Deadly Plague

There seems to be little connection between the viral devastation of a small, African village and the massacre at a drug research facility in Belgium... But Mack Bolan has learned the hard way that appearances can be deceiving. In fact, a wealthy industrialist is about to expand the release of a highly contagious virus out of Africa and into the States, and use the “miracle” antidote as his ticket to the U.S. presidency. It’s up to the Executioner to take down the villain’s mysterious assassin and stop the pending epidemic...

“The security man was shot in the face,” Inspector Dorao said, pointing to the blood congealing on the desk.

He held his forefinger to the spot between his eyebrows.

“We found an ejected shell casing from a 9 mm about three meters away.”

Right between the eyes, Bolan thought. Whoever did this had good marksmanship.

Dorao motioned them forward and they moved through the security gates, the alarms going off as each of them went through. Dorao’s eyebrows lifted as he regarded Bolan and Grimaldi.

“May I assume that 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.”

Fatal Prescription

Don Pendleton

Man’s enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself.

—Lao Tzu

I make myself the enemy of those who would victimize their fellow humans. As long as people continue to kill each other, I will not lay down my weapons.

—Mack Bolan

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

The Mack Bolan Legend

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Copyright

1

Stevenson Dynamics

Fairfax County, Arlington, Virginia

William J. Stevenson sat in the padded leather chair holding a remote in his right hand. He leaned forward on the large mahogany table, rested his elbows on the polished surface and clicked on the television.

Stevenson was in his mid-fifties with a well-trimmed Vandyke, chiseled cheekbones and a tall, powerful-looking body. His face was perfectly tanned and his dark brown hair was coiffed to perfection.

A glass sat on a coaster in front of him and a heavyset, balding man with glasses sat to his left. To Stevenson’s right, a thin, younger man in a light blue suit stood nervously rubbing his jaw, as they all watched the prototype for the commercial begin to play.

Two attractive women, dressed in typical soccer-mom attire, escorted a group of children through a CGI image of an idyllic, green pasture. The women smiled with bright, ultra-white teeth and conversed in inaudible sentences as the announcer’s mellifluous voice-over listed the benefits of taking Pacifica 7, “the surest safeguard against the Keller Flu Virus that you can get.” The scene shifted to a pair of young girls on some swings, their moms laughing as they pushed the children forward with light, exuberant exertions.

“Do not take Pacifica if you have inflammatory bowel syndrome,” the announcer continued, speaking in a rapid, subdued monotone. “Certain studies have shown that adverse side effects may be noticed in certain individuals. These side effects may include vomiting, diarrhea, swelling of lymph glands... Tell your doctor if you experience shortness of breath or rapid heartbeat. In rare cases, cardiac arrhythmia, stroke and death may occur. Pacifica should not be used in combination with any non-recommended medications, and should not be taken in dosages exceeding prescribed limits. If any of these symptoms occur, notify your physician. In case of life-threatening reactions, consult immediate emergency room hospitalization.”

Stevenson frowned and pressed the pause button on the remote.

“What the hell?” he said, emphasizing the last word. “Inflammatory bowel syndrome, shortness of breath, arrhythmia, death... Christ. What are you trying to do? Kill the damn drug before it even gets approved by the damn FDA?”

The standing man’s face jerked into a quick smile. “Well, sir, we are required by the FCC to verbally mention any potential hazards or risks.”

Stevenson stood slowly, stretching himself to his full, six-foot-seven inches, and then threw the remote at him. The other man tried to duck, but it bounced off his face, breaking apart and ejecting two small AAA batteries. His knees buckled slightly and his face contorted into a wince, which he immediately tried to transform into a smile.

“But, Mr. Stevenson, sir—”

“Rod, get this weak asshole out of my sight,” Stevenson ordered, his voice laced with derision.

Rodney Allen Nelson stood, waving his hand to usher the other man toward the door. Nelson’s face showed a placid, conciliatory expression. The younger man winced, then nodded, holding his cheek as he headed for the door. As it closed behind him, Stevenson picked up the glass and threw it at the LCD screen. The frozen image buckled and distorted slightly, and then went black as the glass shattered against it, leaving a trail of spilled liquid and broken shards.

“Jesus Christ, Bill,” Nelson said. “That’s the third TV you’ve destroyed this week. You trying to break Elvis’s old record?”

Stevenson’s face was still a mask of livid rage.

“Don’t mess with me, Rod,” he said. “I’m not in the mood for assholes or jokes.”

Just then they heard a light knock on the door. After a few seconds it opened and a startlingly attractive woman stepped inside. She had strawberry blond hair, and her blue dress clung to an obviously enhanced body.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stevenson,” she said.

Stevenson glanced at her, his eyes sweeping over her breasts. “What?”

“It’s Mr. Quarry, sir,” she said, hesitating slightly before adding, “He’s on Skype.”

“Skype?” Stevenson looked at the shattered television screen and swore. The woman looked perplexed.

Nelson stepped forward, his hand held in the same conciliatory pose as before. “Jenna, have the call rerouted to the situation room.”

The woman nodded and slipped out the door.

Nelson turned back to Stevenson with a wry grin.

“I hope it’s not bad news,” he said. “I was looking forward to watching some live news streams later on that TV.”

