“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.
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