Fatal Prescription

Deadly Plague

There seems to be little connection between the viral devastation of a small, African village and the massacre at a drug research facility in Belgium... But Mack Bolan has learned the hard way that appearances can be deceiving. In fact, a wealthy industrialist is about to expand the release of a highly contagious virus out of Africa and into the States, and use the “miracle” antidote as his ticket to the U.S. presidency. It’s up to the Executioner to take down the villain’s mysterious assassin and stop the pending epidemic...

“The security man was shot in the face,” Inspector Dorao said, pointing to the blood congealing on the desk.

He held his forefinger to the spot between his eyebrows.

“We found an ejected shell casing from a 9 mm about three meters away.”

Right between the eyes, Bolan thought. Whoever did this had good marksmanship.

Dorao motioned them forward and they moved through the security gates, the alarms going off as each of them went through. Dorao’s eyebrows lifted as he regarded Bolan and Grimaldi.

“May I assume that you have special permission to carry concealed weapons?”

“We came right here from another assignment,” Bolan said. “There was concern that this might be the first of several attacks.”

Dorao shook his head. “Let us hope not. But your weapons are of little importance to me at this point.” He gestured toward the elevators. “There were two bodies in the elevator. Others in the security office. Come. I will show you the rest. Upstairs. Be warned. It is not pretty.”

Fatal Prescription

Don Pendleton

Man’s enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself.

—Lao Tzu

I make myself the enemy of those who would victimize their fellow humans. As long as people continue to kill each other, I will not lay down my weapons.

—Mack Bolan

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

The Mack Bolan Legend

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Copyright

1

Stevenson Dynamics

Fairfax County, Arlington, Virginia

William J. Stevenson sat in the padded leather chair holding a remote in his right hand. He leaned forward on the large mahogany table, rested his elbows on the polished surface and clicked on the television.

Stevenson was in his mid-fifties with a well-trimmed Vandyke, chiseled cheekbones and a tall, powerful-looking body. His face was perfectly tanned and his dark brown hair was coiffed to perfection.

A glass sat on a coaster in front of him and a heavyset, balding man with glasses sat to his left. To Stevenson’s right, a thin, younger man in a light blue suit stood nervously rubbing his jaw, as they all watched the prototype for the commercial begin to play.

Two attractive women, dressed in typical soccer-mom attire, escorted a group of children through a CGI image of an idyllic, green pasture. The women smiled with bright, ultra-white teeth and conversed in inaudible sentences as the announcer’s mellifluous voice-over listed the benefits of taking Pacifica 7, “the surest safeguard against the Keller Flu Virus that you can get.” The scene shifted to a pair of young girls on some swings, their moms laughing as they pushed the children forward with light, exuberant exertions.

“Do not take Pacifica if you have inflammatory bowel syndrome,” the announcer continued, speaking in a rapid, subdued monotone. “Certain studies have shown that adverse side effects may be noticed in certain individuals. These side effects may include vomiting, diarrhea, swelling of lymph glands... Tell your doctor if you experience shortness of breath or rapid heartbeat. In rare cases, cardiac arrhythmia, stroke and death may occur. Pacifica should not be used in combination with any non-recommended medications, and should not be taken in dosages exceeding prescribed limits. If any of these symptoms occur, notify your physician. In case of life-threatening reactions, consult immediate emergency room hospitalization.”

Stevenson frowned and pressed the pause button on the remote.

“What the hell?” he said, emphasizing the last word. “Inflammatory bowel syndrome, shortness of breath, arrhythmia, death... Christ. What are you trying to do? Kill the damn drug before it even gets approved by the damn FDA?”

The standing man’s face jerked into a quick smile. “Well, sir, we are required by the FCC to verbally mention any potential hazards or risks.”

Stevenson stood slowly, stretching himself to his full, six-foot-seven inches, and then threw the remote at him. The other man tried to duck, but it bounced off his face, breaking apart and ejecting two small AAA batteries. His knees buckled slightly and his face contorted into a wince, which he immediately tried to transform into a smile.

“But, Mr. Stevenson, sir—”

“Rod, get this weak asshole out of my sight,” Stevenson ordered, his voice laced with derision.

Rodney Allen Nelson stood, waving his hand to usher the other man toward the door. Nelson’s face showed a placid, conciliatory expression. The younger man winced, then nodded, holding his cheek as he headed for the door. As it closed behind him, Stevenson picked up the glass and threw it at the LCD screen. The frozen image buckled and distorted slightly, and then went black as the glass shattered against it, leaving a trail of spilled liquid and broken shards.

