing night-vision goggles.

  The second man on the hillside adjusted his position and swung his rifle in Bolan’s direction. The Executioner took aim at the man and squeezed off another round. It was a difficult shot for a pistol, perhaps around fifty-five yards, but the Executioner allowed for the problematic trajectory. The man grabbed at his chest as the rifle slipped from his hands.

  The third man, the black guy, fired off a quick burst from what appeared to be an AK-47. Grimaldi fired off a burst of his own, his bullets seeming off their mark, but the guy ducked and disappeared in the dense shrubbery.

  The men in the two pickups were much closer—around forty yards. Not wanting to take sides, but knowing that if Perkins and Bellamy were killed, the chances of solving the big puzzle would be much harder, Bolan slapped Grimaldi on the arm and pointed to himself and then the two pickups.