Stevenson snorted a laugh and they headed for the door. “Come on,” he said. “I want to hear what he has to say, and it better be good. What the hell time is it over there, anyway?”

Nelson glanced at his watch. “Around half-past midnight.”

* * *

STEVENSON WATCHED AS Jenna Callahan adjusted the large screen toward the conference table and fingered the PTZ lens along the top border. She pressed some buttons on a remote and then handed it to Rodney Nelson. Callahan turned and smiled at Stevenson as the television screen illuminated and the pigments brightened. An image of a man appeared. The broad, flat plains of his face and shaved head looked about 120 times their normal size. The background behind the face showed only darkness.

“Thank you, Jenna,” Nelson said. “That’ll be all.”

Callahan smiled at both men, turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind her.

Stevenson’s eyes, fixed on her buttocks as she walked, now turned to the large screen. “This better be good news, Quarry,” he said, his voice low and guttural.

The face on the screen was distorted momentarily by a series of lines, then came back. “There’s been a slight development, sir.”

“‘Development’?” Stevenson repeated. “What the hell does that mean?” He and Nelson exchanged a glance.

“Everything’s going according to the professor’s estimates,” Quarry said. “But...”

Stevenson’s brow furrowed. “But what, damn it?”

Quarry’s image froze again, distorted by a series of horizontal, colored lines. When he came back, part of the transmission was indistinct. “—infected. He was taken from the village and transported to a hospital in Luanda.”

“What? Who? You faded out.”

“An American aide,” Quarry said. “He and his crew were in the bush giving some kind of inoculations. Measles, I think. We didn’t anticipate that he’d hear about the outbreak and come to check it out.”

Stevenson gritted his teeth. “Damn.” He looked to Nelson, who sidled over to get into the camera range.

“All right, Shadrock,” Nelson said. “We’re having a little trouble receiving you.”

“Are you sure this is totally encrypted?” Stevenson asked.

Nelson looked at him, smiled and nodded. He then turned back to the screen where Quarry’s large face loomed. “Where’s Dr. Debussey?”

“Outside the tent,” Quarry said. His big hand appeared and he jerked his thumb behind him. “I wanted to check with you first. Want me to bring him in?”

Nelson looked to Stevenson, who nodded.

On the huge screen, Quarry stood and walked toward the darkened area behind him. He flipped up a canvass flap and said something. After a few seconds a pear-shaped, professorial type, in similar dark, jungle fatigues that Quarry was wearing, stepped through the opening and waddled toward the camera.

He sat and looked around nervously. Quarry’s massive upper body leaned forward, dwarfing the other man as he gave him an earpiece.

“Just talk into there, Doctor,” Quarry said. “You can see him in the monitor.”

“Arnold?” Stevenson said. “Can you hear me?”

The scientist nodded. His chin sagged and he looked exhausted.

“Give me a status report,” Stevenson said.

Debussey took a deep breath. “The mist dispersion system and the accelerated incubation rate seem to have functioned exactly as we estimated they would. Twelve hours from exposure to onset. The antidote inoculation for the team has also proved effective in that none of us has been infected, despite initial exposure. I need to start the antiviral inoculations for the villagers.”

Stevenson nodded. “What about this other bullshit? This aide?”

Debussey’s face wobbled up and down like a bobblehead doll’s. “That was unfortunate. They were on a humanitarian service trip. He was an unexpected intrusion to the test, and was taken away before I could examine him.”

“Who took him?” Stevenson asked.

“The other aides. They’re working in a Doctors Without Borders program.”

Stevenson bit his lower lip slightly. “How serious is his exposure? What’s his prognosis?”

“Well, given that he’s already most likely been given a range of standard inoculations prior to coming here, I would imagine he’d fall into our Category Two.” Debussey paused and licked his lips. “I can go to the hospital and give him—”

“Don’t give him shit,” Stevenson said. “No contact with him, understand? I don’t want anybody to know you’re there.”

Debussey’s eyebrows rose in twin arches over his glasses, his image freezing just as Quarry’s had moments before. When he came back on, Debussey was already speaking, unaware that the first part of his wording had been unintelligible. “—to review the effectiveness of the adjusted virus’s prescribed life span. Of course, if the antidote is administered with a dosage of greater than 250 milligrams—”

“Hold on, for Christ’s sake,” Stevenson said. “Half of what you say isn’t coming through. Just put Quarry back on.”

Debussey’s mouth drew into a pout but he nodded and stood. He began turning and then turned back, sticking his face close to the camera lens.

“Do you want me to accelerate the administration of the antidote to the villagers at this time?” he asked.

“I’ll advise,” Stevenson said. “Now put Quarry back on. Alone.”

Debussey disappeared from the screen momentarily and then could be seen walking to exit the tent. Quarry’s big face and shoulders appeared again.

“Is that pussy gone?” Stevenson asked.

Quarry nodded. “I told him to wait outside.”

“What are the chances that infected aide can be taken care of quietly?” Stevenson asked. “Over there.”

Quarry shook his head. “Right now it’d be pretty hard. The capital was already crawling with journalists covering the Doctors Without Borders inoculation program. Word is they’re regrouping to check on the outbreak shortly, once he arrives at the hospital.”

