Payback. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
door opened and Mickey Potter entered. The man made her think of a human weasel, with his thick tufts of dark hair slicked back, and his small, feral-looking teeth that slanted back into his mouth. He smiled and Campbell wanted to gag.
“Phone call, Doctor,” Potter said.
“What? Can’t you see I’m busy?” Lawrence seemed genuinely irritated.
“Artie sent me.” Potter’s lips peeled back from the disgusting teeth. “It’s Washington. Greg Benedict.”
Lawrence shot him a sharp glance, then turned to Ellen. “Monitor Trang’s vitals until I get back,” he said, as he set the now empty syringe on the metal tray and followed Potter out of the lab.
Campbell approached Trang and looked over the telemetry. Heart rate 56, blood pressure 120/70, respiration 9...everything seemed normal. Trang’s dark eyes stared at her. His body exuded a sharp, almost pungent odor, like pure testosterone. She didn’t like being alone with him, although she knew he wouldn’t try anything. She had only to scream or hit the red safety button and the security forces would be in the lab in seconds.
His piercing stare continued, and the thought of the security guards gave her little reassurance. Trang was progressing at such an accelerated rate that he’d soon equal John’s abilities. Maybe even surpass them. Plus, with John’s current affliction, who knew how long it would be before he’d begin to feel the degenerative effects? She forced a lips-only smile to reassure Trang, and said, “I have to check something over there,” as she moved back to the microscope.
Looking down, she transferred another slide to the shelf and adjusted the focus. These cells showed something new: karyolysis. The nuclei were breaking into fragments. That could mean an acceleration was imminent. But what was causing it? And why was it showing up now?
“Doc, I don’t feel so good,” Trang said.
She went back to him. “What is it, exactly?”
He frowned and shrugged. “I just feel, like, all flushed or something.”
Campbell patted his shoulder. “That’s perfectly normal. Lie back and try to relax. It should pass soon.”
He reclined on the padded table, the huge muscles flexing under skin that looked as thin as paper.
“What’s causing it?” he asked. “Is it the strength serum?”
“It’s probably the vector spreading the serum to your cells throughout your body,” she said.
“Vector? What’s that?”
“Think of it as a sort of dye,” she said, not wanting to use the term virus, even though the AAV—adeno-associated virus—had been tested as non-pathogenic. “It’s a special medication that spreads to each cell.”
“Man, it sure feels weird. Like I’m one of the X-Men or something.” Trang’s face showed a forced smile. “This ain’t gonna turn me into a mutant or anything, is it?”
Campbell patted his arm again and said something reassuring to calm him, but her own mind was racing. A mutant.
Something clicked in her brain and she rechecked all three slides. It was as if the cells were being affected by a new, lethal virus. The AAV had been thought to be safe, in its original form, but that was seven years ago. What if the virus, through the repeated injections John received, virtually one after each mission, had caused his immune system to attack the carrier? What if the AAV had mutated in some way, and was now causing the necrosis?
It’s got to be the vector, she thought. That has to be the answer. It’s killing him.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
BROGNOLA’S FACE LOOKED even more haggard and drawn than it had twelve hours earlier when Bolan had last talked to him. It was obvious he hadn’t slept or rested in quite a while. He motioned Bolan and Grimaldi to two chairs in front of his desk. They sat and waited while the big Fed refilled his coffee cup.
“You look like you’re running on caffeine and adrenaline,” Grimaldi said. “You had any sleep in the last day and a half?”
“Sleep?” Brognola asked. “What’s that?” He made an attempt at a smile, but it failed to reach his eyes. After taking a sip of coffee he took his seat, then blew out a long breath. “You want the bad news first?”
“That’s usually the best way,” Bolan said. “We didn’t think you called us here to talk about the weather.”
Brognola set the cup on his desk and closed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “They found Chris Avelia. He’s dead.”
Bolan had been expecting that news. He gave Brognola a few seconds, then asked, “Where and how?”
“Arizona, just outside South Tucson, near the Tohono O’odham Indian Reservation. He was dumped alongside the highway with a bullet through his head.” The big Fed compressed his lips, then added, “It looks like he was tortured, too.”
“Who caught the investigation?” Bolan asked.
“You name it,” Brognola said. “It was first reported to the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. As soon as they found out who the victim was, the FBI got involved, not to mention the DEA sending somebody, as well as the ATF. Avelia was supposedly investigating a pending arms deal. There’re rumblings that even the Agency was involved.”
Bolan nodded. Dealing with so many organizations would make it both trickier and easier. He’d have to have a rock-solid cover story to get through the door by using Justice Department credentials. Once he was in, the Feds could eliminate a lot of the legwork for him, if they shared information. That was always a problem, and not playing catch-up on this one was imperative. Still, with so many agencies involved, his Justice Department cover story would make it look as if there was one more federal agency wanting a piece of the pie. It was something all bureaucrats could relate to in spades and would probably attract little attention. “Any good news come with this?” Grimaldi asked.
“Yeah,” Brognola said. “Aaron was able to trace home base for those helicopters you guys saw.” “Where?” Bolan asked.
“South Tucson area, outside city limits. The helicopters are registered to Rigello Transport and Tours, an outfit that does helicopter tours of the Grand Canyon and other choice places. It also buys up a lot of old military hardware that it tunes up and rebuilds for Hollywood productions.”
“And they rented the copters out on the same night as the raid?”
Brognola nodded. “As far as we could tell, they’re the only game in that region that could have. Aaron hacked into their accounting system, but all we could come up with was some company named Bannerside Productions periodically renting two old Black Hawks and a Hind. They did so on the same day as the raid and returned them the following day.”
“Did Aaron find anything on Bannerside Productions?” Bolan asked.
Brognola shook his head. “Nothing yet. It seems to be a front. He’s working on it.”
“What’s the background of this Rigello Transport?”
“Now this is where things get a little bit more interesting.” Brognola picked up his coffee cup and took another sip. “Aaron checked their financials. The business was started about four years ago by Joe Rigello and his brother, Dean. Where they got the capital for such a big investment is a mystery. Before that, they owned a small motorcycle repair shop in South Tucson.”
“Motorcycles,” Bolan said. “Any gang affiliations?”
Brognola smiled. “It seems that one of them, Dean, was particularly close to a less-than-reputable motorcycle gang called the Aryan Wolves. The club supposedly is nothing more than a social-athletic organization, but it’s listed by the G was a one-percenter club. In other words,