Fatal Prescription. Don Pendleton

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