“Shit,” Stevenson swore. “How the hell are we going to contain this now?”

“We’d better go into damage control mode right away,” Nelson said.

“Damn straight,” Stevenson confirmed. He looked back at the screen. “Who’s this infected aide? What’s his name?”

“Frank Clayton,” Quarry said.

Stevenson brought his hands to his face and massaged his temples. “Okay, let’s get a handle on this. First, we need to find out where this guy Clayton is and how to deal with him. We also need to wrap things up before word gets out. This thing has to be contained immediately.”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Debussey’s preparing a load of antiviral shots to curtail things in the village.”

“Forget that,” Stevenson said. “Go with the quick-action plan we discussed.”

Quarry’s face twitched. “You sure, sir?”

“Yes, I am,” Stevenson said in a clipped tone. “And don’t ever question me again.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Stevenson glared at the image on the screen, hoping his anger would be effectively conveyed by the camera. “Make it look like the work of frightened locals.”

“Understood, sir.”

“And then get Debussey on a plane back here ASAP,” Stevenson said. “The sooner, the better.”

Quarry nodded. “He won’t be happy. Like I said, he’s been preparing the antivirals to give to the entire village.”

“That goddamn idiot. Tell him you’re leaving a team behind to do that. Just get him out of there, and then take care of business as planned. Got it?”

Quarry’s face showed no emotion. “Yes, sir.”

Stevenson snapped his fingers and Nelson handed him the remote.

“Get back here as soon as you’re done,” Stevenson directed, and pressed the button to end the transmission. He held the remote in his hand for a moment then turned and hurled it against the wall. It broke apart, spilling batteries and plastic backings.

Nelson chuckled. “Well, at least Elvis spared the TV this time.”

Stevenson eyed him sharply and then smirked. “Good old Rod... Always able to make me laugh, even in the darkest of times.”

“What’s there to be mad about?” Nelson flashed a wide grin. “From the sound of it, Debussey’s modifications to the CEZ-A2 were a complete success, and Quarry and his boys will eliminate the tribe and burn the place to the ground. He matches the local skin color, so it’ll just look like another case of vigilante action in the face of indigenous hysteria.”

“Indigenous hysteria,” Stevenson said. “I like that. Has a nice spin to it. We’ll have to use that phrase somewhere down the line.” Stevenson paused and took a breath, a look of ecstasy in his eyes. “We made a good choice for our field test. It’s a damn good thing that life’s so cheap and those bastards are so stupid.”

Nelson’s grin widened. “Now is that any way for the man who’s going to be controlling the President of the United States to talk?”

Stevenson grinned back, basking in the ingenuity of his master plan. Yet he knew he had a ways to go before he could bring it to fruition.

“How long before the Talon checks in?”

Nelson glanced at his watch again. “Eight or nine hours. Remember, it’s still nighttime over there now.”

Stevenson nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I know. This country wasn’t built in a day.”

“But pretty soon you’ll own it, so you can change that,” Nelson said.

2

USS Fuller

Off the coast of Italy

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, let the rivulets of hot water wash over his face and chest. He turned, letting the flow go down his back. Nothing felt better than a hot shower after a mission in the field.

Well, a few things did, he thought with a grin.

He shut off the water, stepped out of the stall and began to towel dry his dark hair.

Jack Grimaldi looked at his watch. “You know how long you were in there?”

Bolan ignored the question.

“We’re on a U.S. Navy ship,” Grimaldi said. “You never heard of a three-minute shower being in the regulations?”

“Yeah, but I was in the Army,” Bolan said, continuing to dry himself.

“I hate to tell you, but you missed a whole line of camo paint by your ear.”

Bolan wiped behind his ear, but figured his partner was just razzing him.

“In that case,” he said, “I guess I’ll have to take another shower.”

Grimaldi laughed. “Not so fast. I’ll go see if I can find some cute sailor to clean it off for you.”

“No, thanks,” Bolan said.

“What?” Grimaldi turned and grinned. “I was gonna make sure it was a female sailor. They have a lot of women on these ships nowadays. Not like the old days.”

Bolan glanced in the mirror and rubbed off the traces of the camo paint.

“Or better yet,” Grimaldi continued, “I’ll commandeer us a helicopter and we’ll go take some shore leave at the nearest port. I know this great little cantina on Naples, with the prettiest women this side of Rome. That job in Libya was brutal. We can use a couple days of downtime.”

“Let me check on the status of our pickup first. Then I have to call Hal.”

Grimaldi frowned but nodded. “It’s probably the middle of the night stateside, but what the hell.”

Bolan looped the towel over his shoulder and walked to his bunk. He pulled open his duffel bag and took out clean underwear, socks, a black T-shirt and a pair of black cargo pants. He put them on and sat to lace up his boots.

“Damn,” Grimaldi said. “You look ready for the next mission.”

“Hal probably will have something to say about that.” He grabbed the sat phone and hit the button to call Hal Brognola.

The big Fed answered with a sleep-laden voice.

“Good morning,” Bolan said. He switched the phone to speaker.

Brognola blew out a deep breath.

