The RX Factor (27 page)

"Our sources tell us this is the same Ryan Matthews who, just two weeks ago, narrowly escaped a car bombing in Chicago. Following the massacre, a shoot-out ensued between federal agents and the two shooting suspects, resulting in the death of both assailants. The men have not yet been identified, but FBI officials believe them to be hired hit men. Hired by whom, the authorities won't say. Of course we will update you as more details become available. Back to you, Frank."

The screen switched to the network news desk. Frank Billings, a distinguished-looking anchorman with silvery white hair, said, "Five people dead. Two gunmen and their three victims. Have the police identified any links between the deceased?"

"Well, Frank, I have learned that the three victims were all highly placed executives in the pharmaceutical field. Eric Maynard was executive vice president at the pharmaceutical giant Fisher Singer Worldwide. Five years ago, Ryan Matthews was an executive vice president at the same company. Up until recently, Dr. Jordan Carver ran a medical clinic in Chicago. My sources tell me that many pharmaceutical companies frequently used her clinic as a testing site for experimental drug treatments under FDA review. Considering what has happened in the past, the tragedy today may be the result of some sort of power struggle."

"Excellent observations, Sherry," Billings said. "Let me add a new detail that just came in. According to reports, Dr. Carver was the niece of Wall Street magnate Henry Carver, who, along with his wife, Jennifer, was recently killed in an explosion aboard their yacht in the Bahamas. The explosion has been ruled a multiple homicide by local Bahamian authorities."

Stedman watched his TV screen without blinking.

"Frank, is there any indication that the explosion in the Bahamas could in some way be linked to these homicides in North Carolina?"

"Nothing concrete at this point, but it certainly seems possible. Evidently, Dr. Carver was
also
in the Bahamas the evening of the explosion. Police sources in the Bahamas tell us Dr. Carver might have been the intended target of that explosion. We'll have to wait for further verification as to whether any sort of commercial espionage is at play in this case." Billings stared into the camera with an appropriately grim expression. "We will keep you, the viewer, updated on this breaking story as more details become available. In other news . . ."

Stedman flicked off the TV and threw the remote onto his desk. "Assholes," he grumbled into the phone. "They talk about verification and then they go ahead and babble about commercial espionage. We're the next big boogeyman of American business."

Craven did not respond; always the good soldier, he waited patiently on the other end of the phone, several floors below his boss, for his orders.

"Get a hold of Gallagher and update him on what's happened," Stedman said. "Then I want the two of you to get up here right away. The vultures are en route, and I don't want any holes in our story."

Craven, along with Andy Gallagher, the company's chief of public relations, made it to Stedman's office within minutes. When both were seated, Stedman said, "No screw-ups on our response. 'We are deeply saddened by the loss of our friend and colleague . . .' " He stopped and focused his attention on Gallagher. "Remember, use the term 'friend and colleague' rather than 'our executive' or anything cold like that. It's 'friend and colleague.' Next, 'we here at Fisher Singer Worldwide are determined to get to the bottom of this tragedy and help bring the responsible parties to justice. In this regard, we will cooperate fully with local and federal authorities."

Gallagher struggled to jot down Stedman's dictation on a yellow notepad.

"Say no more than what I've given you. Make sure your field people get the word, and if in doubt, refer to Mr. Craven for further guidance. I don't want one shred of information going out of here unless it is approved."

Gallagher looked overwhelmed but managed to spit out a fairly convincing, "Understood, sir."

Stedman sat back in his chair. "Okay, Andy, that's all. Craven, you stay." When Gallagher had shuffled out, Stedman glared at his security chief. "You insisted that we bring in the South Africans." He hesitated, as if waiting for a response. None came. "You told me they were the best. And look what happened. A friggin' massacre! And now the Feds have their bodies to trace. Who knows how well we've covered our tracks. We—"

"Calm down, sir." Craven's voice was neutral, with no hint of fear or panic. He'd been in worse situations than this and had always managed to come out on top. "The important thing is that Matthews and Carver are out of the picture and the South Africans are dead, too. Dead men tell no tales."

