The RX Factor (22 page)

"This was a totally different science than the previous big-pharma, trial-and-error, drug-development machine. The smaller biotech firms are now in a much better position to capitalize on these new classes of bio-drugs. This caused Big Pharma to realize that their empires could soon come crumbling down unless—"

"I get all that," Wiley interrupted, "but the big pharma companies have been gaining access to these drugs by acquiring biotech firms. Let's face it, I'm paid to keep these biotech firms mired in red tape. A well-timed non-approval letter from my organization can devalue a company ninety percent overnight. I've saved your buddies billions already."

McNally all but ignored him. As they traveled past the tranquil farmlands along the New Jersey Turnpike, followed soon after by the industrial wasteland on the marshes of northern New Jersey, the commissioner sensed that he had hitched his wagon to the wrong star. McNally was right; he was small-time, shaking down whomever he had to in order to fill the campaign coffers. It seemed like an easy, lucrative gig, until he realized how high the stakes were.

McNally adjusted himself in his seat and continued. "A few years back, FSW set up an offshore corporation owned by several blind trusts. As I hear it, the corporate ownership structure is untraceable. FSW has the best attorneys in the world working for them. Anyway, this corporation, New Hope Cancer Alternatives, set up alternative medical clinics in various locations around the world, hired the best sales force money could buy, and proceeded to peddle these unapproved drugs as miracle cures to the ultra-wealthy at obscene prices. I've heard they generate a profit in excess of a billion dollars per year. It is amazing what someone with fifty million in the bank who has run out of hope will believe. But, who wouldn't spend everything they have to hang on to life? What parents wouldn't give everything they had to save their child? You see where I'm going with this?"

Wiley understood.

McNally was just finishing his filibuster as they crossed into Manhattan. Even though it was the tail end of the after-work commute, the going was slow. Wiley gazed at the broad Hudson glittering in the still-bright sunshine. A barge was pushing a tanker upriver to the unloading terminals on the north shore. But his mind wasn't on the river scene. Instead, he was far away.

He heard McNally murmur, almost to himself, "My father came to this town in the sixties. He brought with him three kids, a Harvard degree, and little else. And look what he went on to accomplish."

Wiley discounted the obvious—that McNal-ly's father had gotten ahead by nefarious schemes and underhanded dealings. For politicians and gangsters alike, the coin of the realm was power. All that counted were results.

"Yeah, my old man learned politics the old-fashioned way, in a smoke-filled room with powerful men—none of this preening for TV cameras that we do today. And back in the day, he had to fight off those bastards on the other side of the aisle when they had all the money and power."

"Yeah, but he hung in there and won most of his battles," said Wiley. "I always admired him for that. He was one tough old bird."

"And he had to be, because we're in a tough business. The strong survive. The weak die off." McNally stared out the window. "I plan to be around a while. But to get where we're going takes money."

"Constituents think working for them in Washington is a privilege," Wiley said, his tone self-righteous, his confidence at its peak thanks to the alcohol. "Truth is, you try to do something good for the people, but you're powerless without money."

He sounds as if he believes his self-serving spiel,
McNally thought.
Maybe Wiley is sincere after all. Or maybe he's just one hell of an actor.

Sulari knew he had to make the hit on Tommy
Kruger. It had been ten days since Craven ordered the hit and the car bomb investigation had finally started to cool down. The kid was a loose end— he had to go. While Sulari wasn't about to cross Craven's orders, he was damn sure going to do it his own way. The bomb had been far too messy and brought on unwanted attention. He would not make the same mistake again. A traditional hit was out of the question. The two events had to appear unrelated. The kid was a junkie, and no one would give a damn about him when he was gone, unless the cops tied his death back to the car bomb.