“You sound pretty good for—” the Executioner looked at his watch and did the calculation “—two-thirty in the morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You know damn well you did, but that’s okay. I received a previous update through State that it was ‘mission successful,’ but I’ve been waiting to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“It was,” Bolan said. “We recovered the two IGRDs, and took out a bunch of bad guys.”

“Did you expect anything less?” Grimaldi yelled.

“What?” Brognola said. “Is that Jack?”

“Yeah. He’s still wired on too much coffee and adrenaline.”

“Probably jealous because he was up in the air instead of getting down and dirty on the ground with you to take out those Industrial Gamma Radiographer Devices,” Brognola said. “You know how those flyboys are.”

Grimaldi blew out a loud guffaw.

“He says—” Bolan said.

“I heard him.”

Bolan could hear Brognola’s yawn through the phone. “Sounds like you need to get back to bed.”

“Bed? What’s that?” Brognola asked. “You know I always stay in the office when you guys are on a mission, till I hear from you.”

“Well, you’ve heard from us,” Bolan said. “Jack is chomping at the bit to go on another op. Got anything pending?”

Grimaldi’s eyes popped and his face twisted into an exaggerated grimace.

“Not at the moment,” Brognola said. “It’s actually been pretty quiet around these parts. The Hill’s been doing some bullshit investigation of some drug company CEO supposedly inflating the prices of some new cancer drug, but other than that, everybody’s been quieter than the President’s turkey the day before Thanksgiving.”

“Okay, Hal,” Bolan said. “Since we’ve got everything tidied up on this end, we’re going to sign off and get some shut-eye. I’ll check back when we get to port.”

The Chevalier Institute

Outside Luxembourg, Belgium

AUGUSTINE FRANÇOIS, ALSO known informally in certain circles in Europe as the Talon, adjusted his wig and checked his lipstick before getting out of his car. That the car, a Citroën, had been stolen only hours ago didn’t concern him. The police would not have been notified as of yet, because the owner was quite dead and in the vehicle’s trunk. Stepping out and smoothing the skirt over his thin but powerful legs, the Talon made his way toward the entrance to the building.

The Chevalier Institute, he thought in English. Since he would be traveling to the United States shortly after he finished here, the Talon knew it would be apropos to start thinking in that language.

He was fluent in at least five, and had a working knowledge of half a dozen more. In his business, being able to listen to the conversations going on around him was imperative. It could easily mean the difference between escape and apprehension, life and death. Ultimately his goals were prosperity and survival. This protracted new assignment was so complex, so far-reaching, that he had the feeling it would be his last. The amount of money he was being paid would afford him a nice retirement somewhere, watching the sunsets and appreciating the scenery.

The building itself was a modern-looking brown, brick-and-mortar structure, three stories high and artfully laid out with large windows winding along each wall. A small pond was in front, a statue of a boy on a dolphin releasing fountain spray into the water. The grounds, lushly verdant with meticulously trimmed bushes and a manicured lawn, gave the place a pseudo-palatial appearance. A winding, pebbled walkway led from the parking lot to the front entry.

He reached the main entrance and stood in front of the solid glass door with its ornate golden handle.

Rather garish, he thought, using a tissue to keep from leaving any fingerprints on the elongated handle.

He stepped into a large foyer. Inside, the walls were a pale cream color and a skylight let the burgeoning morning sunlight filter down onto the highly polished floor. The opaque, plastic half-moon bubble of a pan, tilt and zoom camera was mounted to the ceiling behind the desk near the stairway and elevators. He wondered how many pairs of eyes were watching and made a mental note to not forget to deal with any surveillance disks that might be recording his entry.

Just inside the entrance a man in a blue suit sat behind an artfully shaped desk. The Talon knew immediately that he was security. His dark hair was slicked back and his cheeks had a sagging, pouty look. Obviously not the athletic type.

The curved, metallic desk obviously afforded the man access to phones and alarms, and perhaps even a modicum of ballistic cover. But since this was Belgium, he doubted the guard would be armed, even in view of the upgraded concerns over possible terrorist attacks. Still, the Talon decided, caution should outweigh any assumptions. This front-desk lackey might not be the only security person working. He knew he could not discount the possibility that one of the others, if they did exist, might have access to a weapon.

Behind the security guard, a series of seven-foot rectangular portals lined the entranceway to the rest of the building. Metal detectors, no doubt. The company had taken some precautions. But no matter. Each obstacle, now that it was known, would be dealt with in kind.

The Talon smiled in his most fetching manner, held out the little finger on his left hand—the one with the exaggeratedly long, false, bright red fingernail—and spoke in a husky yet feminine-sounding voice. “Pardon me, but do you speak English?”

The man in the suit smiled and shook his head.

“Parlez-vous français?” the Talon asked, relishing that the French sounded so much more sexy in his altered, husky-tenor voice.

“Oui.” The man smiled this time, his eyes roving over “her” exquisitely padded bosom, and asked how he could be of assistance.

The Talon decided to play it with coyness, smiling and saying in French, “This is the Chevalier Institute, isn’t it?”

The man nodded, his eyes still fixed on her breasts.

“I’m Ms. Juliette Fornay,” he continued in French. “Is Mr. Chevalier here? I have an appointment.”

The guard smiled and picked up the phone, obviously checking on the appointment.

