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Stevenson cocked his arm back and hurled his glass into the corner. It shattered as it hit the floor. “I’m not in the mood, Rod.”
Nelson’s neck twitched slightly and he nodded, then looked around. Apparently satisfied that no one had taken much notice of the boss throwing the glass, he looked at Stevenson, who towered over him.
“I asked you for the particulars,” Stevenson said.
“It’s all over the news. Another terrorist attack in Belgium. Twenty-six fatalities. Arabic writing on the wall.” Nelson paused and grinned with the burgeoning stupidity of an incipient drunk. “In blood, no less.”
Stevenson grabbed the glass out of Nelson’s hand and hurled it against the wall, as well.
After the tinkle of breaking glass, Nelson took a step back, his simper fading. “Be careful. There are a lot of people here, and remember, every one of them has a smartphone with video capabilities.”
“Something I’ll change once I get my puppet, Buchanan, into the Oval Office,” Stevenson said.
“Most assuredly. Anyway, everything’s coming up roses—” he tried unsuccessfully to suppress a belch “—for the time being.”
Stevenson’s frowned. “How much have you had to drink?”
Nelson held up his hand, palm out, and shook his head. “Not a lot. Hardly touched my rubber chicken dinner, though.”
“Well, knock it off,” Stevenson said, scowling. “Is the Talon on his way?”
Nelson nodded, again glancing around for prying eyes or intrusive video-takers.
“I asked you a question,” Stevenson said, his tone clipped.
“He is. He is. Should be here in about eight hours. Everything’s been arranged.”
“Good. Keep him on ice somewhere until we need him.”
“Already in the works.”
“What about Africa?” Stevenson asked.
“Hardly a blip on the five o’clock news.” He shrugged. “As we figured, nobody gives a shit about a bunch of dead Africans, no matter if they died of natural causes or a bullet.”
“And that infected American asshole?”
“The health care worker?” Nelson sighed. “They’re making arrangements to fly him back to the U.S.”
“Shit. Where to?”
“Right now, the CDC is talking Atlanta. Like they did for those Ebola cases a while back.”
Stevenson raised both of his hands, almost in a boxer’s stance, but extended his very long index fingers on each hand and pointed at the other man’s face. “See that he’s put in one of our hospitals. Tell the CDC that we set up a special section at Winthrope Harbor in anticipation of the Ebola outbreak a few years ago and it’s ready to go. We’ll have more control that way. We need to jump on this. Damn that incompetent bastard Quarry.”
“Don’t be too hard on him. There’s no way he could have foreseen this development.”
“That’s what I pay him to do,” Stevenson said. “Quite well, in fact. Just as I pay you quite well. And I expect results. Or things could change.”
Nelson’s face twitched a bit. “Boss, everything’s totally under control.” It was clear he’d received an involuntary jolt of adrenaline that somewhat sobered his mildly intoxicated brain. “Believe me. The Belgium thing worked like a charm, the Talon’s on his way, Quarry wiped out all those telltale villagers and look how well Debussey’s altered version of the Keller Virus worked out.”
“Yeah.” The sarcasm in Stevenson’s voice was palpable. “Letting that aide get infected was brilliant.”
“I still think we can work that to our advantage.” Nelson made a self-deprecating shrug. “After all, a little advance publicity of the killer virus on the loose can’t hurt, can it?”
Stevenson considered that and allowed his lips to twitch into a slight smile. “Perhaps you’ve got something there.”
Nelson glanced around. “Don’t worry. We’ll deal with that aide development as soon as he touches down on U.S. soil. Everything’s cool.”
“Where are Quarry and the mad doctor now?”
“Also on the way back. Should be here very soon. We’re bringing them in through Puerto Rico.”
Stevenson stared down at him a moment more then blew out another exasperated breath. “It better be. I’ve got too much riding on this to fail.”
Nelson started to place a hand on Stevenson’s shoulder but stopped, as if suddenly realizing it would look like he was placing a jar on the top shelf of the closet. Instead he forced another smile. “Everything will be coming up roses in just a little while.”
Stevenson watched his man, Buchanan, work the room with the accomplished ease of a perfect, puppet politician, and then smiled. In his mind’s eye he pictured himself sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office with Buchanan standing timidly in front of him.
Soon, he thought. Soon.
3 (#u495e8884-c4bc-527a-aa1e-1e878681eec3)
The Chevalier Institute
Mack Bolan watched from the passenger seat of the police car as the driver used his siren and horn to warn the growing throngs of reporters gathering on the road. Although he slowed as he drove through the parting crowds, several tried to approach with microphones in hand, apparently trying to obtain a bit of new information.