Sulari pulled up across from Tommy's beat-up tenement building. He checked his pockets again, making sure he had brought what he needed, before getting out of the car and crossing the street. He entered the building through a badly dented metal door and had to grit his teeth to avoid gagging from the smell of urine and garbage in the hallway. He heard a couple of crackheads, a male and a female, screaming at each other in the first-floor apartment. Something small and furry scurried beneath his feet as he climbed the creaky stairs. He instinctively wanted to take out his piece and blast the damn thing, but it wasn't worth it. On the third floor—Tommy's floor—he found a bum passed out in the hallway next to a pool of vomit.
I'd be doing humanity a favor by taking all these junkies out right now,
Sulari thought as he stepped over the man.
A big fucking favor.

He came up to Tommy's door and rapped three times. He waited ten seconds before he hammered the door with the side of his fist, shaking the door on its hinges. Still no answer. He could have forced the door but that wasn't part of the plan. Instead, he picked the cheap lock with a small pick he carried in his pocket.

He found Tommy hiding in the closet. When Sulari opened the door, Tommy's eyes bulged.

"Shit."

"Surprised to see me, asshole?"

Tommy's face was drawn and pale except for the dark circles around his sunken eyes. "I . . . uh . . . thought you were someone else."

"Someone you owe money to, maybe?"

"Uhhhhh. Well, yeah."

Sulari grabbed him by his dirty T-shirt and yanked him out of the closet, shoving him onto the couch.

"I need you for another job."

"Look, man, I can't talk about it now. I need . . ." "A fix."

"Yeah, I could really use one."

"I don't care about your junkie problems. I need to talk business."

The kid ran his hand through his mangy mop of hair and swiped his sleeve across his nose. "I can't focus, man. I'm in a bad way."

Sulari shot Tommy an evil stare. "I can fix you up, kid. I move smack as a sideline."

The bedraggled young man's eyes showed a dim glimmer of life. "You've got some H?"

"Yep. Want some?"

Tommy's breathing became faster paced. "I owe you one, man."

Sulari pulled a rubber cord from his coat pocket and began tying it around the young man's track-marked arm.

None of this was happening fast enough for the desperate junkie. "Shit, man, let's go. I'm dyin' here."

"Then you're gonna do my job?"

"Whatever you want, just hurry."

Sulari cooked the dope in a blackened spoon and loaded one of Tommy's dirty syringes like a seasoned expert. Just seconds after the injection, Tommy let out a big sigh as all the tension eased from his body. He slumped back on the couch, and his eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Sulari waited about a minute before feeling for a pulse. He found none—the kid was dead.

He wiped the spoon and syringe clean of fingerprints and placed them on the floor next to the kid's bed. He knew the "hot shot" he had given Tommy would elicit no suspicions in anyone's mind.
The kid finally did more than he could handle,
he imagined them saying.
It was bound to happen sooner or later.
Another druggie dead of an overdose—who cares? No investigation required.

He slipped out of the apartment, careful to lock the door behind him.

At the downstairs landing, two cops in uniform blocked his way, one tall, the other short. After an adrenaline spike, Sulari regained his cool, figuring they must be there for the domestic disturbance he had overheard as he entered the building. Nevertheless, he also knew the cops would be suspicious seeing such a well-dressed guy in this part of town.

"Hold up a minute, pal," the tall cop said. "What are you doing here?"

Sulari squinted. They hadn't drawn their weapons, and he was certain they knew nothing about Tommy's murder. Still, they might frisk him. Damn cops; he hated them all.

The short cop glanced at his partner, then turned and faced Sulari. "Let's see some ID, buddy."

Sulari shrugged. With a mighty burst, he slammed himself between them and out the door. As he pounded down the street with the cops in chase, he knew they would not shoot unless he gave them reason. He hadn't drawn his own weapon, and it was against the Chicago Police Department's rules of engagement to open fire on an unarmed suspect. If they did shoot, it would have to be in the back, which gave him an even greater sense of confidence that they would not fire at him as long as he kept running.

But Sulari was not in great shape and the extra fifty pounds he was carrying was beginning to work against him. After only a block he was running out of steam. Even if he did manage to somehow outrun them, they'd call in backup, and he'd be finished for sure. Fleeing the neighborhood wasn't an option because his car was parked across from Tommy's apartment; left there, it would raise suspicions once Tommy was found.