“Thank you. Where is the ladies’ room?” The Talon punctuated the question with a smile and salacious wink.

The guard pointed to a door marked Dames.

The Talon went inside, once again using the tissue to grip and twist the door handle. He made certain he was alone, then braced himself against the door and quickly removed the 9 mm Heckler & Koch VP9 pistol and the two extra magazines from the zippered section in his purse.

In total, he had sixty-five rounds...well, sixty-six with the one in the chamber. He deemed that more than sufficient for the task at hand: going through the building, killing all of the employees, which the estimates had placed between twenty-three and twenty-seven, depending on vacations and sick days. It wasn’t a pleasant task, nor was it particularly unpleasant. It was merely time-consuming. But his employer had specified that none of the employees be left alive, and the Talon was all about carrying out whatever assignment he undertook.

He stuffed the extra mags into the special holders by his hips. After screwing a sound suppressor onto the front barrel of the pistol, he carefully placed it into his crotch holster, after first checking the de-cocking lever once more.

He took out his cell phone and made a quick call, speaking in Italian this time. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, we are ready,” a voice replied.

The Talon told the man to be prepared to proceed on the signal. He placed the cell back in his purse. After taking care to flush the toilet, using the tissue on the lever, he left the restroom and walked back to the security desk.

“I am sorry,” the guard apologized, still holding the phone, obviously confused at not having been told of any such appointment. “But Mr. Chevalier does not have you down for an appointment.”

“Tell him I represent William J. Stevenson,” the Talon said. It was risky using the real name of his employer, but the big man had assured him it would not be a concern since he’d done business with the Chevalier Institute before.

The guard spoke softly into the phone again. After a moment he nodded and hung up. “Someone will come to greet you shortly,” he said.

As the Talon waited, he observed. The building had three levels. Once he’d achieved entry, the rest should be a simple matter. Messy, but simple. He tripped the stopwatch function on his phone. His estimate was five to seven minutes total, at the outside.

Beyond the row of metal detectors, the elevator doors opened, accompanied by a warning ping. A heavyset, middle-aged woman with dark brown hair frosted with gray, stepped out and ambled toward them, identifying herself in French as Sylvie Bois, Monsieur Chevalier’s personal assistant. She stayed on the other side of the row of metal detectors.

“Do you speak English?” the Talon asked in French. “My French isn’t fluent.”

“Yes,” the woman said, “I do. How may I help you?”

“I must see Monsieur Chevalier,” he said, stepping forward, past the security guard. “It is a matter of the greatest urgency.”

The middle-aged woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise and she stepped back.

The Talon kept moving forward, despite the woman’s protestations. The metal detector’s alarm went off as he stepped through the first portal. The guard’s head turned toward them.

The Talon laughed and feigned surprise, apologizing and saying first in English, “I’m sorry. I have an artificial hip,” then adding in French, “J’ai une prothèse de la hanche.”

The wrinkles in the guard’s brow increased.

The Talon laughed again, almost girlishly, and reached down to pull up the front of his skirt. “Here, let me show you.”

He withdrew the H & K VP9, aiming it at the security guard’s shocked face.

“Have a nice day, asshole,” the Talon said.

The weapon recoiled slightly with an accompanying plunking sound. Milliseconds later a small, black, circular hole appeared between the man’s eyes and his mouth sagged open, disgorging a gusset of blood. His head jerked backward then forward. He slumped in the chair momentarily and then rolled forward, his forehead smacking the desktop.

The Talon nodded slightly in appreciation of the shot.

The middle-aged woman recoiled in horror, but the assassin had already grabbed her by the arm and was forcing her toward the elevators. He swept the woman’s feet out from under her and forced her down on the slick, tile floor. She moaned in agony and the Talon raised his finger to his lips, hissing softly.

“Be quiet, if you want to live,” he said, pressing the elevator call button. He then took out his cell. It was time to summon the expendables.

It was answered a moment later.

“Block the road,” the Talon said in Italian. “Have someone shut off the sprinkler valves.”

“Sì,” was the terse response.

The Talon grabbed the woman’s upper arm, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, and lifted her to her feet, his body and especially his face, pressing close to hers. He let the cylindrical end of the sound suppressor caress her cheek then her nose.

“We have a few visits to make,” he said. “If you make any attempt to cry out or warn anyone, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

She nodded, tears running down her cheeks.

The elevator doors opened and two men in lab coats started out and then stopped, expressions of surprise etched on their faces.

The Talon shot each man in the forehead. They dropped instantly. The killer placed his foot against the rubber auto-safety device between the halves of the doors to keep them from closing.

Pulling the woman inside, he said, “What floor is your boss on?”

The woman glanced down at the crumpled bodies.

“What floor is Mr. Chevalier on?” he growled.

“Two,” the woman said, her voice cracking.

“Where is the security office?” he asked.

She raised her arm and pointed down the hall.

It made sense. Security would be on the main floor for quick access to the entrance and exit. He pulled her erect, feeling her body trembling under his grasp.

“Do not worry,” he said in a soft voice, using his foot to shove one of the bodies in place to block the doors. “It will be all right. Everything will be fine.”

