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  The building itself was massive, with solid metal doors, except for a glass foyer marked Entrance. Bolan pulled into a parking space near the doors. No other vehicles were in sight. The building extended in both directions, showing a solid wall to the left of the entrance and a sprinkling four rows of small windows on the right. The asphalt road curved around each side.

  “You think he’s got Karen stashed in there somewhere?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Possibly.” Bolan saw a black, four-door Jeep approaching. The vehicle had the word “Security” emblazoned on the side. Two men in black fatigues got out and approached. Both were armed with Glock pistols.

  “We’ll escort you inside,” one of the security guards said. He had a black baseball cap pulled low on his forehead.

  After scaling a set of concrete steps, the guard removed a fob from his pistol belt and held it in front of a keypad. The door buzzed and popped open.

  Bolan and Grimaldi stepped into a long, well-lighted hallway with three sets of doors on each side. The hallway extended perhaps fifty yards to another door, this one solid metal. More uniformed guards stood waiting, one of them holding a wand.

  “I take it you gentlemen are armed?” the guard said.

  Bolan nodded.

  The guard held out his hand. “You’ll have to check your weapons if you want to see Mr. Stevenson.”

  “Like hell,” Grimaldi swore.

  The guard started to say something when a very tall man appeared through of one of the doors on the left. Bolan recognized him as William Stevenson. He was wearing a charcoal-gray suit that had obviously been specially tailored for his tall form. Bolan studied the hang of the jacket and detected another reason for the tailoring. This guy was wearing a shoulder rig. A second man, shorter and rounder, followed on the tall man’s heels.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Stevenson said. “As long as their credentials are in order.” He smiled. “I’m a big supporter of law enforcement.”

  “Mr. Stevenson, I presume?” Bolan extended his hand, but the tall man merely stared at it, making no effort to shake. The short guy moved forward and grasped the Executioner’s open palm with both hands.

  “Rod Nelson, Mr. Stevenson’s executive assistant. What can we do for you?”

  “We’d prefer to speak in your office,” Bolan said.

  “Of course,” Stevenson replied. “How rude of us. You see, we’re right in the middle of something. Very busy day.” He held out his arm and pointed across the hallway to the side opposite from which he’d entered.

  Nelson hurried across the hall and pulled a key fob out of his pocket, waving it in front of the pad next to the door. The door popped open, revealing another hallway, this one with numerous offices behind glass walls.

  Stevenson took the lead and, as they followed him, he spoke over his shoulder. “Would you care for some coffee? Rod, have Callahan bring us a tray.”

  As he walked, Bolan took in as many details as he could. Plastic half-domes were affixed to the ceiling, indicating PTZ cameras. Behind the glass wall, each office they passed had a waiting room, a female at a desk and a solid wooden door leading to an inner office. Bolan counted five rooms on each side, all of them occupied.

  Stevenson turned to his left and strode through an open door. A woman of about thirty sat behind a desk, smiling up at the boss as he walked to the inner door. Except for a sleek-looking phone and a slender computer monitor, the desk was devoid of any other items.

  “Ms. Callahan,” Nelson said, bringing up the rear, “get us some coffee.”

  Without a word, the woman rose from her chair.

  Stevenson opened the inner office door and went inside. Bolan followed, feeling the softness of the thick carpet under his feet. The room was large and had a mahogany desk, several leather chairs and a long credenza. One wall was decorated with color photographs that featured a smiling Stevenson with important people: congressmen, two past presidents, the current president, foreign diplomats and well-known leaders of several top corporations.

  “Sit down,” Stevenson said, towering over all of them.

  Bolan remained standing, preferring not having to tilt his head back to look the tall man in the eye.

  “Now, what brings the Department of Justice to my facility?”

  “We’re investigating the disappearance of a federal agent,” Bolan said. “Karen Jefferson.”

  Other than a slightly raised right eyebrow, Stevenson’s face showed no expression. He looked at Nelson and then back to Bolan. “Doesn’t ring any bells. Who is she?”

  “She’s with the FDA.”

  “The FDA?” Stevenson’s expression changed to one of confusion. “Why do you think I would know anything about this person?”

  “How about a reporter named George Perkins?”

  Stevenson’s face became blank again. “Perkins, you say?” He rubbed his chin, as if concentrating, then shook his head. “No, can’t say that I’ve heard that name, either. Rod?”

  Nelson sputtered then emitted a quick, hollow-sounding laugh. “A reporter? Who does he work for?”

  Bolan didn’t answer. He looked at both men, then asked, “Is Quarry around?”

  “Quarry?” Stevenson repeated, sounding perplexed.

  “Shadrock Quarry. Your head of security,” Bolan said. “Big black guy.”

  This time Stevenson’s neck reddened slightly. He shook his head. “I employ a lot of people. I can hardly be familiar with all of their names.”

  “I can go look him up,” Nelson said. The man was starting to sweat.

  “Yes,” Stevenson said. “Do that.”

  As Nelson headed for the door, it opened and Ms. Callahan entered carrying a silver tray with a matching silver carafe and four china cups and saucers. Two smaller containers and four spoons had been arranged in precise order next to the cups.

