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Alison listened, horrified, while the small man standing in front of her matter-of-factly described the devastating effects of the drug he was about to give her. She knew that barbiturates would suppress higher cortical functioning as well as depressing the cardiovascular and respiratory systems, but reasonable levels were unlikely to cause lasting damage. Higher doses of MDMA however had long been known to produce neurochemical damage, resulting in an impairment of learning and memory and other neurological dysfunctions. MDMA was structurally similar to a combination of methamphetamine – speed - and mescaline, a hallucinogen that acted on the brain’s serotonin receptors. The drug forced unnaturally large amounts of serotonin to be released into the brain, causing the user to experience artificial feelings of empathy or wellbeing, which was why it had been used as a truth drug. Methamphetamine had been shown to cause degeneration of nerve cells containing the neurotransmitter dopamine, which could be responsible for the loss of control of motor functions, the tremors and paralysis, as well as the build up of neurofibrillary tangles inside the neurons of the hippocampus, the very symptoms that were characteristic of Alzheimer’s and other chronic neurodegenerative disorders. But even concentrated doses shouldn’t cause the effects he had described. There must be something within SP-17 that accelerated the effects of MDMA, temporarily enhancing its effectiveness as a truth serum, but at a terrible cost to the person to whom it had been administered. Alison realized that she was about to experience at first hand the horrors of the disease that had killed her father, that it would be the disease that she had been fighting all these years that would now strip her of everything that she was and then kill her.

She watched as de Souza prepared the injection, slowly drawing the pale yellow liquid up into the syringe before gently tapping the end to release any trapped bubbles. She tried to pull away as he approached but the restraints prevented her moving her arm. He quickly found a vein, and she felt the needle sink into her flesh. Then cold as he pushed the plunger, forcing the drug into her system. She tried to force herself to remain calm, to relax her breathing, anything to slow the passage of the drug through her system. But it was no use. Her heart was racing, pushing the chemicals through her bloodstream. It would be a matter of seconds before they reached her brain.

There.

Her nostrils flared as she detected the odor of garlic, faint at first, growing stronger with each breath. That was the sodium thiopental taking effect. The man with the white lab coat leaned in close, checking her pupils.

‘
Qué buena
, Alison, that’s good. I think we are ready to begin.’

Twenty minutes later it was over.

The small Honduran stood to one side as Friedrichs undid the straps around the woman’s forearms and ankles. Her eyes were open but it was obvious that she was unaware of what was happening around her, her gaze blank, her mouth open, her jaw slack. She made no attempt to stand as he lifted her easily out of the chair and on to a gurney.

The information about her father’s connection with Gant that she had initially fought so hard not to disclose was of little importance. The mother was already dead, the team he had left in Maryland would even now be preparing to leave the house, removing all evidence they had ever been there. It might be days before a neighbor would find her at the bottom of the stairs, the only sign of injury a broken neck and some bruises that would appear to have been sustained in the fall.

What they had learned about the adrenaline was much more interesting;
Der Eckzahn
would be pleased. Friedrichs had been impressed with how efficiently the Honduran had got the woman to talk. Having his men wear ski masks had been inspired. It was a shame that they wouldn’t be able to use him again, but he already had his orders.
Der Eckzahn
wanted him to take care of it personally. A Lear jet had been waiting for him at Carroll County Regional Airport, and had taken off as soon as he was on board. As soon as they were in the air he had dispatched teams to each of the targets.

There could be no loose ends.

None at all.

31

THE
GOLF
CART
’
S motor hummed gently as it climbed the slope. He had played the course three times already that week, savoring the beautiful tree-lined fairways and mildly undulating greens. But this hole was his favorite. Surrounded by water, with winds whipping off the ocean that could send your tee shots drifting well offline, it demanded precise placement and a deft touch with the short game.

It had cost him a small fortune to join, but the course was limited to members and their guests and this early in the morning he would have it to himself. He looked around, savoring the moment. He could never have afforded this on an FBI agent’s salary. The payoff he had received for the information about the sheriff in Hawthorne would be his last, but he had been paid enough over the years to enable him to retire, with enough money to ensure he would live out the rest of his days doing as he pleased, a wealthy man.

He parked on the green, spotting his ball as he stepped out of the cart. Not bad, closer than he had hoped. He rummaged in his golf bag and pulled out a putter. As he was walking to his ball he noticed one of the groundsmen coming up the fairway towards him.

Shit
, he had driven onto the green again. It was the second time this week they had caught him. He held his hand up -
mea culpa
- gesturing that he would move on as soon as he had taken his shot, hoping it would be enough to convince the man to simply turn around and drive away. But the buggy kept coming, the groundsman showing no intention of deviating from his course. DeWitty felt his good mood begin to evaporate. He watched the cart approach, finally coming to a halt just short of the green. The groundsman stepped out of his golf cart and started walking towards him.

As he approached the man slipped his hand into the pocket of his overalls.
Just a little closer.
The .22-calibre pistol with its tiny one-ounce slug was a gnat swatter, a gun for an old lady’s handbag. If they had let him use a rifle he could just as easily have taken the shot from the tee, or anywhere else from within a five hundred yard range for that matter. But the Hi-Standard .22 auto was the only production-model handgun that could be effectively silenced and a result it was the weapon of choice for the mob’s hit men.

The mark was walking towards him, a contrite expression on his face.

Close enough.

He pulled out the pistol, watching the man’s expression change as he fired a single bullet into his chest. There was no sound other than the muted click as the mechanism cycled. The man dropped to his knees, hands clutching the front of his Argyle sweater. The putter slipped from his fingers.

He moved efficiently, quickly checking that
the fairway was still deserted before stepping around to deliver the
coup de grâce
, a second shot just behind the right ear. The man slumped forward onto the green.