He hoped his calm tone would allay her fear enough to get him through the next few minutes. At least until he had what he needed. Exiting the elevator, he led her down the hallway, staying behind her. The woman seemed to be catatonic, forcing each step with considerable effort. He nudged her with the end of the silencer to quicken her pace. She took a few more steps and then stopped, cocking her head at the door.

The Talon pushed her against it and reached down to try the knob. It was unlocked. Score another one for lax security. He twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, shoving the woman into the room in front of him. She went sprawling onto the floor.

Two men who had been sitting at a card table smoking and playing cards looked up in shock as the intruder shot each man twice, once in the chest and once in the head. They both crumpled onto the tabletop then rolled lifelessly to the carpeted floor.

Two rows of monitors sat in horizontal lines above a long counter. None of the rooms on this level, he noted as he scanned the screens, appeared to be occupied.

As he stooped to retrieve a large ring of keys from the belt loop on one of the dead men, he thought about putting a round into the recorder but decided to wait. Getting the disk was something he could do on the way out. Right now, he had a building to clear. And it was time to have the lackeys move up and start herding however many employees remained.

“Come on,” he said to the woman, lifting her gently to her feet. “Let’s go see your boss.”

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a flash drive and held it in front of her face. “Do you have access to the computer files here?”

She nodded.

“That’s good,” he said. “I have a file I wish you to download for me.”

They exited and he closed the door behind him.

Heading back down the hallway toward the elevator, he checked the stopwatch: 348 seconds.

Just under seven minutes... Right on schedule.

USS Fuller

Signorelli Naval Air Station

Signorelli, Italy

BOLAN AND GRIMALDI STOOD on deck watching as the captain and crew eased the enormous vessel into the docking space as easily as a chauffeur parallel-parking a limo. Several of the sailors tossed the enormous mooring lines downward to waiting hands on the pier.

Grimaldi took a deep breath and began a horribly off-key rendition of “Mombo Italiano.”

“Jack,” Bolan said. “You want to cool it? They may not let us off this ship if they hear you.”

Grimaldi stopped singing and snorted. “You just don’t appreciate talent, that’s all.” He spread his arms wide. “This is the land of my ancestors. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin...”

“Sinatra was born in Hoboken, New Jersey,” Bolan pointed out. “And Dino was from Ohio.”

Grimaldi shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. My roots are here. As soon as we get on shore, I want to take you to the best little cantina I’ve ever set foot in. The vino, the mozzarella, the young ladies...” He closed his eyes and kissed his knuckle. “Just wait.”

Bolan was watching with an amused expression when his satellite phone vibrated on his belt. He slipped it from its case and looked at the number.

“What’s up, Hal?” Bolan asked, answering the call.

“Bad news. Looks like there was another terrorist attack in Belgium.” Brognola’s sigh was audible. “Twenty-six people massacred.”

“Where?”

“A drug research facility near Luxembourg. The killers walked through the place like it was a turkey shoot. No survivors.”

“Anybody taking credit for it?”

“Not yet,” Brognola advised. “But somebody wrote Allah akhbar on the wall in blood. In Arabic, no less.”

“Any Americans involved?” Bolan asked.

“Three. All research scientists. The place did a lot of studies for drug companies.”

“You want us to check it out?” Bolan saw Grimaldi’s head swivel toward him with a wretched expression.

“Yeah, I’d appreciate it,” Brognola said. “I know you guys are tired and just got off a mission, but you’re the closest we’ve got to the scene and we need to get a handle on this thing, especially if it’s the start of a new wave of attacks.”

“We got plenty of rest on the ship,” Bolan said, grinning at Grimaldi.

“I took the liberty of arranging some quick transportation for you,” Brognola said. “There’s a plane standing by at the Naval Air Station.”

“Roger that,” Bolan said. “We’ll get our gear and be on our way.”

He ended the call and placed a hand on Grimaldi’s shoulder. “Don’t feel too bad, Jack. Look at it this way, we can grab a couple of bologna sandwiches at the base snack bar and pretend they’re fettucine Alfredo.”

Grimaldi nodded as Bolan pulled him toward the hatch to go back to their quarters for their duffels.

The Elgin Buchanan Davis Country Club

Fairfax County, Virginia

WILLIAM J. STEVENSON watched as Theodore Buchanan, the man Stevenson was bankrolling to run for president, worked the large, dimly lighted banquet room shaking hands, telling jokes, laughing and looking quite comfortable through it all.

The man was, Stevenson thought, a natural politician. Just the type of puppet who could be totally manipulated once propelled to the Oval Office.

Rodney Nelson sidled up to Stevenson with a pair of drinks and leaned in close.

“He looks like he’s really in his element, doesn’t he?” Nelson asked. “Now that he’s announced, everybody’s lining up to kiss his ass.”

Stevenson looked at his corporate administrative assistant and lifted an eyebrow. “They are at that.” He took one of the drinks but did not take a sip. “I presume you’ve got an update for me.”

Nelson nodded and cocked his head to the right, indicating for Stevenson to follow. They walked to a corridor off to the far side of the banquet room, away from any prying eyes and, more particularly, any cameras.

“It hit the news,” Nelson said. “Another terrorist attack.”

Stevenson nodded. “Good. Any particulars?”