“Jesus Christ, Bill,” Nelson said. “That’s the third TV you’ve destroyed this week. You trying to break Elvis’s old record?”

Stevenson’s face was still a mask of livid rage.

“Don’t mess with me, Rod,” he said. “I’m not in the mood for assholes or jokes.”

Just then they heard a light knock on the door. After a few seconds it opened and a startlingly attractive woman stepped inside. She had strawberry blond hair, and her blue dress clung to an obviously enhanced body.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stevenson,” she said.

Stevenson glanced at her, his eyes sweeping over her breasts. “What?”

“It’s Mr. Quarry, sir,” she said, hesitating slightly before adding, “He’s on Skype.”

“Skype?” Stevenson looked at the shattered television screen and swore. The woman looked perplexed.

Nelson stepped forward, his hand held in the same conciliatory pose as before. “Jenna, have the call rerouted to the situation room.”

The woman nodded and slipped out the door.

Nelson turned back to Stevenson with a wry grin.

“I hope it’s not bad news,” he said. “I was looking forward to watching some live news streams later on that TV.”

Stevenson snorted a laugh and they headed for the door. “Come on,” he said. “I want to hear what he has to say, and it better be good. What the hell time is it over there, anyway?”

Nelson glanced at his watch. “Around half-past midnight.”

* * *

STEVENSON WATCHED AS Jenna Callahan adjusted the large screen toward the conference table and fingered the PTZ lens along the top border. She pressed some buttons on a remote and then handed it to Rodney Nelson. Callahan turned and smiled at Stevenson as the television screen illuminated and the pigments brightened. An image of a man appeared. The broad, flat plains of his face and shaved head looked about 120 times their normal size. The background behind the face showed only darkness.

“Thank you, Jenna,” Nelson said. “That’ll be all.”

Callahan smiled at both men, turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind her.

Stevenson’s eyes, fixed on her buttocks as she walked, now turned to the large screen. “This better be good news, Quarry,” he said, his voice low and guttural.

The face on the screen was distorted momentarily by a series of lines, then came back. “There’s been a slight development, sir.”

“‘Development’?” Stevenson repeated. “What the hell does that mean?” He and Nelson exchanged a glance.

“Everything’s going according to the professor’s estimates,” Quarry said. “But...”

Stevenson’s brow furrowed. “But what, damn it?”

Quarry’s image froze again, distorted by a series of horizontal, colored lines. When he came back, part of the transmission was indistinct. “—infected. He was taken from the village and transported to a hospital in Luanda.”

“What? Who? You faded out.”

“An American aide,” Quarry said. “He and his crew were in the bush giving some kind of inoculations. Measles, I think. We didn’t anticipate that he’d hear about the outbreak and come to check it out.”

Stevenson gritted his teeth. “Damn.” He looked to Nelson, who sidled over to get into the camera range.

“All right, Shadrock,” Nelson said. “We’re having a little trouble receiving you.”

“Are you sure this is totally encrypted?” Stevenson asked.

Nelson looked at him, smiled and nodded. He then turned back to the screen where Quarry’s large face loomed. “Where’s Dr. Debussey?”

“Outside the tent,” Quarry said. His big hand appeared and he jerked his thumb behind him. “I wanted to check with you first. Want me to bring him in?”

Nelson looked to Stevenson, who nodded.

On the huge screen, Quarry stood and walked toward the darkened area behind him. He flipped up a canvass flap and said something. After a few seconds a pear-shaped, professorial type, in similar dark, jungle fatigues that Quarry was wearing, stepped through the opening and waddled toward the camera.

He sat and looked around nervously. Quarry’s massive upper body leaned forward, dwarfing the other man as he gave him an earpiece.

“Just talk into there, Doctor,” Quarry said. “You can see him in the monitor.”

“Arnold?” Stevenson said. “Can you hear me?”

The scientist nodded. His chin sagged and he looked exhausted.

“Give me a status report,” Stevenson said.

Debussey took a deep breath. “The mist dispersion system and the accelerated incubation rate seem to have functioned exactly as we estimated they would. Twelve hours from exposure to onset. The antidote inoculation for the team has also proved effective in that none of us has been infected, despite initial exposure. I need to start the antiviral inoculations for the villagers.”

