The RX Factor (25 page)

"My wife said you'd be stopping by." He gave Jordan a quick look up and down, his sleepy eyes widening. "Uh, what was it you wanted?"

Ryan jumped in first, unconsciously puffing himself up. "I believe you were scheduled to deliver a package to Kalliburton Labs last Monday, President's Day Who did you deliver the package to?"

Sperry, still groggy, didn't give his answer too much thought. "Yeah, I wondered why they were taking a delivery on a holiday. That's never happened there before. I thought it was a little weird, but I just do my job. There was only one car in the parking lot. A guy was waiting for me at the front door."

"Did he have ID?" Jordan asked.

Sperry scratched his head. "No, I don't think so."

"You gave a package to a man without making him identify himself?"

The UPS driver bristled. "Look," he snarled, "my job is to deliver the damn packages. I'm no detective. If a guy is waiting there for it, who am I to question him? President's Day is supposed to be a milk run, but I had thirty-seven damned deliveries to make. We only require a signature. I don't check IDs. Look, my wife said she thought this was important, but I really don't appreciate you coming by my house to harass me."

He made as if to close the door, but Jordan flashed him a smile that seemed to soften his suspicions. "I know this is a little aggressive on our part, interrupting you in the middle of whatever you were doing. Just believe me that this is important and a matter of life and death."

"Okay," Sperry grumbled, "what do you want to know about it?"

"Can you describe this guy?" Ryan asked, his voice calmer than before, though his irritation with the delivery man was growing.

Sperry hesitated, reluctant to answer. "I don't know, executive type, a shiny suit. I thought that was funny. Most of those guys wear white lab coats, but being that it was a holiday, I figured he was going to some fancy affair later in the day."

Ryan kept up the questions to keep the delivery man talking. "Was he short or tall? Black or white?"

"Uh," he mumbled, scratching his stubble. "Let's see. White guy, a little less than six feet, medium build, brown hair with a touch of gray."

"How about his car?"

"Uh, not sure."

Jordan jumped back in. "Mr. Sperry, think about it. You said there was only one car in the parking lot, so you obviously noticed it."

"Let me think. It might have been a foreign job; it was black, looked brand-new, maybe a BMW or Mercedes. I can't remember." A fearful look descended upon his face, as if it had just dawned on him that he was in over his head. "Look, you guys, unless you show me a badge or something, I don't even know why I'm talking to you." He backed up and reached for the door handle.

"Wait, we only—" Ryan's protest was cut short by the slam of the door.

Back in the rental car and out on the highway, they got a call from Crawford on Ryan's cell phone. "Hey, folks, we're here. Where can we meet?"

"There's a Starbucks near the airport," Ryan answered. "Take U.S. 70 West about a half-mile, and you'll see it on the right."

"Can you meet in thirty minutes?"

"We'll be there."

Ryan and Jordan told Crawford everything that had happened up to that point. They left nothing out, including their exploits in Mexico.

Crawford thought for a moment before saying, "First we have to find out what really happened to your friend Butters. I had a copy of the police report faxed to me—the story has more holes in it than a screen door."

"And the UPS delivery at Kalliburton Labs?"

"We can check out the security cameras, see what they tell us. But for now we have to stash you folks somewhere safe. It's obvious that some powerful people are after the both of you."

Ryan was quick to answer. "I don't think that's necessary, at least not yet."

Crawford shook his head. "I disagree. There have been at least three attempts on your life. Your luck is going to run out. I have a friend with a place on Lake Gastin. It's available, secluded, and will keep you out of any further danger until we have a chance to figure this out. That is, provided you stay put."

Ryan exchanged a glance with Jordan. "Okay," he said, "but how long do you think we'll have to hide out?"

"Give me forty-eight hours to see what we can dig up. I know I can't keep you down for the duration. But I think it's critical that you guys disappear for a while."

Once they reached the cabin, Ryan dialed Eric's number from the prepaid cell phone. This time he was able to reach Eric right away. "It's Ryan. We need to talk, in person, tonight."

