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  “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 th
in 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.”