Stevenson nodded. “What about this other bullshit? This aide?”

Debussey’s face wobbled up and down like a bobblehead doll’s. “That was unfortunate. They were on a humanitarian service trip. He was an unexpected intrusion to the test, and was taken away before I could examine him.”

“Who took him?” Stevenson asked.

“The other aides. They’re working in a Doctors Without Borders program.”

Stevenson bit his lower lip slightly. “How serious is his exposure? What’s his prognosis?”

“Well, given that he’s already most likely been given a range of standard inoculations prior to coming here, I would imagine he’d fall into our Category Two.” Debussey paused and licked his lips. “I can go to the hospital and give him—”

“Don’t give him shit,” Stevenson said. “No contact with him, understand? I don’t want anybody to know you’re there.”

Debussey’s eyebrows rose in twin arches over his glasses, his image freezing just as Quarry’s had moments before. When he came back on, Debussey was already speaking, unaware that the first part of his wording had been unintelligible. “—to review the effectiveness of the adjusted virus’s prescribed life span. Of course, if the antidote is administered with a dosage of greater than 250 milligrams—”

“Hold on, for Christ’s sake,” Stevenson said. “Half of what you say isn’t coming through. Just put Quarry back on.”

Debussey’s mouth drew into a pout but he nodded and stood. He began turning and then turned back, sticking his face close to the camera lens.

“Do you want me to accelerate the administration of the antidote to the villagers at this time?” he asked.

“I’ll advise,” Stevenson said. “Now put Quarry back on. Alone.”

Debussey disappeared from the screen momentarily and then could be seen walking to exit the tent. Quarry’s big face and shoulders appeared again.

“Is that pussy gone?” Stevenson asked.

Quarry nodded. “I told him to wait outside.”

“What are the chances that infected aide can be taken care of quietly?” Stevenson asked. “Over there.”

Quarry shook his head. “Right now it’d be pretty hard. The capital was already crawling with journalists covering the Doctors Without Borders inoculation program. Word is they’re regrouping to check on the outbreak shortly, once he arrives at the hospital.”

“Shit,” Stevenson swore. “How the hell are we going to contain this now?”

“We’d better go into damage control mode right away,” Nelson said.

“Damn straight,” Stevenson confirmed. He looked back at the screen. “Who’s this infected aide? What’s his name?”

“Frank Clayton,” Quarry said.

Stevenson brought his hands to his face and massaged his temples. “Okay, let’s get a handle on this. First, we need to find out where this guy Clayton is and how to deal with him. We also need to wrap things up before word gets out. This thing has to be contained immediately.”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Debussey’s preparing a load of antiviral shots to curtail things in the village.”

“Forget that,” Stevenson said. “Go with the quick-action plan we discussed.”

Quarry’s face twitched. “You sure, sir?”

“Yes, I am,” Stevenson said in a clipped tone. “And don’t ever question me again.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Stevenson glared at the image on the screen, hoping his anger would be effectively conveyed by the camera. “Make it look like the work of frightened locals.”

“Understood, sir.”

“And then get Debussey on a plane back here ASAP,” Stevenson said. “The sooner, the better.”

Quarry nodded. “He won’t be happy. Like I said, he’s been preparing the antivirals to give to the entire village.”

“That goddamn idiot. Tell him you’re leaving a team behind to do that. Just get him out of there, and then take care of business as planned. Got it?”

Quarry’s face showed no emotion. “Yes, sir.”

Stevenson snapped his fingers and Nelson handed him the remote.

“Get back here as soon as you’re done,” Stevenson directed, and pressed the button to end the transmission. He held the remote in his hand for a moment then turned and hurled it against the wall. It broke apart, spilling batteries and plastic backings.

Nelson chuckled. “Well, at least Elvis spared the TV this time.”

Stevenson eyed him sharply and then smirked. “Good old Rod... Always able to make me laugh, even in the darkest of times.”

“What’s there to be mad about?” Nelson flashed a wide grin. “From the sound of it, Debussey’s modifications to the CEZ-A2 were a complete success, and Quarry and his boys will eliminate the tribe and burn the place to the ground. He matches the local skin color, so it’ll just look like another case of vigilante action in the face of indigenous hysteria.”

