Lethal Dose (32 page)

Tears welled in his eyes as the elevator arrived and he pushed his way in. He tucked the .45 pistol into his waistband and pulled his shirt over the handle. He had one thing left to do. And nothing was going to stand in his way.

69

“Where's Buchanan?” Simms asked, looking about the room as paramedics rushed Jennifer Pearce from the room on a stretcher, one of them calling ahead to George Washington University Hospital and clearing an emergency OR.

“He went running out right after Allenby shot himself,” a shaken Keith Thompson said. He was sitting in one of the chairs, aghast that he had just seen a person die. It was a first for him, and he didn't like it.

“Christ, he's heading for Richmond,” Rothery said. “He's going after Bruce Andrews.”

“You want to get some men out to Andrews's house?” Simms asked.

Rothery thought about it for a minute. “The less commotion we cause right now, the better. We've got a containable situation at this point. Allenby killed himself and Dr. Pearce took an accidental bullet. We can put a decent spin on it. But if we start involving our resources in Richmond in this, it's out of our hands. Let's keep a lid on it. Christ, if the general public finds out one of the task force leaders was involved in creating the crisis, the shit's going to hit the fan like you won't believe.”

“What about Buchanan?” Simms asked. “He's out there and he knows what's going on.”

“We'll worry about Buchanan when we catch him. We might be able to convince him that keeping this thing quiet is in the best interest of the country. If we can't, we'll have to deal with it.”

“And Dr. Pearce?” Simms asked.

Rothery shook his head. “She won't make the hospital. Probably dead already. It's Buchanan we have to work on.”

“What if he beats us to Bruce Andrews?”

Rothery shook his head again. “Not a chance. I'll call down to the airport and get the Gulfstream ready. By the time he drives down or catches a commercial flight, we'll be at Andrews's house.”

“Maybe it's best that we just give the press exactly what happened in here,” Simms said. “That would be the easiest way of dealing with this mess.”

Rothery was thoughtful. Then he said, “I'm not sure, Craig. Maybe we'll have to. But for right now let's see if we can contain it. Okay?”

“Not a problem.” Instinctively, they both knew that the lid was going to come off, but it was first nature in their business to try to minimize the damage.

Rothery stood in the middle of the room and stared at Allenby's body. Then he turned to Tony Warner and Craig Simms and asked, “Where is Jim's gun?”

70

Twenty-seven minutes after storming out of L'Enfant Plaza, Gordon boarded the Lear 31A at Reagan International. He and Jennifer had decided that leaving the plane on the ground and driving up to D.C. for the second time was being overcautious, so they had flown up in the jet. He had used the cabbies' cell phone to call ahead and have the pilots file a flight plan for Richmond. When he pulled up to the private terminal, the Lear was already fueled and waiting.

Access to the private section of Washington's terminal is much easier than the main commercial area, and Gordon moved quickly out to the plane, the Colt 1911 still tucked in his belt. He boarded the private jet and they were rolling down the runway inside three minutes.

“Third in line for takeoff, Mr. Buchanan,” the pilot's voice came over the intercom.

Gordon cursed the delay. Every moment counted. He knew the three remaining men in Rothery's office would be scrambling to get down to Richmond. It was a race. They wanted Bruce Andrews for prosecution. He wanted Andrews dead.

The plane was equipped with a phone, and he busied himself calling about for the location of Bruce Andrews's house. When he called, he identified himself as J.D. Rothery, which wasn't a hard sell as most of the country had just seen Andrews and Rothery on television together. One of the staff at Veritas, thinking he was speaking with the Under Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, dug into the files and found the CEO's home address.

“It's a rural address in Chesterfield county,” the man said. “He had a barbecue out there a year ago and he supplied all the employees with directions. First, you take the 360 south out of Richmond until you cross the Appomattox, about twenty miles outside the city boundaries. Turn south on the 153 until you reach Scott's Fork. Then take a left and drive back to the river. Mr. Andrews's estate is the third driveway on the left.”

“Thank you,” Gordon said. He hung up the phone and stared out the window. It was still light and would be for another hour or two. Enough time to find the estate, but it would likely be dark as he approached the house. Probably a good thing. He reached down and pulled the handgun out of his belt. He had fired a lot of rifles and was a decent shot, but he had never fired a handgun in his life. He looked over the gun, found the safety, and snapped it on. Then he set the gun on the leather seat next to him and closed his eyes.

Jennifer Pearce. The image of her body jerking back with the impact of the bullet replayed through his mind. So much blood. Rothery and Simms trying desperately to stem the flow. All hell breaking loose. Jim Allenby lying on the floor with his head blown apart. Keith Thompson staring at the scene in horror. Elizabeth Ripley standing quietly in a corner, watching with scared eyes. What a mess.