Eric was silent.

"Eric. It's critical."

"Okay. But not tonight. Tomorrow. Twelve o'clock."

"Fine. Where at?"

"Where we used to take the girls on the weekends."

"You mean En—"

Before he could finish, Eric cut him off. "Yes, you know where I mean, no need to say it over the phone. I'll see you there tomorrow."

After dinner, Ryan and Jordan took turns calling the patients on the list they had stolen from the NHCA clinic in Punta de Mita. The plan was to use a cover story, telling patients or their mourning spouses that they were with a law firm initiating a class-action lawsuit against NHCA. They would explain that the suit was over deceptive trade practices—that NHCA had lied to desperate patients and bilked them out of millions.

The evening was filled with frustration. Call after call ended with a transfer to voice mail. After almost five hours, Ryan and Jordan had left messages for the 173 patients on their list who had paid NHCA $5 million each for their treatment.

"They're all dead by now," Ryan groaned after leaving his final message.

"In that case, we should start receiving return calls from their families soon."

Just before midnight as Ryan and Jordan were snuggling in bed, Ryan received a call from Crawford. "We've been at it all day. Not much to go on yet, but we've got all available resources monitoring the situation. Something should break soon."

"What about the surveillance videos from Kalliburton?"

"They didn't reveal much. Just the UPS driver. The person receiving the package was not in the frame except for his outstretched arm reaching for the package. The only other potential piece of evidence revealed was the right rear fender of a car in the parking lot, but the camera didn't catch the license plate."

"I'd still like to take a look."

Crawford hesitated. "Not a good idea. There's nothing significant and I prefer to keep you hidden up at the lake."

"Listen, Jim. You know I can't sit here and do nothing. I'm coming in tomorrow morning regardless. Hopefully you will show me the video."

"Okay, be here at nine. But be careful. I have a feeling that whoever's behind this knows we're involved. And if they can't find you on their own, they may be watching us, hoping that we'll lead them to you. Judging from their bold actions thus far, I wouldn't put anything past them."

A South African Airways 757 landed at cold,
drizzly O'Hare International Airport with a bounce and a squeal. Two tall men in business suits, their faces as grim as the gray skies they descended from, were among the first to disembark. They each bore a striking resemblance to the other, appearing almost identical except that one had blue eyes, the other green. After clearing customs, they headed to the passenger pick-up zone where a black Suburban was waiting for them.

The driver did not say a word on the forty-minute drive to an abandoned warehouse on Chicago's South Side. Once they arrived, the driver handed the green-eyed man the keys. "Everything you requested is in the trunk." Neither of the two passengers responded. The driver exited the vehicle without saying another word, got in a waiting car, and drove off.

The research provided by Craven had been flawless, and the South Africans were able to round up three known associates of Ed Sulari in no time. Before the three men knew it, they were sitting on the cold floor of an abandoned warehouse with their hands cuffed and shackled to a water pipe.

The blue-eyed South African took one of the hapless trio, an obese Mafioso cliche named Fat Tony, into a room at the far end of the warehouse, while the other took the second captive, a wiry tough named Al, to a room on the opposite end. The third man, Stanley, of medium build and a notch or two less macho than the others, remained chained in the middle.

As screams of pain and horror began to resonate from both ends of the warehouse, the third hood, on the verge of tears, began to sweat and stammer. Five minutes later—which seemed like an eternity to Stanley—the screams were replaced by whimpers, and the blue-eyed South African who had taken Fat Tony emerged. Seconds later, the other one appeared. The whimpering turned to silence, and after a short, whispered conference about twenty feet from Stanley, the green-eyed South African grudgingly handed his partner, who had made his victim talk first, a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

With the prize stretched between his hands, the South African walked up to the remaining cap tive. The clicking of his hard-soled shoes on the concrete floor echoed through the warehouse.

"You're lucky—your
brus
gave it up quickly. Now all you have to do is confirm what they told us, and you'll be on your way."

