Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

“What’s going on, Gordon?” Jennifer asked, fear creeping into her voice.

“I think these guys were following us. Two of them were watching us while the driver looked for a parking spot. They wanted to stay behind us, but there were no spots.” The car sped up a bit and he matched their pace again. “Check the map and find me the next north-south street that goes under the I-95.”

Jennifer unfolded the map, checked a street sign as they drove, and found their location. She looked ahead on Cary Street for the next north-south through street. “Robinson,” she said. “It’s right after Davis and two after Stafford.”

“Okay, we just passed Stafford, so this should be Davis,” he said as they cruised through the intersection. He checked the street sign and nodded. “Hold on,” he said.

“What are you going to do?”

“See if these guys ahead of us really were following us,” he said, waiting until he was halfway across Robinson before cranking the steering wheel hard left and stomping on the gas. The Jeep cut through a narrow gap in the traffic, and Gordon floored it once he was safely around the corner. The shrill sounds of honking horns told them what the other drivers thought of his abrupt and unexpected move. The lights at Parkwood Avenue were green, and he whipped through the intersection at almost double the posted speed. He slowed once they passed the next two side streets and entered the underpass. He glanced in his rearview mirror, then pushed the pedal to the floor again. The Jeep’s engine roared and the SUV leaped ahead. A block and a half ahead was a dead end-the beginning of Maymont Park.

“What are you doing?” she yelled above the motor noise.

“They’re behind us. And this time they’re not just following us, they’re gaining,” he said, fighting the steering wheel as he slammed on the brakes and sent the vehicle up on two wheels at the T intersection. He raced down Lake View Avenue, the historic park on their left, trees and cars flashing by as Gordon again increased his speed to dangerous levels. He risked a quick look in the mirror. The Crown Vic was gaining on them. He gave the Jeep more gas, the speedometer now climbing to over eighty miles an hour. People, houses, cars, trees were all just a blur now. They reached the far western end of Lake View and Gordon wove through the traffic, sideswiping one newer model Subaru and almost losing control, a line of mature trees dangerously close on the left side. He regained control of the Jeep and wove through the maze of cars and vans southbound on Blanton. Directly behind them was the Crown Vic.

Blanton forked at Park Drive and Rugby Road, and Gordon chose Rugby to the left and bordering the west side of William Byrd Park. The lesser-used road was almost deserted, and he put the pedal to the floor. The Jeep’s speedometer crested 105 miles an hour as he took it into the long sweeping left turn just south of the World War I memorial. As they came abreast with Dogwood Dell, he hammered on the brakes, locking up all four tires and sending a plume of smoke into the air. The Crown Vic, which had been ready to pull alongside, went flying by, fishtailing as the driver also slammed on his brakes. Both Gordon and Jennifer saw an arm come out of the backseat, and a split second later the windshield disintegrated as a bullet hit it at a critical angle and shattered the glass. The imploding glass showered both of them, and Jennifer screamed as Gordon cranked hard on the steering wheel and the vehicle slid sideways down the road on two wheels. For a few seconds, the Jeep teetered between rolling and coming back down on four wheels. Gordon eased off on the brakes and the Jeep crashed down onto all fours. A tenth of a second later, the SUV hit the curb and went airborne. Eighty feet later, it smashed down on the grass in Dogwood Dell, the rear bumper catching on a log and ripping off. The Jeep fishtailed across the grass, then Gordon hit the gas and straightened it out. He got some open grass in front of him and turned to look for his pursuers. Unable to navigate the dell without four-wheel drive, the Crown Vic was heading south on Pump House Drive, aiming to circumnavigate the park and catch them at the north end.

Gordon headed directly for Blanton and melted back into the city traffic. He drove north on Sheppard Street until Cary, parked the Jeep in the first parking lot he saw, and jumped out. Jennifer was ten feet behind him when they reached Cary Street. Gordon saw a cab about halfway down the block and waved. The driver swung out into traffic and pulled in beside them.

“Where to, buddy?” he asked as they merged into the steady stream of cars.

“Just drive, please,” Gordon said, breathing heavily. He dug in his pocket and handed the man a wad of twenties. “South Richmond, on the other side of the river. I’ll tell you where in a few minutes.”

The driver flipped through the wad of bills and grinned. “Take your time, my friend. You just bought my services for the entire night.”

Gordon turned to Jennifer. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, but no thanks to your driving. You’re a maniac.”

“Better than getting shot,” he said.

“Those guys were serious,” she said, starting to shake. She slid in beside him and he slipped his arm around her, pulling her close. It felt good. “Jesus, they actually shot at us.”

He nodded. “And the car,” Gordon said. “Crown Vic with tinted windows and a bored-out engine.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” she asked.

He pulled away a touch so he could look in her eyes. “It’s a government car, Jennifer. Whoever those guys were, they work for one of our government agencies.”

“This is not a difficult request,” Bruce Andrews said. “I simply want you to kill Gordon Buchanan and Jennifer Pearce.”

“I know what you want,” the voice snapped back. “Buchanan spotted us and we couldn’t catch him.”

“I don’t know where or when you’ll get another chance,” Andrews said. “But if you do, don’t miss. These two people are turning out to be quite the liability.”

“They will not escape again,” the man assured him.

“I hope not,” Andrews said, hanging up the phone. He was at home in his study, his private retreat from the world he had created. The phone line was private, the number known only by a precious few whom he considered either privileged or necessary. It seldom rang, and when it did, the ensuing conversations were always interesting, to say the least. But this one was not what he wanted to hear. Gordon Buchanan was proving to be a formidable opponent. He was wealthy and knew how to use his money to his advantage. He chartered planes, keeping his movements from city to city off the radar. He paid cash rather than using credit cards and knew when to keep his head down.

And Jennifer Pearce-now, there was a major mistake. He couldn’t count the times he had wished that he had never hired her. The Alzheimer’s group was far enough removed from Albert Rousseau and Triaxcion that she should never have been a factor in any of this. Yet Gordon Buchanan had got his talons into Kenga Bakcsi and that had drawn Jennifer Pearce into the fray. And she was proving to be as tenacious as Buchanan. Together, they posed the most cohesive threat to his plan-a plan that to date had unfolded almost perfectly.

Zancor was finally through the New Drug Application and was now FDA approved. The economic difference to the company was in the range of two billion dollars. And a few hundred million of that would come quickly as he geared up the production facilities and provided a few million doses of Zancor to Tony Warner at NSA. Things were perfect, with one exception.

Buchanan and Pearce.

One obstacle with one solution.