Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

“I want some answers, Bruce. Like why do you have me killing people in your statin department? Perhaps you can explain to me how cholesterol drugs are tied in with brain chips.”

“You’re talking about Albert Rousseau,” Andrews said, his mind racing through his options. Trying to take Evan Ziegler by force was totally out of the question. The man was a killing machine, with or without the gun. Lying to him would only infuriate the man, and he already looked extremely pissed off. But telling him the truth wasn’t a good idea either. “Rousseau was getting ready to release information to the press unless we paid him off.”

“What sort of information?”

“Highly classified, Evan,” Andrews said, piecing together his train of thought as he went. “Rousseau was a researcher working on one of our cholesterol drugs, but he also had access to confidential computer systems outside his department. Someone was hacking into the highly secure files in our brain chip lab, and we traced it back to Rousseau’s computer. Once we suspected it was Rousseau, we attached a sniffer pack to his office and home computers and monitored both of them for over a month. There was no doubt in our minds that Albert Rousseau was preparing to either blackmail us or go to the press.”

“With what, Bruce? What are you hiding?”

Good question , Andrews thought. He didn’t have a clue. He was ad-libbing his way through this mess. Ziegler had caught him flat-footed. “Evan, we are moving through the exploratory stages of the brain chip development at an extreme pace. We are bypassing federal guidelines that insist we spend a certain amount of time on each of the Phase I tests. If we were to comply with the government regulations, it would add months, maybe years, to the development of a brain chip that will give your son upper-body movement. I’m pushing the envelope, Evan. And I’m sticking my neck out for Ben.”

The gun barrel angled down toward the carpet. “How did Rousseau get this information? I mean, if the systems are so secure.”

Andrews was relaxing now, knowing that he had disarmed the situation. “Come on, Evan, the guy was a computer programmer and a research scientist with master’s degrees in computers and microbiology. He was no dummy. Once he saw how we were circumventing the federal laws, he saw an opportunity. Whether he was going to go to the police or blackmail us, I have no idea. But we saw it coming and brought you in to stop him.”

“You keep saying we. Who is the we?”

“That is none of your business, Evan,” Andrews said, now taking control of the conversation. “And what’s with the gun? You going to shoot me?”

Evan glanced at the silenced pistol. “No, of course not. It was in case I ran into some of the guards.”

“Then put it away,” Andrews said curtly. “And don’t shoot any of my security guards on the way out.”

“I’ve got another question, Bruce,” Ziegler said, slipping the pistol under his sweater. “How many more people do I have to kill for you? When we first spoke, I thought this would entail removing one of two people, but this is getting ridiculous. I’ve killed four people in cold blood. That’s not what the American government trained me to do. That’s not what I want to do with my life.”

“I pay you well to remove obstacles, Evan,” Andrews retorted.

“I don’t do it for the money,” Evan replied, knowing that his quality of life and his copier business in Denver had profited greatly from the cash Andrews forwarded to him after each hit. “I just want Ben out of that chair.”

Andrews nodded and leaned forward. “That’s why I approached you, Evan. The SEALs gave you certain skills that I need, and I have what it will take to get your son walking again. I would never have asked you to help me if Ben didn’t desperately need the technology Veritas is developing. I knew when I embarked on the brain chip program that I would face heavy opposition, that there would be people who would do anything to stop it. Some people feel a moral obligation to oppose it; others want to stop it for economic reasons. It’s a drain on our finances, Evan. It reduces research in other sectors. Scientists don’t like watching their funding go somewhere else. They’re funny that way. And sometimes they react much differently than an ordinary person with a normal IQ would. And when those threats become real, I call you.”

“How much longer, Bruce?” Evan asked in a hushed tone.

Andrews shrugged. “We’re close to beginning Phase I trials on humans. Perhaps another year, maybe two. I will make sure Ben’s application to be in the first test group is approved.”

Evan Ziegler was quiet, reflecting on Andrews’s words. One year, maybe two. Ben would be twenty or twenty-one. And if the brain chip did stimulate the neural pathways as Andrews had promised, Ben would almost certainly regain movement in the upper portion of his body, possibly in the legs as well. His spinal cord was not so severely damaged that the amplified signals wouldn’t make it through. And once those synapses were functioning again, he would walk. Christ, his son would be cured. A normal life, not one as a thinking vegetable, locked in a prison on wheels. Ben would be back.

“That’s encouraging, Bruce,” Evan said. “One or two years. That’s very encouraging.”

Andrews smiled, reached out, and set his hand gently on Evan’s shoulder. “Yes, Evan, it’s incredible. We just have to keep things on track.”

“Right,” Evan said. He stood slowly, then walked to the door. “I’ll talk to you later, Bruce.”

“Okay, Evan. Your money will be in Denver in a couple of days. I’ll call down to the guards and tell them you’re on your way out. They won’t bother you.”

Evan waved his hand nonchalantly and closed the office door behind him. He didn’t like Bruce Andrews, and he certainly didn’t trust him. But the man was a necessary evil. No other company was pressing forward in brain chip technology as quickly as Veritas. They were the leader, and he would do what he could to ensure they stayed on target.

Even if it meant killing people.

The door closed behind Evan Ziegler and Bruce Andrews’s face darkened. Ziegler’s statement that he had brought the gun with him in case he ran into a security guard was a total crock of shit. Andrews knew his hired killer had brought the gun with every intention of either forcing some sort of a confession from him or killing him. Which meant Ziegler was quickly becoming a liability. And liabilities were dangerous. Especially when they were capable of walking and talking.

But was killing Ziegler the right course of action? He had the resources in place to remove the man if he desired, but Ziegler was defused for the time being, and was still an asset in some ways.

Things were getting complicated. He was starting to feel like one of those jugglers spinning plates on dowels. And if he got too many plates spinning, they would all crash. He had to settle things down, get a grip on things. And fast. At some point, the press would sniff out the subtle signs that the brain chip division was being terminated. There was no money in helping the one-in-a-million cases out there. And that’s exactly what Ben Ziegler was, one in a million. The prognosis for most paraplegics or quadriplegics was hopeless, their spinal cords damaged beyond repair. Ben Ziegler and others like him were the lucky ones. The ones who could actually walk again if enough was invested to see the technology come to fruition. But Veritas was not going to be the company that invested two or three hundred million dollars to reap a few million in rewards. No charity cases here. No orphan drugs-that was for Marcon and the other do-gooders. But that left him with a problem. A very real problem.