He let his eyes open and felt the tears spill out. Christ, why were all the people he cared about dying? First Billy, now Jennifer. He felt the plane begin to descend and he tucked the gun back in his belt. He could think about that later. Right now, Bruce Andrews was foremost on his mind.

He rented a car at the booth that serviced the private section of the airport and checked the map for the best route across the southern tip of Richmond to Highway 360. It was a bit convoluted, but half an hour later he pulled onto the 360 just north of Swift Creek Reservoir and double-checked the directions. He crossed the Appomattox, took the turns the man had dictated to him, and finally pulled onto a paved lane running parallel to the river, perhaps half a mile to the north. In the waning daylight, he counted until he reached the third driveway. Bruce Andrews's estate.

The front gate was impenetrable without calling up to the house and getting someone to open it—that or crashing through it with a vehicle. Neither option appealed to him. He continued driving down the road, looking for an opening to the river. Most of the frontage along the river was taken by other large estates, but about a quarter mile to the east he found an open lot with access directly to the river. He parked the car and set off at a quick jog. The ground was mostly clear, with groves of trees punctuating the rolling grasslands. He kept to the edges of the trees as much as possible until he reached the river. As he doubled back to the west, the first two estates were not fenced flush to the water, and he simply ran along the gently sloping riverbank toward Andrews's estate.

The acreage next to Andrews was fenced right to the river, and he had to cling onto the edge of the fencing while hanging over the water in order to broach it. He made it without falling in the water, then ran quickly across the grassy expanse to the next property boundary. Usually, fenced yards meant dogs, and the last thing he needed right now was to have to shoot a guard dog. He reached the perimeter of Andrews's estate and repeated the procedure of skirting the fence by hanging over the water. He was in.

The house was set on a knoll to the south and, with the advent of the approaching night, lights were coming on in the house. He moved quickly along the fence, hugging the small groves of trees wherever possible. He was within a hundred feet of the house and could see the dogs in their enclosure. They were standing at the wire mesh fence, staring at him. Excellent guard dogs: trained not to bark, just to attack. Lucky for him, Andrews had chosen to kennel the dogs. He ran the last hundred feet to the house and tried the basement door. It was locked. He set the gun down and took off his shirt. He wrapped it around his fist and gave the glass a good punch. The glass shattered, but didn't make much noise as the broken shards fell on carpet. He reached inside and unlocked the deadbolt, then quietly let himself in. He set the gun on the pool table and slipped his shirt on as he looked about.

The lower level was shrouded in darkness, but he could see it was mostly used as a games room. The pool table, a regulation six-by-twelve, was the centerpiece, with a shuffleboard against one wall, a dartboard on another, and a twenty-foot walk-up bar covering the far wall. He moved slowly through the open room, watching the corners of the room for security sensors. His eyes, adjusting now to the low light levels, picked up the sensors, but they were turned off. First the dogs in their pen and now the security system turned off. Bruce Andrews was a little lax on his security tonight.

Gordon started up the staircase to the main floor. It was curved, carpeted, and open to the main level. The light increased as he rounded the corner and the well-lit main floor came into view. His grip on the rosewood handle of the Colt 1911 tightened. He stopped two stairs from the top and fumbled with the gun, trying to find the safety. He switched off the upswept grip safety and continued on, now moving into the wide hall leading from the front entrance to the great room in the rear of the house. Soft music played over the sound system, and he could hear a television somewhere in the back of the house. He moved quietly along the hall into the great room. The ceilings were at least eighteen feet and the entire back of the room was a bank of windows, looking out over the grass that ran down to the river. The room was unoccupied. He skirted the great room, keeping close to one of the interior walls. The sound from the television was louder now, and when he reached a narrower hallway, he could see the flicker from the television reflected on the hall walls. He tiptoed across the hall, took a deep breath, and leapt into the television room, the Colt outstretched in front of him.

His brain processed the scene in a split second. A leather love seat flanked by two leather chairs, a coffee table, two glass-top end tables, and an entire wall taken up by a built-in entertainment center with a sixty-inch plasma television. But no sign of Bruce Andrews. As he turned to leave the room, there was a voice from directly behind him.

“Don't move an inch or I'll kill you.”

Gordon froze, the pistol still pointing into the media room. He heard a slight rustling behind him and then a whooshing sound, and everything went black. When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on his back in the center of the great room. His head was throbbing and his eyesight was blurred. He started to lift his head and got a boot in the stomach for his trouble. He doubled over into a fetal position and caught sight of his attacker for the first time.

Bruce Andrews was standing over him, a gun in his hand and a sneer on his face. “You dumb country hick,” he said, aiming another boot for the midsection. The kick connected with Gordon's solar plexus and winded him. Gordon struggled for breath as Andrews hovered over him. Then the man backed off a bit and leaned against one of the couches. “Everything was going just fine until you and that dumb bitch had to stick your goddamn noses into something that was none of your business. You have no idea the damage you've done.”