  “How about Dr. Arnold Debussey?” Bolan asked.

  “Now, his name I do recall,” Stevenson said with a smile. He motioned for the woman to set the tray on the desk. “How do you like you coffee?”

  “We’re not here to drink coffee,” Bolan said. “Debussey?”

  He noticed Callahan’s face twitch a bit as she set the tray on the desk.

  Bolan turned and caught a glimpse of a man in the outer office through the open door. He was wearing a white lab coat and thick glasses. His hair was dark but streaked with gray.

  Stevenson waved at the door and Nelson immediately left, closing it quickly behind him.

  “We’d like to speak with Dr. Arnold Debussey,” Bolan said. He watched as Callahan’s body did an almost imperceptible little jerk. Stevenson was busy pouring some coffee and adding cubes of sugar to the cup.

  “I believe Dr. Debussey is on emergency leave,” Stevenson stated. “Sudden illness in the family.”

  “Oh?” Bolan said. “You have a number where I can reach him?”

  Stevenson lifted the cup and took a sip. Ms. Callahan stood between Bolan and the door, but the Executioner caught the sound of voices coming from the other room.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to refer you to our legal department for that,” Stevenson said. “We have a policy about not giving out any information about our employees.”

  “Perhaps you could call him then,” Bolan suggested. “We’ll wait. We do need to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “Government business,” Bolan said. “And about the disappearance of Special Agent Jefferson.”

  “I can assure you he knows nothing about that.”

  “We need to hear that from him,” Bolan said.

  “We’re very protective of our employees here at Stevenson Dynamics. I will not have my people subjected to any unnecessary harassment.”

  “You ain’t seen nothing in the
way of harassment yet, buddy,” Grimaldi said.

  Stevenson set the cup on the tray. “This conversation is over. I’m going to refer you to our attorneys for anything further.” He glanced toward Ms. Callahan. “Take his information down and give it to legal.”

  She nodded and turned. Stevenson moved to the door in two strides of his long legs. He opened it a sliver, peered through the crack and then opened it fully and motioned them out.

  Bolan and Grimaldi stepped into the outer office, which now housed only Callahan and Nelson.

  Bolan smiled. “You said Dr. Debussey was on emergency leave?”

  “That’s right,” Stevenson said.

  Nelson’s head bobbed up and down, the smile frozen on his face, which was wet with sweat.

  “Funny thing,” Bolan said, reaching into his shirt pocket and taking out one of his Department of Justice business cards with the Matt Cooper name and telephone number printed on it. “I thought I saw him standing here a minute ago.” He made a show of placing the card on the desk in front of Ms. Callahan. “Have him call me as soon as possible.”

  Stevenson just stared at him.

  “I can appreciate you being protective of your employees,” Bolan said, pausing to look up and lock eyes with the taller man. “We feel the same way about Special Agent Jefferson. In fact, we’re ready to pull out all the stops to find her.”

  “And that means we’re throwing the rule book in the toilet,” Grimaldi added.

  Stevenson flashed a half smile. “I wish you luck on that.”

  * * *

  THE INDUSTRIALIST WATCHED as Nelson walked into the outer office.

  “They’re gone,” Nelson said. His face had an ashen look.

  “Find out who they really are,” Stevenson said, picking up the card the muscular man had laid on the desk. “Matt Cooper, DoJ, my ass.”

  Nelson nodded.

  “And where’s that idiot Debussey?” Stevenson asked just as the scientist came into the room. Debussey’s face was as wrinkled as a prune. “What the hell were you thinking, walking in here like that? You almost ruined everything.”

  Debussey recoiled. “But you sent for me. Remember? How was I to know—?”

  “Shut up.” Stevenson scowled and tore the card into quarters, letting the pieces flutter to the floor. “This is developing into a first-class mess.” He frowned and began massaging his jawline. “There’s only one thing to do now.”

  Both Nelson and Debussey stood in silence.

  Stevenson tapped Callahan on the shoulder, staring down at her. “Get rid of that tray in my office.”

  She nodded and without a word left the room.

  “Are the aerosol mist sprayers ready to go?” Stevenson asked.

  “Just like you ordered,” Nelson said.

  “Get them over to the Apollo Stadium.”

  “The sprayers?” Debussey said. “What? Why?”

  Stevenson ignored him and kept talking to Nelson. “Where are we with the mass production of the CZF-269?”

  “Enough of a supply that we could start emergency distribution,” Nelson advised. His lips curled into something akin to a smile. “If the right emergency arose.”

  Stevenson nodded. “It has.”

  Debussey’s forehead acquired a new set of creases. “But it is too soon. I’m not sure that... I must have more time, conduct more tests.”

  “Screw that,” Stevenson said. “This thing has spiraled out of control and the only move we have left now is to move up the epidemic, so we can save the country.”

  “But—” Debussey started to say.

  “No buts. Just crawl into your hole and stay there until I tell you it’s safe come out and play.”

  “No,” Debussey said. “I will not allow it. I will—”

  Stevenson’s palm lashed out, striking the older man on the cheek.