Stanley wept. "Oh, god, I don't know why you brought me here. Ask me anything, I'll tell you whatever you want to know. I have a wife and a daughter. Please, I beg you."

"Where is Ed Sulari?"

Cuffed and restless, the man was barely able to catch his breath. The green-eyed captor flashed a wicked smile at his associate, pulled a pistol out of his jacket holster . . .

"No, no!" Stanley thrashed against his shackles.

. . . and fired a bullet through the kneecap of the screaming man.

After the cries of pain subsided, the questioning resumed. "I will ask you once more. Where is Ed Sulari?"

"He's . . . he's held up at my cabin. Near Lake Geneva," wailed the crippled man.

"Give us exact directions on how to get there."

"Yes, yes, just don't hurt me anymore."

Three murdered men with ties to the Chicago mafia lay dead in an abandoned warehouse on the South Side of Chicago as the two assassins headed north on Interstate 94. As they approached the Wisconsin border, the passenger turned to his partner. "I thought these mafia guys were supposed to be tough. Those three were a bunch of pussies."

"Yeah," the driver responded, "that fat
tsotsi
shat his bloomers before I even had a chance to cut his toes off."

"Craven says this Sulari is a pro, though. We shouldn't take any chances."

"He's not going to be expecting us," said the green-eyed South African, "although the cabin sounds as if it's got some security and a good field of fire."

"Surprise will win the day every time," the blue-eyed one said. "Every time."

Perched on a small hill, the A-frame was nestled into the verdant pine of the Wisconsin countryside. Heavily wooded, the area was blanketed by snow cover over a foot deep. The nearby lake lay frozen and foreboding, stretching out in the distance like a snow prairie.

Sulari had been living on frozen pizzas and coffee as he waited for Craven's wire transfer. He planned to head off to the Cayman Islands as soon as the money was sent to pick up his commission and forget his recent troubles. He kept the radio and TV off in case anybody tried sneaking up on him. The cabin was equipped with enough floodlights to light up Wrigley Field, but he felt it best to keep them off. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself while the heat was on. For now, he had one small lamp lit and the shades drawn.

Sulari was just starting to nod off at the table when his head jerked up, his skin crackling with the rush of adrenaline.
Footsteps! Motherfucking footsteps.
Drawing his weapon from his shoulder holster, he moved over to the window. With his gun trained outside, he flipped on the floodlights, lighting up the winterscape bright as day. At first he didn't see anything, but then a burst of steamy breath in the cold air gave away a big buck, standing rigidly at the edge of the woods. An instant later the beautiful animal made a quick, graceful turn away from the cabin and, in great leaps, crashed into the underbrush.

The thumping and slashing of brush was audible for several seconds as Sulari let out a sigh. "Jesus Christ," he said aloud. "I've had enough of this nature shit already."

He put his gun back in its holster, turned off the floodlights, and walked back toward the stove, shaking his arms and cracking his neck with a quick twist of his head.
No sleeping tonight—there'll be plenty of time to sleep when I'm on the plane.

As he was fixing himself a fresh pot of coffee, he heard another noise out front.
That sounded awfully close to the front door,
he thought, adrenaline returning to his veins.
The deer wouldn't come that close.

He drew his weapon and advanced to the front door in the moody glow of the lamp. This time he threw the door open and thrust his pistol into the darkness in the direction of the noise. Shots rang out, reverberating through the forest. The great buck, a quarter mile down the hill, came to a sudden halt and looked back toward the cabin.

Sulari dropped to his knees and fell face forward. Blood flowed from the two bullet holes in the back of his head, forming rivulets of red in the white snow. With his pistol still smoking, the blue-eyed assassin reached over and turned off the burner on the stove.

Craven was not usually in a position to schedule
meetings with Stedman, but things had changed. As in wartime, where the president caters to the five-star general in command, Stedman now needed Craven more than Craven needed Stedman. He even sensed in his boss's voice the unconscious shift in power.

When he entered the elaborate office, two executives rose from their seats and left without saying a word. At the moment, Craven was the most important person on the boss's agenda.