Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command by Gary Grossman Read Free Book Online Page B

The pellet, coated with a thin layer of wax, would dissolve on contact with warm skin, allowing the poison to seep into Messsinger’s bloodstream. The poison, much more lethal than cobra venom, was now working its way through Messinger’s body.
    The only difference between Strand’s work and that of the Bulgarian assassin years earlier, is that Strand doubled the lethal dose. Instead of shock setting in the next day, Messinger would feel it in hours. Instead of suffering for days, he would be dead before he made it home. Doctors would most likely rule his death a result of septicemia, a form of blood poisoning, perhaps the result of kidney failure. Or the coroner might never look beyond the car crash Messinger would likely experience as he lost control of his Thunderbird.
    Messinger hardly touched his main course, steamed mussels in a garlic white wine cream sauce. Le Strand politely recommended that he return home. “We can wait until tomorrow, Charlie.” But actually, the Frenchman’s business was concluded.
    “I’m really sorry,” Messinger said, slurring his words. “I don’t know what came over me.”
    No apologies by Charlie Messinger would save him now. Le Strand was only doing what Colonel Charles V. Messinger had done to him years earlier. Pronouncing his death sentence.
    Le Strand considered giving Messinger something to think about as the fever, pain, and delirium shut his system down; some way for him to realize why this was the day he was going to die. But he decided not to. Instead, Le Strand accompanied the retired army colonel to his car. He wanted to make sure Messinger, becoming groggier with each step, would get on the road. As a final irony, he raised the death-delivering umbrella overhead to keep them dry.
    “Get home as fast as you can,” Le Strand said coldly. “You’re not well.”
    Messinger pulled into traffic. Le Strand’s parting words swirled in his mind. You’re not well. You’re not well. Messinger took the winding coast route, fighting to keep his focus. He was a few miles away when he realized that Le Strand hadn’t said that at all. It came to him the instant he took a sharp curve too fast and was airborne over the cliffs that abutted the Atlantic. It wasn’t, “ You’re not well .” Le Strand had said, “See you in hell.”

Five
    Gulfton, Texas
    Miguel Vega feared he would pay for his failure with his life.
    He didn’t know what happened at the airport. It wasn’t his fault his “package” wasn’t there. Police were everywhere by the time he managed to park and reach the terminal. They sealed off the airport. The only thing he actually learned was over the radio coming back. An all-news station, which he normally never listened to, reported a shooting at George Bush Intercontinental. They were “looking into it.” They should have talked to Vega.
    But it’s not my fault , he thought over and over. That wouldn’t be good enough for Manuel Estavan.
    13-30 had been contracted to deliver the “package” to some Godforsaken, freezing place called Massachusetts. That was the deal. That was Vega’s responsibility.
    Estavan always made examples of fuckups. He’d seen it before. His cousin, the one who recruited him, wore an ear-to-chin scar for a mistake he made two years ago—coming back a grand short on a drug transaction. Another member of 13-30 was less fortunate. He and his girlfriend died together with one bullet as they were locked together fucking. This was retribution for the gang member’s skipping a drive-by shooting in favor of a Jamie Foxx movie.
    Surely Estavan would do something brutal to Vega. Better he accept punishment than try to run.
    The Oval Office
    “Let’s get a bead on Russia,” barked General Jonas Jackson Johnson, the president’s national security advisor. Johnson preferred things plain and simple, like the way members of the inner circle addressed him. He was usually “J3” for the three Js in his name.
    It was a topic