“You killed my brother, you sick piece of shit,” Gordon managed to wheeze.

“Are you talking about Triaxcion?” Andrews said. “A doctor prescribed that medicine and your brother willingly took it. He died because he was vain and wanted nice thick hair. Don't blame me for your brother's death.” He leaned forward. “But you can blame me for Jennifer Pearce's.”

Gordon managed to struggle up on one elbow and glower at Andrews as he tried to catch his breath. Unbridled hate burned in his eyes. “How do you know about Jennifer?”

“It's all over the television, you dumbass. Do you really think you can have a shoot-out in the office of the Under Secretary of the DHS and not have it end up on prime-time television? How do you think I knew you were on your way? I penned the dogs and turned off the security system because I wanted to kill you myself. There would be no justice in letting the dogs rip you apart.” He moved a little closer, the gun pointed at Gordon's head. “You ever been shot, forest boy?”

“Once,” Gordon said. “By one of Allenby's thugs. Didn't do much damage, did it?”

The sound of the gun firing was almost deafening in the confines of the room. The instant the sound hit his ears, he felt a searing pain in his left shoulder. He grabbed at the area where the bullet had hit and his hand came away covered with blood. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “You bastard.”

“I'm
the bastard?” Andrews yelled back at him. “I had a perfect life, you asshole. And you took it all away. You ruined the perfect plan. Zancor would have generated billions of dollars for Veritas, my shares and options would have gone through the roof, and life would have continued with no one the wiser. But you two stumbling idiots screwed everything up.”

“We aren't responsible for your fall from grace,” Gordon snarled back. “You knowingly marketed a defective drug and killed innocent people who stood in your way. You threatened and terrified the entire country with a deadly disease just to get your latest drug on the market. Nobody brought this on you but you.”

Andrews leaned over and picked up an object from one of the end tables. It was the Colt 1911 pistol Gordon had brought with him from Washington. Andrews checked the clip, then snapped it back in place and set his pistol on the table where the Colt had been.

“Is this Jim Allenby's gun?” he asked. “Jim always preferred a Colt 1911 with the rosewood grip. It looks like his.”

Gordon didn't say a word, just stared at him.

“Well, I think it's fitting that Jim's gun is the one that kills you. I think he would like that.” He stretched his arm out straight and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He aimed and pulled the trigger again. “What the…”

Gordon was on his feet and lunging at Andrews just as the man pulled the trigger for the second time. Andrews dropped the Colt and grabbed for his pistol. Too late. Gordon hit him in the midsection with his right shoulder, driving Andrews back and toppling him over. Andrews swung at Gordon, but he ducked and countered with a fast right. The fist caught Andrews half on his nose and half on his cheek. Blood instantly poured from the broken nose, and Gordon swung a roundhouse left at the prone man's head. It landed but was totally ineffective, all power in the arm sapped by the bullet wound. He got two more quick shots in with his right before Andrews managed a counter and caught Gordon in the side of the head.

The blow stunned him for a second and Andrews used the opportunity to push Gordon off and leap back to his feet. For a big man, he moved with surprising alacrity. He barreled down on Gordon, aiming to drive him into the floor. Gordon rolled at the last possible split second and Andrews slammed into the hardwood. Gordon spun around on his back on the hardwood and used the momentum of the spin to drive his foot into the side of Andrews's face. He heard the jawbone break, and Andrews bellowed with pain. Gordon spun again, this time kicking out at the end table Andrews had set the pistol on. His leg caught the table and knocked it over. The gun came crashing down on the floor, and Gordon grabbed it.

He slipped his finger into the trigger guard and jumped on Andrews, ramming the barrel of the gun into the side of the man's head. The room took on an eerie silence as Gordon cocked the gun. Neither man moved for a few seconds, save to breathe.

“Until yesterday, I'd never killed a man,” Gordon hissed. “I didn't like it, but somehow I don't think killing you is going to bother me.” His finger tightened on the trigger.

“Don't do it, Gordon.”

Buchanan looked up, the business end of the gun still pressed firmly against Andrews's head. Standing in the doorway was J.D. Rothery. Immediately behind him were Craig Simms and a couple of faceless agents. They moved slowly into the room, their guns trained on Gordon.

“Don't kill him, Gordon. It's not worth it.”

“Oh, I think it is,” Gordon said, the gun unmoving in his hand.

“You pull that trigger and you'll be charged with murder,” Rothery said. “You'll spend the rest of your life in prison. And for what? Killing him is giving him the easy way out.”

“How do you figure that?” Gordon asked. He and Andrews's eyes were locked, neither man flinching.