“Reporters are the same the world over,” Grimaldi said from the backseat. “Soon as there’s a dead body or two, they converge like a pack of hyenas.”
“I like your comparison, monsieur,” the Belgian officer said.
“Speaking of which,” Bolan said, raising his hand to cover a good portion of his face. “Looks like we’ve got a bogie approaching.” Grimaldi did the same. Neither of them wished their face to appear on any sort of news media.
The car jolted to a stop as the particularly bold reporter virtually thrust himself into the vehicle’s path. He then ran to the window, holding out his microphone, a cameraman about three feet behind him.
The driver rolled down his window and yelled, “Arretez!” The reporter and cameraman both halted and the officer said a few angry words, which Bolan figured included a bit of French profanity. He smiled and wondered how that would play on the local evening news.
The reporter shifted to the rear window and yelled something at Grimaldi, who, still covering his face with his left hand, raised his right fist and extended his middle finger. “That’s universal in all languages,” he said as the vehicle sped up again.
Bolan could see a quarter-ton police truck parked diagonally to block the road about thirty yards ahead. It was ringed by police officers dressed in helmets and dark uniforms and armed with rifles. One of them spoke into a radio and then stepped to the side, motioning their police car around the blockade. The man’s face looked grim as they passed.
The Chevalier Institute came into view as they rounded the next curve. It was a three-story brick building surrounded by well-landscaped grounds. The beauty of the scenery was marred by the presence of more tactically outfitted police officers and several police cars, one of which Bolan assumed was a forensics van. Their driver pulled up and spoke into his radio, and Bolan knew the man was informing his supervisor of their arrival. He nodded his thanks to the officer and slipped out of the car. Grimaldi did the same.
Bolan scanned the group of officers. To a man, they all looked morose, as though they had seen too much carnage. Unfortunately it had become an all-too common sight these days.
The Executioner caught a glimpse of movement at the front of the building. One of the doors opened and a man in a wrinkled brown suit exited. The man’s hair was laced with gray and his face had a world-weary look. He approached the two Americans, removed a latex glove and then offered his hand.
“I am Inspector Albert Dorao,” he said, shaking Bolan’s hand and then Grimaldi’s. “May I assume you are with the FBI?”
“Close,” Bolan said, showing the man his false credentials identifying him as Matt Cooper from the Justice Department.
Grimaldi held up a similar fake ID.
Dorao raised both eyebrows. “I do not understand. Why is the U.S. Justice Department involved in this?”
“We were in the neighborhood,” Grimaldi said.
“Standard procedure,” Bolan added. “We try to monitor and track what could be any terrorist activity around the world.”
Dorao considered that and then gave a slight nod. “I will be interested to see if your observations and conjectures match my own.” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a fistful of latex.
“May I request that you wear these?” he said. “It is a large building, and we are still in the process of examination for trace evidence.”
Both Bolan and Grimaldi donned a pair of gloves.
“What type of facility is this?” Bolan asked.
“It is my understanding,” Dorao said, “that they did research on the effects of drugs.”
Bolan looked around as they walked. “Kind of a remote place for an attack.”
“Plus, a drug research company?” Grimaldi queried, hunching his shoulders. “You’d figure terrorists would pick a more high-profile target.”
Dorao shrugged. “As I said, I look forward to hearing your impressions and comparing them with my own. Until then, I shall refrain from coloring your observations.”
“Fair enough,” Bolan said. “We appreciate you allowing us to observe.”
“The crime was discovered at four o’clock,” Dorao said, walking up the steps to the front of the building. “A delivery boy came upon the scene and saw the dead security guard. He summoned the police and...”
Dorao grabbed an elongated gold-colored handle on the main entrance door. As he pulled the door open, Bolan caught a glimpse of a bevy of people inside, some standing guard, while others in white crime scene uniforms meticulously photographed items and twirled fingerprint brushes. An ornate, futuristically designed desk sat about twenty feet from the front entrance. Two men twirled bushes over the surface. As they got closer, Bolan noted the puddle of congealed blood on the flat surface.
“The security man was seated there,” Dorao said. “He was shot in the face.” He held his forefinger to the spot between his eyebrows. “We found an ejected shell casing, from a 9 mm, about three meters away.” He pointed to the area in front of a section of metal detector portals.
Right between the eyes, Bolan thought. A head shot, most likely done with a split-second target acquisition. Whoever did this had good marksmanship skills to effect a head shot at that distance.
Inspector Dorao motioned them forward and they moved through the portals, the alarms going off as each of them passed.
