Fatal Prescription. Don Pendleton

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       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.

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