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Lassiter watched the steady drip of clear liquid as it fell from the transparent bag into the plastic line attached to the adapter.
“What is that stuff?” he asked. “More GEM goodies?”
She blinked, holding her eyes closed a second or two longer than she should have, and then smiled. “It’s a combination of antibiotics and some other medications.”
“Antibiotics?” He grinned. “Afraid I picked up an STD south of the border?” When she didn’t smile back, he added, “For the record, I didn’t.”
“I want to beef up your immune system a bit.” She patted his arm gently, ending with an affectionate squeeze.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Really?”
She gazed at him, her blue eyes misty, then looked away quickly.
He grabbed her arm, harder than he intended, and she jerked. Lassiter immediately released her and ran his left fingers softly over her cheek.
“Sorry.” He waited a couple of beats, and then added, “Tell me.”
“I’m not sure yet.” Ellen leaned down and kissed him on the lips, keeping her chin on his shoulder, her face out of his sight. “Let the medicine do its work.”
This whole scene was starting to resemble one from some kind of crazy movie.
“Do its work?” He pulled her back so he could look at her face. Streams of tears had found their way down both her cheeks.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“I want you to know that I need to run more tests. I don’t know everything for certain.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
She looked away, wiped at her cheek, peeled off her latex glove and turned back toward him, her expression caring, but severe. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“Ellen?”
“John,” she said, regaining control, “I don’t know for sure yet, but I’m afraid you could be sick.” Despite her almost professional demeanor her words came out choppy, truncated, like a ball bouncing unevenly down some steps. “From the GEM treatments.”
“Sick?” he asked. That couldn’t be. He felt great. Strong, powerful, never better. “What are you talking about? I feel fine.”
“Like I said, I’ve got to run more tests.” She wiped at her eyes. “But depending on how things go, we might have to start an aggressive treatment plan.”
“Huh?”
She went into another rambling discourse with terms he didn’t understand, about having to do more tests and it being too early to assume anything, least of all a prognosis, but he barely heard her words. Only three of them reverberated inside his skull, over and over again.
Aggressive treatment plan.
What the hell was going on?
Washington, D.C.
THE RUBBER BALL bounced off the far wall, struck the floor and then sailed toward Senator Brent Hutchcraft. He deftly swung his racket, sending the ball back toward the far wall again. Gregory Benedict, assistant director of the CIA, stepped in and slammed the ball as it shot back toward them. Now it was Anthony Godfrey’s turn, and he purposely let the ball zoom past him.
“Aww, come on, Tony,” Hutchcraft said. “You weren’t even trying.”
“Too much on my mind,” Godfrey said. The ball bounced against the rear wall in a lazy loop and Godfrey grabbed it. “We’ve got a lot to discuss. Why don’t we get some steam?”
The steam room was Godfrey’s favorite place in the club. He’d reserved it for the three of them. The accompanying attire, bath towels and nudity, assured him that no one in the room would be wearing a wire, and any attempts to bug the place would be fruitless. Not that he was worried about Hutchcraft and Benedict. They were both in as deep as he was, and had infinitely more to lose, but he hadn’t survived twenty-five years in the Washington, D.C., political rat race without exercising due caution. Plus, it worked both ways. His associates took a measure of comfort in these precautions for the same reasons. To assure that they weren’t disturbed, Godfrey had one of the senator’s security detail standing by at the door to the steam room. The guy was as big as a house, plus he was packing a SIG Sauer .357 semiauto pistol. Godfrey looked at the hulk as he held the door open for them.
It pays to have friends in high places, Godfrey thought with a smile on his face. And in low ones, as well.
Wisps of steam hung in the air. The locker room attendant had sprayed a dash of eucalyptus in the air, just as Godfrey had requested. He moved to the tiled bench, adjusted his towel and sat. Hutchcraft, obviously proud of his physique, and how he was keeping in shape despite being in his mid-forties, tossed his towel on the bench with careless abandon and sat beside him. Benedict, always guarded and cautious, glanced around nervously and then sat across from them, his back to the wall. The man moved with an almost reptilian precision.
“Okay, Tony,” Hutchcraft said. “You called this little tête-à-tête. Suppose you lead off.”
“Last night’s activity was a mixed bag,” Godfrey said. “As you’d previously advised, the White House did authorize a rescue mission to extract Avelia.” He looked at Benedict. “Luckily, your strike team arrived first and snatched the target, along with the intended cash and drugs.”