Stedman sighed.

"The trail is as dead as they are," Craven reiterated.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Sir, when I insisted on the South Africans, it wasn't simply because I thought they were competent at their work. It was because, as true professionals, they were ghosts. They can't be traced to their mothers, let alone to us. That's why I picked them."

"What if the FBI figures out what Matthews and Carver were after?"

Craven knew how to pacify the increasingly jittery head of FSW. "Sir, my planning has gone even further than ensuring that there is no trail. You know that the attorneys have set this all up in such a way that it's impossible to trace any of this back to you or the company. Even if the Feds get suspicious—and they probably will—they won't find a shred of incriminating evidence. I can guarantee you that."

Stedman chewed on Craven's assurances. "But what about the people we used five years ago? They're still out there. If they're discovered or begin to develop a conscience after the pressure of these recent events—"

Craven interrupted. "Conscience? They have as much to lose as us. Why would anybody develop a conscience that drives them right into a life sentence or a date with the needle?"

"Since, as you said, I pay you to worry about things even when there is nothing to worry about, I say let's tie up all loose ends, no matter how remote the possibility that they will betray us." His eyes drilled into Craven. "And no more outside help. I want you to attend to it personally."

Craven leapt to his feet, his body language tantamount to clicking his heels. "Consider it done, sir."

Sequestered at FBI headquarters, Ryan and Jordan
spent their time watching CNN. The couple was amazed at the efficiency with which the FBI had erased them from the face of the earth. With Ryan and Jordan reported as dead, the Bureau would arrange for death certificates and make funeral arrangements. Since neither Jordan nor Ryan had any surviving family members, this part of the ploy would not be difficult. As far as housing was concerned, Crawford arranged for the couple to remain at the cabin on Lake Gastin for the next few weeks while things cooled down.

"What happens after that?" Jordan asked.

"At that point, we'll find you more permanent lodging along with new identities. You'll be deep underground. Think of it as an unofficial Witness Protection Program until we have a suspect in custody."

Ryan and Jordan exchanged a knowing glance. A life of isolation and hiding was nothing if not disturbing. They no longer held their own fate in their hands.

"I could use a drink about now," Ryan muttered.

"Coffee's down the hall."

"Not what I was thinking, Jim, but I guess it will do for now. Anyone else?"

"Please," Jordan responded.

Once Ryan left the room, Jordan turned to Crawford. "What about my clinic? We're supposed to open next week. And what about my uncle's estate? Where will all that money go?"

"I'm not going to blow smoke at you. You will not be able to return to your clinic until the threat against you has been neutralized. Your uncle's estate will most likely end up in probate. I am sure we can pull some strings to keep the estate assets locked down until you are able to rise from the grave and make a legitimate claim. Our investigation is in the beginning stages, and building a case against this outfit will take months, if not longer. When it's safe and your identity is restored, you'll be able to resume life as normal. I know this is hard, but there's really no other choice."

Jordan thanked Jim for all he had done and then dropped her face into her hands just as Ryan returned. Crawford took Ryan's entry as an opportunity to make himself scarce. Ryan walked over to her and held out a cup of coffee.

"Don't be down, babe," Ryan said. "Think about the consequences. They were on to us. It wouldn't have been long before they got us."

Jordan sat on the edge of her chair. "The bastards weren't able to stop me with bombs and bullets and yet they've still succeeded. The clinic is my life's work. And what will I live on without access to Uncle Henry's estate?" She was holding back tears.

"I know how you feel," he said. "Honestly, I do. But we don't have any other options at this point. Frankly, we're lucky to be alive. And I have plenty of money for both of us."

"The money is not what I'm really worried about. It's the clinic."

Ryan clutched her hand. "I don't want to make Jim think we're ungrateful. We should really appreciate everything he's done."

Jordan's eyes sought his, an announcement at the tip of her tongue. "Ryan, I'm not ready to stop taking chances. And I don't want you trying to dissuade me, either. I'm
going
to be at the opening of my clinic." Her eyes flashed with determination.

