Don Pendleton - Payback

He grinned. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

“John, be careful. Don’t bend your arm. I’m serious.”

He kept his right arm straight as he grabbed the hanger. The fingers of his left hand curled around the thick, circular metal. For a moment the muscles in both his arms flexed like gigantic pythons awakening. He bent the circular clasp, freed it from the rod and handed the hangar to her. “How’s that?”

“Fine,” she said. “Thank you. Now go back and lie down.”

“Don’t I get a kiss as a reward?” He leaned close to her, his lips brushing hers.

She kissed him softly, but with a gentle urgency, and he once again sensed that something was off.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Go lie down. Let me get this hung.” Still holding the IV bag, she guided him toward the bed and waited while he resumed his position of repose. Then she slipped the tab of the IV bag over the bent portion of the hanger and looped it over the corner of the mirror.

Lassiter watched the steady drip of clear liquid as it fell from the transparent bag into the plastic line attached to the adapter.

“What is that stuff?” he asked. “More GEM goodies?”

She blinked, holding her eyes closed a second or two longer than she should have, and then smiled. “It’s a combination of antibiotics and some other medications.”

“Antibiotics?” He grinned. “Afraid I picked up an STD south of the border?” When she didn’t smile back, he added, “For the record, I didn’t.”

“I want to beef up your immune system a bit.” She patted his arm gently, ending with an affectionate squeeze.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Really?”

She gazed at him, her blue eyes misty, then looked away quickly.

He grabbed her arm, harder than he intended, and she jerked. Lassiter immediately released her and ran his left fingers softly over her cheek.

“Sorry.” He waited a couple of beats, and then added, “Tell me.”

“I’m not sure yet.” Ellen leaned down and kissed him on the lips, keeping her chin on his shoulder, her face out of his sight. “Let the medicine do its work.”

This whole scene was starting to resemble one from some kind of crazy movie.

“Do its work?” He pulled her back so he could look at her face. Streams of tears had found their way down both her cheeks.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“I want you to know that I need to run more tests. I don’t know everything for certain.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

She looked away, wiped at her cheek, peeled off her latex glove and turned back toward him, her expression caring, but severe. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“Ellen?”

“John,” she said, regaining control, “I don’t know for sure yet, but I’m afraid you could be sick.” Despite her almost professional demeanor her words came out choppy, truncated, like a ball bouncing unevenly down some steps. “From the GEM treatments.”

“Sick?” he asked. That couldn’t be. He felt great. Strong, powerful, never better. “What are you talking about? I feel fine.”

“Like I said, I’ve got to run more tests.” She wiped at her eyes. “But depending on how things go, we might have to start an aggressive treatment plan.”

“Huh?”

She went into another rambling discourse with terms he didn’t understand, about having to do more tests and it being too early to assume anything, least of all a prognosis, but he barely heard her words. Only three of them reverberated inside his skull, over and over again.

Aggressive treatment plan.

What the hell was going on?

Washington, D.C.

THE RUBBER BALL bounced off the far wall, struck the floor and then sailed toward Senator Brent Hutchcraft. He deftly swung his racket, sending the ball back toward the far wall again. Gregory Benedict, assistant director of the CIA, stepped in and slammed the ball as it shot back toward them. Now it was Anthony Godfrey’s turn, and he purposely let the ball zoom past him.

“Aww, come on, Tony,” Hutchcraft said. “You weren’t even trying.”

“Too much on my mind,” Godfrey said. The ball bounced against the rear wall in a lazy loop and Godfrey grabbed it. “We’ve got a lot to discuss. Why don’t we get some steam?”

The steam room was Godfrey’s favorite place in the club. He’d reserved it for the three of them. The accompanying attire, bath towels and nudity, assured him that no one in the room would be wearing a wire, and any attempts to bug the place would be fruitless. Not that he was worried about Hutchcraft and Benedict. They were both in as deep as he was, and had infinitely more to lose, but he hadn’t survived twenty-five years in the Washington, D.C., political rat race without exercising due caution. Plus, it worked both ways. His associates took a measure of comfort in these precautions for the same reasons. To assure that they weren’t disturbed, Godfrey had one of the senator’s security detail standing by at the door to the steam room. The guy was as big as a house, plus he was packing a SIG Sauer .357 semiauto pistol. Godfrey looked at the hulk as he held the door open for them.

It pays to have friends in high places, Godfrey thought with a smile on his face. And in low ones, as well.

Wisps of steam hung in the air. The locker room attendant had sprayed a dash of eucalyptus in the air, just as Godfrey had requested. He moved to the tiled bench, adjusted his towel and sat. Hutchcraft, obviously proud of his physique, and how he was keeping in shape despite being in his mid-forties, tossed his towel on the bench with careless abandon and sat beside him. Benedict, always guarded and cautious, glanced around nervously and then sat across from them, his back to the wall. The man moved with an almost reptilian precision.

“Okay, Tony,” Hutchcraft said. “You called this little tête-à-tête. Suppose you lead off.”

“Last night’s activity was a mixed bag,” Godfrey said. “As you’d previously advised, the White House did authorize a rescue mission to extract Avelia.” He looked at Benedict. “Luckily, your strike team arrived first and snatched the target, along with the intended cash and drugs.”

Benedict nodded. “As expected.”

“And the weapons our less-than-reputable friend thought he was purchasing?” Hutchcraft asked.

“Safe and to be delivered to my Arizona warehouse facility tonight,” Godfrey said.

Hutchcraft smiled. “Ah, I love it when a plan comes together. So what’s the bad news?”

“Avelia was delivered to our motorcycle friends in such bad shape that they weren’t able to get much out of him. We don’t know how much he found out and who he told.”

“But I’m working on that,” Benedict said.

Hutchcraft frowned. “I assume that loose end has now been terminated.”

Godfrey nodded. “As of this morning. But we’re going to have to brace for the fallout concerning the death of a federal agent.”

“Brace for what?” Benedict said. “He’ll just go down as another unfortunate casualty to our long, ongoing and unsuccessful war on drugs.”

“I might even find some purchase in the debates.” Hutchcraft’s voice assumed a deeper tenor. “Mr. President, please explain the reason you didn’t pull this young man out of harm’s way before he was discovered and murdered.” A smile stretched the corners of his mouth. “As Harry Truman used to say, the buck stops at the top.”

“Careful,” Benedict said. “There’s always a risk if you shit too close to where you eat.”

Hutchcraft looked almost wounded. “Please, spare me your scatological metaphors. I’m going out to dinner later.”

Godfrey didn’t want this to develop into a debate between the two of them. Hutchcraft had his sights set on becoming president, and if that happened, Benedict was the heir apparent to finally take over as director of the CIA. Both of them were so laser focused on their goals that they often lost sight of the big picture.