Benedict nodded. “As expected.”
“And the weapons our less-than-reputable friend thought he was purchasing?” Hutchcraft asked.
“Safe and to be delivered to my Arizona warehouse facility tonight,” Godfrey said.
Hutchcraft smiled. “Ah, I love it when a plan comes together. So what’s the bad news?”
“Avelia was delivered to our motorcycle friends in such bad shape that they weren’t able to get much out of him. We don’t know how much he found out and who he told.”
“But I’m working on that,” Benedict said.
Hutchcraft frowned. “I assume that loose end has now been terminated.”
Godfrey nodded. “As of this morning. But we’re going to have to brace for the fallout concerning the death of a federal agent.”
“Brace for what?” Benedict said. “He’ll just go down as another unfortunate casualty to our long, ongoing and unsuccessful war on drugs.”
“I might even find some purchase in the debates.” Hutchcraft’s voice assumed a deeper tenor. “Mr. President, please explain the reason you didn’t pull this young man out of harm’s way before he was discovered and murdered.” A smile stretched the corners of his mouth. “As Harry Truman used to say, the buck stops at the top.”
“Careful,” Benedict said. “There’s always a risk if you shit too close to where you eat.”
Hutchcraft looked almost wounded. “Please, spare me your scatological metaphors. I’m going out to dinner later.”
Godfrey didn’t want this to develop into a debate between the two of them. Hutchcraft had his sights set on becoming president, and if that happened, Benedict was the heir apparent to finally take over as director of the CIA. Both of them were so laser focused on their goals that they often lost sight of the big picture.
“Gentlemen,” Godfrey reminded them, “the devil is, as they say, in the details.”
“Very true,” Hutchcraft said, exhaling a long breath.
The temperature felt as if it was edging up into the unbearable range. That was another reason Godfrey liked this place. The longer you stayed, the more of a chore superfluous conversation became. It was like conversing in hell itself.
Hutchcraft stood, went to the shower head and doused himself with a jet of cool water. When he sat again, Godfrey saw the man was ready to talk facts. No more bullshitting.
“What about Jesús?” he asked. “You said the little bastard got away?”
“That’s what I was told.” Godfrey felt like going to the shower for a cool rinse himself, but decided to wait.
“I thought you sent Lassiter?” Hutchcraft said. “Didn’t you say he was one those GEMs you keep bragging about?”
“He is,” Benedict interjected. His mouth twisted in a frown. “He was the prototype.”
“Another triumph for SNPT Laboratories, a division of GDF Industries,” Hutchcraft said, affecting a deeply resonant tone. He wiped a handful of sweat off his forehead and flung the droplets toward the heating unit. “Well, don’t forget I was the one who steered the funding for that particular special program GDF’s way.”
“Before you start handing out cigars as the proud father,” Benedict said, “you should know he’s become something of a liability lately. He needs to be dealt with.”
“Oh?” Hutchcraft said. “What’s that story?”
Godfrey fidgeted. “It’s too complex to go into here. Suffice it to say, he’s outlived his usefulness. But that could work in our favor, as well.”
“How?” Benedict snorted. The heat was getting to him, too.
“Is your cleanup team ready to intercept the shipment tonight?” Godfrey asked.
“Of course.”
Godfrey cracked a smile. He could taste his own sweat now. It felt as if the steam was parboiling him. “With Jesús De la Noval on the loose, and angry at the overnight attack on his compound, it’ll seem logical that he’s behind the little retaliatory strike involving the shipment and the motorcycle whackos.”
Hutchcraft blew out another long breath. “I see your logic, Tony. But how does this benefit us?”
Godfrey rubbed his index finger and thumb together. “I’ve got another buyer lined up for the shipment. We simply take it away from the intended recipients, the Wolves, and then turn it around in a sale to our new interested party.”
“And who might that be?” Benedict asked.”
“Our old friend Dimitri Chakhkiev,” Godfrey said.
“That Russian son of a bitch?” Hutchcraft said. “I trust him about as far as I can throw him.”
“You’d better get used to dealing with him,” Benedict said. “If you want to be president, that is. Word is he’s on the Russian leader’s favorite persons list for building the new Russia.”