It went against his training not to collect the cases but those were his orders. He walked to the edge of the water and tossed the pistol into the lake. When they found the body the lake would be dredged and they would recover it. The gun would be traced to a Miami sporting-goods store known for supplying weapons to the Mafia.

He walked back to his golf cart and drove away.

32

THE
RED
LIGHT on the dashboard of the Volvo blinked gently, warning that a seatbelt was unbuckled. Fitzpatrick glanced over at his wife, already asleep in the passenger seat. He contemplated waking her but then thought better of it. The turn off US-95 was just up ahead, the base only another four miles, and there would be no traffic on Carson Road at this time in the morning. He would have her home soon.

He turned the station wagon off the highway. He had finally persuaded Carla that they should trade the Volvo in, and tomorrow, her week of night duty over, he would take it to the dealership and pick up the SUV they had ordered. He should have done it a long time ago. It worried him that his wife, who had never been the most attentive driver, used a car for her daily commute that had neither airbags nor anti-lock brakes. 

The sun was rising over the mountains as he drove east towards the base and he flipped the visor down. Up ahead, still a mile or so in the distance he saw a truck pull off the hard shoulder and join the two-lane hardtop, slowly gathering speed as it lumbered towards them. He had noticed it parked by the side of the road as he’d made his way out to the hospital earlier that morning. US-95 was an important route for long-haul freight and big eighteen-wheeler semis were a common sight. He supposed the driver had pulled off the highway to find somewhere to park up for the night. Which was a little odd, now that he thought about it. There was a twenty-four hour truck stop only a couple of miles outside Fallon on US-50. But perhaps he’d missed it, or maybe he’d just preferred to spend the night out here by himself.

The truck was closer now, still some way off but closing the distance between them. With the sun in his eyes it was hard to tell, but it looked like the rig was still picking up speed. Every few seconds black smoke would belch from the exhaust pipe behind the cab as the driver shifted through the gears. Perhaps the guy had overslept and was now in a hurry to get back on the highway before the traffic started to build. Back roads like this weren’t typically patrolled but he would need to watch himself when he turned onto 95. If he kept that speed up the highway patrol would be on him before he made it very far.

He looked past the truck to the base as a couple of F-5s took off, exhausts briefly flaring orange as their afterburners kicked in, the planes maintaining a tight formation as they banked to the right and started to climb. He leaned forward into the steering wheel, shielding his eyes against the morning sun to follow their progress a few seconds longer. They were old jets, only used by the Navy now as training planes, but the sharp needle-nosed design always reminded him of why he had wanted to be an aviator in the first place. Soon they were out of sight, disappearing over the mountains to the east.

His attention returned to the truck, still a couple of hundred yards away but bearing down on the Volvo at an impressive rate. The sound of its straining engine was now clearly audible above the gentle burble of the station wagon’s, and he could see clouds of dust billowing behind in its wake as it forced its bulk through the still morning air. Without thinking he eased off the accelerator, inching towards the hard shoulder on his right. The truck had plenty of room to get past but he could already see the stones being kicked up by the rig’s huge double wheels. It would be a nuisance if one were to crack the Volvo’s windscreen the day before he was due to trade it in.

The truck was almost on them, the first rays of sunlight glinting off the chrome on the huge radiator, the sound of the protesting engine now drowning out the Volvo’s. He had to be doing eighty miles an hour. Only a lunatic would drive a rig that big so hard on a road like this. For the first time Fitzpatrick wondered whether something had happened. Had the accelerator stuck open? Perhaps the driver was unconscious, his foot jammed on the gas. It was close enough that he could easily make out the letters in the grill – MACK - but with the sun behind it was harder to see up into the cab. He decided he would turn the Volvo around once the truck had passed them. If the driver didn’t quickly show signs of slowing down he would call it in to the sheriff. Even at this time in the morning there would be carnage if the rig hit the junction where Carson joined the highway at anything like that speed.

No more than fifty feet away now, towering over the Volvo, the huge air deflector on top of the cab close enough to block out the sun behind, suddenly throwing the station wagon into shade. It took a fraction of a second for his eyes to adjust but now finally he could see up through the windshield. There were two men in the cab. The man on the left did indeed seem unconscious, slumped against the door on his side, his head resting against the passenger window. Fitzpatrick shifted his gaze quickly to the right. He suddenly felt a jolt of fear as he realized the man driving was wearing a crash helmet. 

Everything happened at once.

He caught a glimpse of the driver pulling hard on the huge steering wheel and the rig suddenly swerved to the right, bearing straight for the Volvo, the huge chromed fender level with the top of his door, filling the windscreen and driver’s side window.

Fitzpatrick knew that he was dead. Instinctively he braked, pulling the steering wheel hard to the right, trying desperately to get the side of the car where Carla was still sleeping out of the way of the mountain of steel that was now bearing down on them. There was no time to get to her seat belt. The old station wagon’s wheels locked and it started to skid, bringing his seat directly into the path of the juggernaut. Without thinking he let go of the wheel, trying desperately to turn in his seat, to throw himself towards his wife in the second before the impact.

The Mack hit the left side of the Volvo squarely between the front and rear doors. The driver had braked before turning into the collision to avoid rolling the rig but nevertheless it was travelling at close to sixty miles an hour when it hit. Twenty tons of steel and cast iron engine block hit the station wagon with the force of a freight train, completely obliterating the body of the old car on the side where the base commander had been sitting, killing him instantly. Only the Volvo’s reinforced chassis prevented the truck from cutting the car in half and continuing on. Instead the cab mounted the station wagon, the momentum driving both off the road and through a post fence, finally coming to rest in a cloud of dirt and debris two hundred yards from the road.