Before Jordan could continue, the door opened and Crawford entered with a small box in his hands.

"There's a cell phone and charger in here. It's safe, untraceable—I think it even takes pictures. And," he said, reaching into his pocket and producing a set of keys, "you've got a new car. It's not the most stylish ride, but the point is to not draw any attention. I want you to hang out at the lake until you hear from me." He paused to let his orders sink in. "Okay, let's go check out the car."

On their way out, Crawford put his hand on Ryan's shoulder, slowing their pace to let Jordan get ahead. "I understand how she feels," he said under his breath, "but you've got to convince her she won't make it out there on her own."

When they reached the car, a bland off-white Chevy, the men shook hands as Crawford repeated his instructions. "Straight to the house, no pit stops and no movement until you hear from me."

Ryan gave Crawford a limp salute. "Yes, sir."

As they turned out of the parking lot, Jordan lashed out at Ryan. "This is just great. You've lived the last five years of your life like a hermit on another planet. This is right up your alley. This is probably how you wanted it to happen. Well, I'm not ready for that."

His voice quiet, Ryan said, "I wasn't ready either. It just happened."

"It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't given up."

"Don't judge me till you've walked a mile in my shoes, Jordan."

She turned away, staring vacantly out the side window. "I'm sorry, Ryan. That wasn't called for. But you know that if you weren't involved, I wouldn't give it another thought. I'd open my clinic and take my chances."

"I know," he said, his voice softening. "But I
am
involved."

"To what degree?" she asked, turning back to him.

He pulled the car to the curb. "To the point where there's no more me, no more you—it's just us."

She fell into his arms. "Oh, Ryan, I feel the same way. It's scary, but you're making me realize that I'm not living and making decisions just for myself anymore."

Ryan shook his head as he held her tight. "Even though you were right about me going into seclusion, I don't want you to do the same thing. To tell you the truth, I don't want to anymore, either."

"I had no right to say what I did."

"Yes, you did. We're in this thing together and there's no turning back."

"But I still feel guilty dragging you into this."

"You didn't. I'm in because I choose to be in."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I couldn't tell Jim that we were going to run off on our own. Who knows, the Feds may be able to force us into protective custody, considering they put their asses on the line faking our death. That's why I didn't tell him everything."

A sly smile formed on her lips. "Like
what
didn't you tell him?"

"Just before Eric died he told me to take a key. I didn't understand what he meant until Jim's men were pulling the dead assassins off of me. Then I found this as I was pulling myself up off the ground." Ryan pulled a key from his pocket and showed Jordan.

"Looks like the type of key you get at one of those pay-for-the-day lockers."

"Exactly. And the only place that has those lockers around here is the Greyhound station. And that's where we're heading now."

"I know you didn't tell Jim because you didn't want any more of his help, but—"

"There's also a practical reason," Ryan answered before she was able to finish. "The Feds would have to get a warrant to open the locker. That would involve more time and even more people. Too many people know too much as it is. Maybe I'm getting paranoid, but I don't trust anybody at the Bureau beyond Jim."

At the busy terminal, Ryan had tried the key in two-thirds of the lockers before he began to doubt whether the locker was even in this station.
Why am I so confident that this belongs to a locker here? There's no number on it, no indication, yet it matches the other keys in the unrented spaces.
He also started to worry that security might notice his suspicious activity. Jordan was on guard to cause a distur bance if a security guard came by, but they had no plan for the security camera, which looked down balefully upon his futile tinkering.

Inserting the key into locker 363, Ryan felt a pleasant rush as the lock yielded.
Pay dirt!

Inside the locker they found a sealed manila envelope. Wary of the camera's Cyclops eye, Ryan calmly closed the locker and hastened Jordan out to the car to review the contents. In it, they found the business card of someone named Oscar Huggins, general manager of K-Dar Labs in Richmond, Virginia. The card was paper-clipped to photocopies of FSW ledger statements showing three separate payments to Oscar Huggins totaling one million dollars. The ledger statements were dated five years back. Behind the ledger statements, they found a printout containing a list of names and phone numbers. The list looked familiar.