Nelson took a gulp of his drink and Stevenson again quirked an eyebrow to show his disapproval. He hated dealing with inebriants, not that Nelson didn’t handle his booze pretty well. Stevenson just preferred not to experience the loss of control over his faculties that alcohol inevitably caused. One drink could throw a man off, even if it was only an infinitesimal amount, which is why he seldom imbibed in a public setting.

Nelson started to bring the glass to his lips again but stopped. “You can go ahead and drink yours. It’s only cranberry and apple juice.”

Stevenson frowned, smelled the edge of the glass and frowned. “Once I get out of here I’ll need a real drink.”

“I know you never touch the hard stuff at these things,” Nelson said, his face the perfect picture of semi-drunken merriment. “So I’ll drink enough for both of us.”

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

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.

The Talon recalled a former associate, a German, who’d developed a misplaced and almost perverse affection for his favorite pistol, a SIG Sauer P-220, keeping the gun after it had been used in several assassinations, and even going so far as to name it Adolph.

The perversion, and the gun, proved to be his undoing when two police officers caught him and matched the ballistics, tying him to the murders.

Since the Talon had assisted the German in two of them, and knowing that anyone who would be stupid enough to affix a name to an inanimate object could not be trusted, the only option was to kill the man, which he did. A long-range shot to the head as he was being escorted from the jail building to the car had resolved the problem, just as eliminating the hired thugs who had helped him with the Chevalier Institute had provided a similar resolution. He did feel a twinge of regret about Henri Lupin, however. He had been the best passport forger in the game. But all of this fell under the heading of necessity: the importance of tying up all loose ends.

After all, this was to be his final assignment.

He stretched and contemplated retirement on a beach or an island in the Caribbean surrounded by beautiful, sun-tanned bodies and icy-cold drinks in frosted glasses.

But those fantasies were best left for another time. He had much work ahead of him, and all of it challenging.

One of the two flight attendants, a pretty black woman in a gold-colored uniform with a Stevenson Dynamics patch above her left breast, walked to his seat.

“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Holland?” she asked, using the name on his false passport.

“Sure,” he said, affecting his American accent. “Ah, what time will we be landing?”

“About 8:00 p.m., sir,” she said, her smile unwavering.

“Okay, I guess I’ll take a screwdriver then.” He smiled. “After all, it’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”

She nodded and left.

The Talon unbuckled his seat belt and stood to stretch, appreciating the luxury. He was the only passenger. One thing about this man Stevenson: it was first class all the way. The Talon almost lamented that he’d never get to meet him, but keeping client contact to a minimum was his standard procedure. He preferred to negotiate all business transactions through a third party, and would complete the job only after the deposit was made into one of his special accounts in Switzerland or the Cayman Islands.

The Talon also preferred to work alone, or almost so. Recruiting the expendable group of lackeys for the first phase at the Chevalier Institute was easily handled. But this next part, which was to take place in the United States, was a bit more complex. He was going to need more operational support since he would be on unfamiliar ground. Although he’d been to the U.S. on several occasions, the targets had always been foreign nationals, who were also fishes out of water.

The flight attendant returned with his drink.

“You really should remain seated, sir,” she said, holding the glass in one hand and gesturing toward the seat with her other. “With your seat belt fastened.”

He smiled and sat before accepting the glass. It was a real glass, too, not some plastic cup like the ones they used on commercial airlines. First class all the way.

He took a sip and nodded. Looking up at her and winking, he said, “How about joining me for a real drink once we land and get through customs?”

She turned and left without comment, but her smile and expression told him there was a possibility there. Perhaps a bit of female distraction would be a nice cap upon a very busy day. He took another sip of the drink and felt the alcohol burn on the way down. It was affecting him more than he liked, and he realized he’d had nothing to eat since early that morning. Setting the drink in the holder, he decided to have no more of it. There was much to do, much to plan, and he could not afford any diversions. There would be time enough for dalliances later.

After all, he told himself again, this was his final assignment.

Luxembourg, Belgium

DARKNESS WAS DESCENDING by the time Dorao’s unmarked police car wound its way through the wooded expanse to the new crime scene. Since the inspector sat in the front passenger seat, this time both Bolan and Grimaldi had been forced to sit in the back of the Citroën.

A police officer dressed in a dark, tactical uniform used a flashlight to direct them to turn onto a side road that intersected the main highway. The headlights illuminated several other police vehicles ahead on the dirt-and-gravel roadway. Beyond them Bolan could see the vague outline of a medium-size truck. Dorao’s driver pulled up behind the parked police vehicles and shut off the engine. He placed the car in second gear and set the parking brake.

“The crime scene is just beyond,” the inspector said, indicating the area in front of them as he got out. The driver exited and held the door open as Bolan pushed the seat forward and slid out of the vehicle. Grimaldi did the same on the other side.

“Are the bodies still in place?” Bolan asked.

“Yes,” Dorao said. “Not a thing has been disturbed.”

They walked between the parked police cars, their feet occasionally making crunching sounds on the loose gravel, until they came to another officer standing in front of a line of yellow crime scene tape.

Several portable floodlights had been set up in the area beyond the taped barrier and Bolan could see the medium-size truck and several bodies lying on the ground behind the vehicle. Two passenger cars were parked to the right of the truck, under some trees.