The dingy street was all but deserted.
The damn druggies are all passed out. Too bad, I could lose these coppers in a crowd or take a hostage. But there ain't a fucking soul around.

But Sulari made good use of his lead, and his mind was working faster than his legs. He knew the cops had no idea who he was, and they certainly wouldn't expect him to strike first.
I'll make the desolation of these streets work for me.

As he came up to a blind corner, he sneaked a peek back. He was thirty feet ahead of them and they hadn't drawn their weapons. Sulari whipped his Glock 9mm out of his jacket pocket and screwed on the silencer in one fluid motion. When the two cops came flying around the corner, they were clearly not prepared for their suspect to be standing still with a gun in his hand.

He shot both of them at close range before either knew what hit them. He put one slug apiece into their heads for insurance. Sulari calmly unscrewed the silencer with a rag and walked away, leaving the cops face down on the sidewalk, their blood flowing over the curb into the gutter.

A few minutes later, he was in his car and heading for safe haven. As his heart calmed down from the rush of the chase, he rolled over the situation in his mind. The two cops were shot about a block and a half away from Tommy's. Tommy was dead from an overdose, with no signs of a struggle. Even if the two crime scenes were connected, there was no evidence to link the killings to him.

Sulari didn't want to screw around with Craven. Guys like Craven would kill anyone for any reason if it advanced their interests. Craven was a merciless killer with an endless supply of resources who would not stop until the job was done.

No, Sulari surmised,
this job was done. I'll get my money, and this will be my last deal with that asshole.

Carl Wiley was visibly shaking as the limo pulled
up in front of a midtown Manhattan building. Built in the post-jazz era of large, dark stones, it boasted towers and turrets, projecting a strong influence of Gothic architecture. Impressive as it was, the old building was overwhelmed in the shadows of the modern skyscrapers that loomed nearby.

Senator McNally gazed up at the old relic. "You know," he said, still waxing nostalgic, "that's what's so great about this town. You drive down almost any street in Manhattan and find buildings from the nineteenth century, towers like the Empire State Building right out of the twenties and thirties, and the newest glass and steel monsters, all standing side by side. This town is America's museum."

Wiley was not in the mood for a discussion on New York, its unique architecture, or its place in the American tradition, so he simply nodded in agreement. The limo pulled up right in front of a No Parking sign. A pair of NYPD officers approached as they exited the vehicle. The younger one snarled, "Hey, can't you read the sign?"

The older one, having recognized McNally, elbowed his partner. "Good evening, Senator. Nice to see you again."

The senator looked at him with bleary eyes.

"Is that you, Callahan?"

The old cop beamed. "Yes, sir, it's me."

"How's your family?"

"Fine, sir, thank you for asking."

"Say hello to the chief for me, will you?"

"Yes, sir, I will. You can count on that."

Wiley looked on in amazement. Even though he was the head of a powerful federal agency, he did not have the connections of an experienced senator, let alone relationships with people as low on the totem pole as a beat cop. Impressed, he whispered, "You know everybody, don't you?"

McNally grinned. "Not really. His name was on his tag. I must have run into him somewhere. He's old; he must have a family. Did I say something that suggested I knew him?"

Wiley didn't answer, but what he'd just seen confirmed what he already knew: he would never be the savvy politician that McNally was.

McNally got on his cell phone, and within a minute, two security guards came out of the doorway to escort them to the meeting. The structure housed one of the most exclusive and expensive gourmet restaurants in the city, but the public knew little about the rest of the goings-on within the old building.

Wiley sensed McNally staring at him as they descended several levels in a velvet-walled elevator. Nothing hinted that they were about to enter the lion's den.

Once they reached their floor, they passed through a set of locked doors guarded by a pair of security guards, and emerged in the inner sanctum of power. Wiley's jaw dropped.

McNally grinned. "Carl, your mouth is open."

Priceless Oriental rugs were scattered throughout the magnificent room. The walls were paneled in the finest Brazilian cherry. Fine art adorned the walls, and the open spaces were leafy and green. Enough exotic vegetation lined the room to give one the impression of being in a South American rain forest.