Dorao’s eyebrows lifted as he regarded Bolan and Grimaldi. “May I assume you have special permission to carry concealed weapons?”
“We came right here from another assignment,” Bolan said. “There was concern that this might be the first of several attacks.”
Dorao shook his head. “Let us hope not. But your weapons are of little importance to me at this point.” He gestured toward the elevators. “There were two bodies in the elevator. Others in the security office. Come. I will show you the rest. Upstairs. Be warned. It is not pretty.”
After leading Bolan and Grimaldi through the rest of the building, pointing out where each fatality had occurred, Dorao looked visibly drained. The last scene was a large room on the second floor into which a group of people had been herded. The floor was splattered with pools of blood. A profusion of small, yellow, plastic markers with bold, black numbers covered the floor, indicating expended shell casings. These were 7.62 mm—rifle shells for an AK-47 or SKS.
A row of computers and monitors lined up on a series of desks near the inside wall had been totally destroyed, the screens riddled with holes, the computer themselves smashed.
“They expended a substantial amount of rounds on those,” Bolan said, pointing to the ruined devices.
“A few computers in the building survived, but are infected with a virus of some sort,” Dorao advised, raising an eyebrow. “Interesting, do you not think?”
Bolan studied the debris and nodded, saying nothing as he continued to look around. Lines of blood had been scribbled on the lemon-colored wall next to the door. Although the bodies had been removed, the stench of death still hung in the room. Bolan could smell something else, as well...a faint trace of smoke.
“Was there a fire set in the building?” Bolan asked.
Dorao nodded. “In the office down the hallway. How did you know?”
Bolan tapped his index finger against his nose, his face maintaining a grim expression. “Did the sprinkler system activate?”
Dorao shook his head and shrugged. “The system was turned off.”
“I’d like to see that area, Inspector,” Bolan said.
“I will show you.”
“That say what I think it says?” Grimaldi asked, pointing to the wall.
Bolan nodded. “Allah akhbar. Arabic. God is great.”
There were more crime scene technicians taking pictures inside the first office, which had apparently been an administrative section. The floors and walls showed the burned, black arches of an accelerant. A large pile of ashes sat near a series of file cabinets, the drawers of which had been left standing open. The computer monitor had several bullet holes spider-webbing the screen.
Bolan pointed to the pile of ashes. “What do you make of that?” he asked.
Dorao raised an eyebrow and then shook his head. “I try to make no assumptions until I have examined all of the evidence.”
They moved to the other office, which had belonged to Mr. Chevalier, the company president. More blood stained the desk in the anteroom, where the secretary’s body had been found. A similarly damaged computer was on the floor next to her desk. They walked through a door into Chevalier’s office. The back of the leather chair behind the mahogany desk showed a series of bloodstained holes and more blood was centered on the paper blotter on top of the desk.
“The bodies of Monsieur Chevalier and his personal assistant were found in this room,” Dorao said.
Bolan glanced around. “You said that all of the computers in the building were damaged?”
The inspector nodded. “Most of them. As I told you, two were left unharmed but were infected with some sort of virus. This one also had a bullet in it. Interesting, isn’t it?”
Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged glances. Before they could ask anything further, Dorao’s cell phone rang and he answered it. Bolan tried to follow the one side of the conversation as best he could, but the inspector didn’t say much and his French was much too rapid. As he terminated the call and lowered his hand, his nostrils flared and he stared at the two Americans.
“Bad news?” Grimaldi asked.
“Perhaps so, perhaps not,” Dorao said. “More bodies about five kilometers from here.”
Private Learjet
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean
THE TALON GLANCED at his watch and assumed the police would have discovered the bodies in the Chevalier Institute by now. His plan had been perfectly executed, right down to the final details. Smiling slightly, he wondered if the additional bodies had been located yet. It would have been safer to dump the rifles into a well or canal, but the tight time schedule and the possibility of someone seeing him had prohibited it. As it stood, the chances that the authorities would eventually see through the terrorist ruse was a strong possibility. But no matter. The media would immediately pick up on the Allah akhbar scribbled on the wall and that would take precedence. By the time everything was sorted out, the whole incident would have faded from the news.
And he would be retired and lying on a beach somewhere, the Talon thought.
Tying up loose ends had delayed his departure, but it could not have been avoided. Recalling how the bodies fell, he felt a twinge of regret as he thought about leaving the Heckler & Koch pistol. It had such a smooth trigger pull, and the higher sights allowed quick target acquisition with a silencer. The added benefit of the trimmed grip allowed for such a nice, tight feeling as the weapon recoiled. It was an almost erotic feeling. But such dalliances were counterproductive and at times even dangerous.