“Indigenous hysteria,” Stevenson said. “I like that. Has a nice spin to it. We’ll have to use that phrase somewhere down the line.” Stevenson paused and took a breath, a look of ecstasy in his eyes. “We made a good choice for our field test. It’s a damn good thing that life’s so cheap and those bastards are so stupid.”

Nelson’s grin widened. “Now is that any way for the man who’s going to be controlling the President of the United States to talk?”

Stevenson grinned back, basking in the ingenuity of his master plan. Yet he knew he had a ways to go before he could bring it to fruition.

“How long before the Talon checks in?”

Nelson glanced at his watch again. “Eight or nine hours. Remember, it’s still nighttime over there now.”

Stevenson nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I know. This country wasn’t built in a day.”

“But pretty soon you’ll own it, so you can change that,” Nelson said.

2

USS Fuller

Off the coast of Italy

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, let the rivulets of hot water wash over his face and chest. He turned, letting the flow go down his back. Nothing felt better than a hot shower after a mission in the field.

Well, a few things did, he thought with a grin.

He shut off the water, stepped out of the stall and began to towel dry his dark hair.

Jack Grimaldi looked at his watch. “You know how long you were in there?”

Bolan ignored the question.

“We’re on a U.S. Navy ship,” Grimaldi said. “You never heard of a three-minute shower being in the regulations?”

“Yeah, but I was in the Army,” Bolan said, continuing to dry himself.

“I hate to tell you, but you missed a whole line of camo paint by your ear.”

Bolan wiped behind his ear, but figured his partner was just razzing him.

“In that case,” he said, “I guess I’ll have to take another shower.”

Grimaldi laughed. “Not so fast. I’ll go see if I can find some cute sailor to clean it off for you.”

“No, thanks,” Bolan said.

“What?” Grimaldi turned and grinned. “I was gonna make sure it was a female sailor. They have a lot of women on these ships nowadays. Not like the old days.”

Bolan glanced in the mirror and rubbed off the traces of the camo paint.

“Or better yet,” Grimaldi continued, “I’ll commandeer us a helicopter and we’ll go take some shore leave at the nearest port. I know this great little cantina on Naples, with the prettiest women this side of Rome. That job in Libya was brutal. We can use a couple days of downtime.”

“Let me check on the status of our pickup first. Then I have to call Hal.”

Grimaldi frowned but nodded. “It’s probably the middle of the night stateside, but what the hell.”

Bolan looped the towel over his shoulder and walked to his bunk. He pulled open his duffel bag and took out clean underwear, socks, a black T-shirt and a pair of black cargo pants. He put them on and sat to lace up his boots.

“Damn,” Grimaldi said. “You look ready for the next mission.”

“Hal probably will have something to say about that.” He grabbed the sat phone and hit the button to call Hal Brognola.

The big Fed answered with a sleep-laden voice.

“Good morning,” Bolan said. He switched the phone to speaker.

Brognola blew out a deep breath.

“You sound pretty good for—” the Executioner looked at his watch and did the calculation “—two-thirty in the morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You know damn well you did, but that’s okay. I received a previous update through State that it was ‘mission successful,’ but I’ve been waiting to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“It was,” Bolan said. “We recovered the two IGRDs, and took out a bunch of bad guys.”

“Did you expect anything less?” Grimaldi yelled.

“What?” Brognola said. “Is that Jack?”

“Yeah. He’s still wired on too much coffee and adrenaline.”

“Probably jealous because he was up in the air instead of getting down and dirty on the ground with you to take out those Industrial Gamma Radiographer Devices,” Brognola said. “You know how those flyboys are.”

Grimaldi blew out a loud guffaw.

“He says—” Bolan said.

“I heard him.”

Bolan could hear Brognola’s yawn through the phone. “Sounds like you need to get back to bed.”

“Bed? What’s that?” Brognola asked. “You know I always stay in the office when you guys are on a mission, till I hear from you.”

“Well, you’ve heard from us,” Bolan said. “Jack is chomping at the bit to go on another op. Got anything pending?”

Grimaldi’s eyes popped and his face twisted into an exaggerated grimace.

“Not at the moment,” Brognola said. “It’s actually been pretty quiet around these parts. The Hill’s been doing some bullshit investigation of some drug company CEO supposedly inflating the prices of some new cancer drug, but other than that, everybody’s been quieter than the President’s turkey the day before Thanksgiving.”