  Debussey’s glasses fell off his face and tumbled to the floor, one lens popping out of the frame. He immediately bent and started feeling around for it. Callahan came out of the inner office carrying the tray and looking startled.

  Stevenson frowned and motioned for Nelson to follow him, leaving Debussey still scurrying around on the floor.

  * * *

  “I BET YOU dollars to doughnuts that arrogant bastard’s got Karen stashed inside there somewhere,” Grimaldi said as he and Bolan sped toward the interstate.

  Bolan nodded, pondering their next move.

  “We gotta go back in. Find out for sure,” Grimaldi proclaimed.

  Bolan was still silent.

  “What do you think?” Grimaldi asked. “Get Dragon Slayer out of mothballs and have me deposit a couple of rockets up that SOB’s ass?”

  Again, Bolan didn’t reply, but mentally he dismissed the idea. Doing a hard assault on a civilian facility within the continental U.S. was problematic enough even if it was in a remote wilderness. But assaulting one this close to the nation’s capital was bound to bring quick and decisive military intervention.

  “Wouldn’t work,” Bolan said.

  “Well, we gotta do something.”

  The ringing of Bolan’s cell phone interrupted the conversation.

  He glanced down at the screen. It was an unfamiliar number. He answered it.

  “Agent Cooper?” a hushed voice asked with an Eastern European inflection.

  Bolan switched the phone to speaker and replied, “Yeah.”

  “I must meet with you. Now. Today. Something horrendous is going to happen.”

  “Who is this?” Bolan asked.

  After a slight pause, the whispering voice continued. “Dr. Arnold Debussey. I work at Stevenson Dynamics.”

  Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged glances. “What do you want to tell me?”

  A few seconds of silence hung in the air until the voice said, “We must meet. You must stop him. Be at the National Mall. The reflecting pool. Half past five. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but what’s this—”

  “No time,” the voice whispered. “Half past five. I will find you. I saw you here a few minutes ago.”

  The call ended.

  “What do you think?” Bolan asked, looking at his partner.

  “Could be a trap.”

  “You’re right, it could be, which is why we’re going to be prepared.” He gestured to the backseat. “Pull out our vests.”

  “We’re lucky that most of the traffic will be heading in the opposite direction this time of day,” Grimaldi said, unbuckling his seat belt and leaning into the back for their duffels. “But if you want to get there so we can do some reconnoitering first, you better pull over and let me drive.”

  * * *

  STEVENSON FLIPPED THE sole remaining corner of the torn card that Callahan had recovered from the floor of the office. He took a deep breath and looked at Nelson.

  “This was the only piece of it left?”

  Nelson nodded. He held up his phone and said, “Which was why I checked the recordings from Debussey’s phone.” He played back the conversation.

  “That Judas,” Stevenson said. “I should have him shot—after I cut his balls off with a butter knife.”

  “Sounds messy. Want me to have Quarry go grab him?”

  Stevenson shook his head. “No. This unforeseen set of circumstances might actually work in our favor. Let him go, but get hold of the Talon. This could be our chance to get rid of a Judas as well as two dumb civil servants in way over their heads.” He paused to smile. “Email the Talon pictures of them from our surveillance tapes, and tell him to make it look like a terrorist attack. Have Quarry give him whatever he needs.”

  “That’ll delay the interrogation a bit.”

  “No matter. Work up a plan that’ll paint Debussey as being sympathetic
to some radical cause. The terrorist thing can tie into the epidemic. It’ll look like a biological attack.”

  “One which we can say we anticipated,” Nelson said. “And prepared for by producing and stockpiling the antidotes.” His smile grew wider as he took out his burner phone and began dialing. “Boss, you’re a genius.”

  Stevenson shrugged off the compliment. “Tell them to hurry up and get over to the Apollo. Things should just be getting under way for the evening. I want as many people exposed as possible.”

  “One manufactured, controlled epidemic,” Nelson said, putting the phone to his ear, “coming right up.”

  12

  The National Mall

  Washington, D.C.

  Calliope music from a rotating carousel floated faintly on the air as Bolan and Grimaldi stood by the series of unoccupied park benches near the Reflecting Pool. A crowd of people, mostly parents with children, stood in line, waiting for their chance to get on the merry-go-round. A slender woman wearing a bright blue-colored blouse, short skirt and white Nikes strolled by them pushing a baby carriage.

  Grimaldi raised his eyebrows. “Looks like she got into shape pretty fast after having the kid.”

  “Jack, keep your eyes open,” Bolan said. “We’re not here to watch the girls.”

  Grimaldi made a clucking sound and shook his head. “Hey, this guy’s probably gonna be a no-show.”

  Bolan kept scanning the approaching pedestrians and saw a man hurrying toward them from the street area. His gait had the look of urgency. As he drew closer, Bolan recognized him. “Here he comes.”

  Grimaldi’s head twisted from the woman to the approaching man.

  “Looks like he’s alone,” Bolan said, “but keep your eyes open.”

  “He looks like he’s about ready to wet his pants, too,” Grimaldi observed.

  Debussey drew closer, using his right hand to push his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose as he walked, almost bumping into a young couple strolling past. The man uttered a quick rebuke, but Debussey paid them no attention.