Through the translucent murkiness of the water, Bolan saw Quarry’s left hand come up with a fixed-blade knife. The Executioner’s hands moved downward, grabbing his enemy’s wrist and holding the blade in check. The two men swirled around again, and this time Bolan’s back collided against the pool wall, knocking some of the breath out of him.
Quarry tried to tear his knife hand free, but Bolan braced against the vertical slab of hardness and shoved both of his hands toward the other man. The knife plunged into Quarry’s gut under the vest. Bolan twisted and felt the blade tearing as a flowering of crimson swirled upward, enveloping both of them.
The Executioner kicked off the wall and saw Quarry’s body slowly descending, leaving a scarlet trail like a marking dye.
Grimaldi shoved off the bottom, holding the backboard with Karen’s limp form next to him, and began kicking furiously. Bolan’s lungs ached for oxygen, but he knew if he surfaced now Grimaldi’s chances of making it to the surface with Karen were nil. He twisted his body and angled downward, grabbing the end of the board and joining his partner in trying to swim upward with their burden. The lighted surface of the water loomed out of reach above them. Bolan kept kicking as hard as he could. His legs seemed to be working in slow motion. A swarm of black dots began to coalesce in front of his eyes, blocking out the light.
Seconds later his head burst through the water and the air hit his face like a rough slap. Grimaldi’s head broke the surface, too, and they paddled desperately toward the ladder affixed to the side. Bolan legs felt heavy, waterlogged, but as they got close to the edge of the pool he began to feel solid flooring beneath him.
Grimaldi got to the ladder and scrambled halfway up, lifting the backboard with the unconscious woman. They shoved the board onto the walkway beside the pool, and Grimaldi tore at the bag that covered Jefferson’s face. Bolan checked for breathing, a pulse... Felt nothing. He knelt beside her and did several compression on her chest. “Do mouth-to-mouth,” he said.
Grimaldi tilted Jefferson’s head back, pulled open her jaw, pinched her nostrils closed and fitted his lips over hers. He blew in twice, lifted his head to take a breath and then lowered it again.
Jefferson spewed out a gush of water, breathed in, then immediately began coughing.
Bolan tore at the straps holding her wrists and arms, and they turned her sideways. Her coughing continued for a good forty seconds, until it was replaced by some uneven but steady breathing.
“Thank... God,” she said haltingly.
Bolan patted her on the shoulder and got to his feet.
Stepping to edge of the pool, he looked down and saw Quarry’s body suspended about ten feet below the surface, the blood still lingering in the water.
Bolan checked Stevenson and then Nelson. Both men were dead.
He walked back and picked up Grimaldi’s SIG Sauer, which lay by the side of the pool.
Squatting next to Jefferson, he asked how she felt.
No words came out as she continued to struggle with her breathing, but she gave him a thumbs-up. Bolan unfastened the straps around her legs and feet, and Grimaldi removed his maintenance shirt and draped it over her shoulders.
“Since you’re partially undressed already,” Bolan said to Grimaldi, “maybe you wouldn’t mind diving down there to retrieve my Beretta?”
Grimaldi, still breathing heavily himself, grinned and lifted the middle finger of his right hand.
“That’s what I thought,” the Executioner said.
Jefferson managed to sit up and pull the orange garment around her, covering more of her body. She also managed a smile. “I thought I was dead for sure,” she said. “Thanks for saving my life.”
“I just hope you’re not too disappointed we didn’t wait for a warrant,” Bolan said, smiling as he took out his wet cell phone. “But I’m sure exigent circumstances will apply in this case. And, as soon as we find a dry phone around here, you can call in the cavalry.”
Epilogue
The National Mall,
Washington, D.C.
Bolan, Grimaldi and Jefferson strolled by the edge of the Reflecting Pool as the morning sunlight shimmered over the surface, giving the water an iridescent yet calm appearance.
“So this is where you took him down?” Jefferson asked. “The Talon?”
Bolan nodded. “More or less.”
“Actually, it was a bit farther in that direction.” Grimaldi pointed to a nearby bench that still had the remnants of some yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze. “We almost bought it there when we met with Debussey.”
“How’s Perkins doing?” Bolan asked.
“He’s recovered well enough to start demanding we return his special glasses,” Jefferson said. “I’ve already redacted his files, by the way, to eliminate any recordings of your faces, just in case the Justice Department wants to know.”
“We appreciate that,” Bolan said.
“Yeah,” Grimaldi added, holding his hand under his chin. “Plastic surgery could be expensive, and why mess with perfection?”
Jefferson smiled. “I told Perkins that he’ll be lucky if I don’t press charges against him for illegally recording a federal agent.”
“I should’ve tossed him back into the pool when I had the chance,” Grimaldi said.
Jefferson frowned. “Don’t even joke about that. It’s going to be a while before I can look at water the same way again.”
“Us, too,” Grimaldi said. “It was all I could do to just get under the shower this morning.”
“And Dr. Debussey?” Bolan asked.
“He’s recovering, as well,” she said. “We managed to close several cases thanks to his testimony. He’s still going to have to do some jail time, for his unauthorized work in germ warfare, not to mention what he did in Africa, but his cooperation will works in his favor.”
“And all his research?” Bolan asked. “The perfection of the Keller Virus. What happens to that?”
“The CDC is going to destroy all the samples they recovered from Stevenson Dynamics,” Jefferson said with a shrug. “Supposedly.”
“Let’s hope so,” Grimaldi said. “That microbe stuff scares me more than the deep end of a pool.”
“They had the perfect biological weapon,” Bolan stated. “Let’s hope it’s never used.”
“Well,” Grimaldi said, “at least we were able to help our buddy Inspector Dorao clear his homicides.” He blew out a breath and shook his head. “And to think I mistook that Talon guy for a babe. I must be slipping.”
“At least you didn’t ask him for a date,” Bolan said.
The calliope music from the carousel became audible, and Grimaldi pointed toward it.
“Hey, why don’t we all go over there and ride that damn thing?”
“You’re not serious,” Jefferson said.
“Serious as a heart attack,” Grimaldi told her. “Or an attack of the Keller Virus.”
Bolan watched as his partner grabbed Jefferson’s hand and began pulling her toward the merry-go-round.
A carousel, he thought. An appropriate metaphor for the never-ending war they fought. He trailed after them, wondering what the next battle would be.
* * * * *
ISBN-13: 9781460399163
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Michael A. Black for his contribution to this work.
Fatal Prescription
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