Fatal Prescription. Don Pendleton

burned on the floor.

      After everyone was killed at the institute, and the killers had what they’d come for, they’d traveled to this spot, where the mastermind was most likely supposed to pay off the backup team. They’d likely dumped the rifles in the bed of the truck, jumped down to get paid, and planned on leaving in those two cars. The boss man had tossed them some euros and, when they were distracted, shot them, added the finishing touches of the head shots, and then left in another vehicle. But why leave the guns? This was looking less and less like a terrorist incident and more like a ruse designed to look like one.

      “How many sets of tire tracks did you find?” he asked.

      “Four,” Jellema said. “Three of them match up to the vehicles still here. A fourth set, leaving here, appears to belong to another passenger vehicle.”

      “Looks like what we’d call a good old-fashioned double-cross,” Grimaldi said. “What do you think?”

      “Looks like,” Bolan agreed.

      “Well,” Grimaldi said, turning to Dorao, “at least you got a clue that the killer’s got small hands. Might mean he’s a little guy.”

      “Perhaps,” Dorao said, “but it is wise to remember, as you Americans say, that dynamite comes, sometimes, in small packages.”

      “I’d say this guy’s pretty dangerous, Inspector,” Bolan said. “But I don’t think he’s a terrorist in terms of having political goals, jihadist or otherwise.”

      “Nor do I,” Dorao said, shaking his head. “But he is just as despicable. And I will not rest until I have tracked him down.”

      Bolan nodded, appreciating the inspector’s determination. “We’ll be heading back to the U.S.,” he said, handing Dorao a card with his special number on it. “I’d appreciate it if you kept us in the loop.”