Godfrey had about all he could stand of the heat and his two companions. He stood and pulled the cord, giving himself a cool rinse, then reached for the door handle. “If we have no other pertinent business to discuss, I suggest we vacate this hellhole and wait until Greg receives verification that his cleanup team has taken care of Lassiter and his boys.”
“I’m expecting a call from Artie on that later tonight,” Benedict said. And it’s called a wet team, remember?”
“Whatever.” Godfrey started to pull on the door.
“You never did explain to me why you’re so anxious to get rid of Lassiter,” Hutchcraft said.
The senator was still laid out naked on his towel as if posing for some male nudie magazine. “I thought he was one of our best and brightest. Except for having been declared KIA a few years ago, that is.”
“He’s a walking dead man.” Godfrey looked at Benedict. “You explain it to him. I’m done here.”
He pulled the door the rest of the way open and stepped out of the oppressive heat.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_89db0645-4792-5c30-a86e-e137f8914aec)
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Bolan crouched behind the remnants of a shot-up old Buick. In its day the car had probably been the apple of its owner’s eye. Now the front and back windows were pocked with bullet holes, as were the doors and fenders. He dropped the magazine in his Beretta 93R and tapped in a fresh one. The selector switch was set in 3-round-burst mode. Grimaldi was doing the same with his SIG Sauer P-221. He glanced at Bolan and nodded.
Behind them something clicked, and Bolan moved along the doors and extended his gun hand around the rear post panel. Downrange, two lifelike images flashed in front of a window: a man holding a woman before him. Bolan acquired a quick sight picture and double-tapped two rounds into the assailant’s face, then he sprinted to the next cover point, a solid metal mailbox.
Grimaldi was firing at the building as Bolan moved, then the soldier laid down some suppressing fire so his partner could move, as well. He’d set the Beretta to full-auto, firing at the building. Another target swung into a doorway: a man pointing a rifle. Bolan sent a 3-round burst into the target. Grimaldi was firing now, too, taking his place by the mailbox as Bolan moved to the next cover point, an old utility truck on the other side of the street. The Stony Man pilot joined him seconds later, huffing and puffing.
“Ready?” Bolan asked.
“I was born that way,” Grimaldi said.
They moved in unison again, one man laying down suppressing cover fire as the other ran. Two more hostile targets appeared, more men holding handguns. Bolan took out the first one, Grimaldi the second.
Three more buildings to go.
This portion was known as the Gauntlet. No cover—just a straight, shoot-on-the-run Hogan’s Alley, with targets popping up along the way.
Bolan went first, taking three strides before his first target appeared: a woman pushing a baby carriage. He held his fire. Seconds later another target popped up next to the woman. This one was definitely hostile: another man with a shotgun. Bolan put two rounds into the target, Mozambique style.
Another pair of targets popped up, both adversarial, both easily dispatched.
Three more running steps and Bolan reached the end of the course. He turned and watched his partner negotiate the same turf.
Grimaldi whirled as the first target popped around a corner: a wild looking guy extending a large semiauto pistol. The pilot put two bullets through the target. Another one popped out, this one holding a sawed-off shotgun. Two shots from Grimaldi, both “lethal.” Three more strides and he’d be done, as well.
Yet another target popped up, holding a gun. Grimaldi whirled, almost with casual indifference, and plugged the aggressor between the eyes, just as a final target appeared from around a corner. The pilot’s arm was already extended and he squeezed the trigger just as the bright blue of the target’s uniform and the silver image of the police badge became apparent. The round had gone through the cop’s heart, right next to his shield.
Grimaldi stopped, lowered his weapon and swore.
A voice came over the loudspeaker in a rebuking tone. “Shame, shame, shame, Jack. You shot a good guy.”
Grimaldi’s frown deepened as he decocked his pistol and slipped it back into his holster. He peeled off his ear protectors and goggles as he walked to Bolan.
“Damn. It’s been a long time since I messed up that bad.”
“Better to do it here,” Bolan said, “than out in the field.” He took off his protectors in turn, and they walked back through the course, assessing their shot patterns.
“Man, how do you stay right on with every shot?” Grimaldi asked. “I haven’t seen such small patterns since Jimmy Stewart outshot Dan Duryea in Winchester ’73.”
Bolan grinned at his friend’s movie reference. The guy loved old Westerns.
Grimaldi shook his head again. “It really bothers me when I shoot a good guy.”
“Let’s go through it again,” Bolan said.
“Are you serious?”