They stopped and Dorao spoke to the guard in French. After a conversation of approximately four minutes, during which both the guard and Dorao gestured emphatically at the truck and the bodies, the inspector turned to them and began speaking in English.

“Our—how do you say?—CSI guys are still processing the scene,” he said. His tone sounded noticeably more upbeat than it had at the Chevalier Institute. “However, it appears that these victims were not so innocent. Criminals, perhaps even the same criminals who were involved in the massacre at the institute.”

“What makes you think that?” Bolan asked.

Dorao turned his head and yelled in French to one of the men inside the crime scene. The man, who was squatting, stood and carefully made his way toward them.

“This is my good friend Leonard Jellema,” Dorao said with a broad smile. “He is Dutch, but he is still a good investigator.”

Jellema, a tall man with a mustache, grinned and said in English laced with a British-sounding accent, “Yes, I was born in the Dutch area, but I grew up fighting with so many Frenchmen that I learned their language, as well.”

“And English, too,” Bolan said.

Jellema smiled. “I studied forensics in London. I seem to have a facility for picking up languages.”

“We’re more interested in what you picked up here,” Grimaldi said. “What’s it look like?”

“Seven bodies,” Jellema said. “Initially shot from a distance of perhaps two to three meters, judging from the shell casings we found over there.” He pointed to a group of seven plastic tags placed on the ground about twenty feet away.

“Initially?” Bolan asked.

“Yes. It appears as though the seven men were shot as they stood at the rear of the truck. There are seven shell casings from a 9 mm Heckler & Koch VP9 by those markers.” He pointed again toward the scene. “Then, after downing each man, the shooter walked among them and shot each one in the head, execution style. There are more shell casings scattered among the bodies.”

Grimaldi emitted a low whistle. “Cold-blooded.”

“The shooter was thorough,” Jellema said. “I believe he created a diversion by throwing some euros into the crowd. The currency is also scattered on the ground among and under the bodies, replete with bloodstains. This would indicate that the money was most likely disseminated immediately prior to the shooting.”

Bolan surveyed the scene. “You seem pretty sure about the weapon used.”

Jellema smiled again and called to one of his assistants. He said something in Dutch and the man nodded and moved carefully to a box on the perimeter of the scene. He retrieved something and, a few seconds later, made his way toward them, giving a pistol encased in a plastic evidence bag to Jellema, who thanked him.

“It does seem a bit presumptuous,” Jellema said, “but we recovered this at the scene.” He held up the bag, showing Bolan the pistol.

Bolan studied the weapon, noting that it was, indeed, a 9 mm Heckler & Koch VP9. He also noticed that the grip had been professionally trimmed down.

“Looks like our killer has small hands,” he said.

“Yes, it does,” Jellema said. “And although we haven’t had time to compare them in the lab, I’m willing to bet that the extraction marks on these shell casings will match those we recovered earlier at the institute.”

“Tell him what else you found, Leonard,” Dorao said.

Jellema again pointed to a stack of boxes next to the one that had contained the H & K. “Rifles. Six of them. And a submachine gun. They had been stacked in the back of the truck. Again, we haven’t yet begun to compare the ballistics, but I’m betting we’re going to find matches to the casings we recovered from the institute.”

Bolan surveyed the scene and the most likely scenario ran through his mind.

Whoever was running this operation had entered the institute alone and shot the security guard and the two men in the elevator. His backup team, seven men, had then entered, rounded up the occupants of the building and herded them into the large meeting room. During this time, Mr. Chevalier and his personal assistant were taken to his office and shot.

The computers had been ruined by downloading an encrypting virus and then physically damaged. Some of the hard-copy files had been removed from the cabinets and burned on the floor.

After everyone was killed at the institute, and the killers had what they’d come for, they’d traveled to this spot, where the mastermind was most likely supposed to pay off the backup team. They’d likely dumped the rifles in the bed of the truck, jumped down to get paid, and planned on leaving in those two cars. The boss man had tossed them some euros and, when they were distracted, shot them, added the finishing touches of the head shots, and then left in another vehicle. But why leave the guns? This was looking less and less like a terrorist incident and more like a ruse designed to look like one.

“How many sets of tire tracks did you find?” he asked.

“Four,” Jellema said. “Three of them match up to the vehicles still here. A fourth set, leaving here, appears to belong to another passenger vehicle.”

“Looks like what we’d call a good old-fashioned double-cross,” Grimaldi said. “What do you think?”

“Looks like,” Bolan agreed.

“Well,” Grimaldi said, turning to Dorao, “at least you got a clue that the killer’s got small hands. Might mean he’s a little guy.”

“Perhaps,” Dorao said, “but it is wise to remember, as you Americans say, that dynamite comes, sometimes, in small packages.”

“I’d say this guy’s pretty dangerous, Inspector,” Bolan said. “But I don’t think he’s a terrorist in terms of having political goals, jihadist or otherwise.”

“Nor do I,” Dorao said, shaking his head. “But he is just as despicable. And I will not rest until I have tracked him down.”

Bolan nodded, appreciating the inspector’s determination. “We’ll be heading back to the U.S.,” he said, handing Dorao a card with his special number on it. “I’d appreciate it if you kept us in the loop.”

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