“Okay, Hal,” Bolan said. “Since we’ve got everything tidied up on this end, we’re going to sign off and get some shut-eye. I’ll check back when we get to port.”

The Chevalier Institute

Outside Luxembourg, Belgium

AUGUSTINE FRANÇOIS, ALSO known informally in certain circles in Europe as the Talon, adjusted his wig and checked his lipstick before getting out of his car. That the car, a Citroën, had been stolen only hours ago didn’t concern him. The police would not have been notified as of yet, because the owner was quite dead and in the vehicle’s trunk. Stepping out and smoothing the skirt over his thin but powerful legs, the Talon made his way toward the entrance to the building.

The Chevalier Institute, he thought in English. Since he would be traveling to the United States shortly after he finished here, the Talon knew it would be apropos to start thinking in that language.

He was fluent in at least five, and had a working knowledge of half a dozen more. In his business, being able to listen to the conversations going on around him was imperative. It could easily mean the difference between escape and apprehension, life and death. Ultimately his goals were prosperity and survival. This protracted new assignment was so complex, so far-reaching, that he had the feeling it would be his last. The amount of money he was being paid would afford him a nice retirement somewhere, watching the sunsets and appreciating the scenery.

The building itself was a modern-looking brown, brick-and-mortar structure, three stories high and artfully laid out with large windows winding along each wall. A small pond was in front, a statue of a boy on a dolphin releasing fountain spray into the water. The grounds, lushly verdant with meticulously trimmed bushes and a manicured lawn, gave the place a pseudo-palatial appearance. A winding, pebbled walkway led from the parking lot to the front entry.

He reached the main entrance and stood in front of the solid glass door with its ornate golden handle.

Rather garish, he thought, using a tissue to keep from leaving any fingerprints on the elongated handle.

He stepped into a large foyer. Inside, the walls were a pale cream color and a skylight let the burgeoning morning sunlight filter down onto the highly polished floor. The opaque, plastic half-moon bubble of a pan, tilt and zoom camera was mounted to the ceiling behind the desk near the stairway and elevators. He wondered how many pairs of eyes were watching and made a mental note to not forget to deal with any surveillance disks that might be recording his entry.

Just inside the entrance a man in a blue suit sat behind an artfully shaped desk. The Talon knew immediately that he was security. His dark hair was slicked back and his cheeks had a sagging, pouty look. Obviously not the athletic type.

The curved, metallic desk obviously afforded the man access to phones and alarms, and perhaps even a modicum of ballistic cover. But since this was Belgium, he doubted the guard would be armed, even in view of the upgraded concerns over possible terrorist attacks. Still, the Talon decided, caution should outweigh any assumptions. This front-desk lackey might not be the only security person working. He knew he could not discount the possibility that one of the others, if they did exist, might have access to a weapon.

Behind the security guard, a series of seven-foot rectangular portals lined the entranceway to the rest of the building. Metal detectors, no doubt. The company had taken some precautions. But no matter. Each obstacle, now that it was known, would be dealt with in kind.

The Talon smiled in his most fetching manner, held out the little finger on his left hand—the one with the exaggeratedly long, false, bright red fingernail—and spoke in a husky yet feminine-sounding voice. “Pardon me, but do you speak English?”

The man in the suit smiled and shook his head.

“Parlez-vous français?” the Talon asked, relishing that the French sounded so much more sexy in his altered, husky-tenor voice.

“Oui.” The man smiled this time, his eyes roving over “her” exquisitely padded bosom, and asked how he could be of assistance.

The Talon decided to play it with coyness, smiling and saying in French, “This is the Chevalier Institute, isn’t it?”

The man nodded, his eyes still fixed on her breasts.

“I’m Ms. Juliette Fornay,” he continued in French. “Is Mr. Chevalier here? I have an appointment.”

The guard smiled and picked up the phone, obviously checking on the appointment.

“Thank you. Where is the ladies’ room?” The Talon punctuated the question with a smile and salacious wink.

The guard pointed to a door marked Dames.

The Talon went inside, once again using the tissue to grip and twist the door handle. He made certain he was alone, then braced himself against the door and quickly removed the 9 mm Heckler & Koch VP9 pistol and the two extra magazines from the zippered section in his purse.

In total, he had sixty-five rounds...well, sixty-six with the one in the chamber. He deemed that more than sufficient for the task at hand: going through the building, killing all of the employees, which the estimates had placed between twenty-three and twenty-seven, depending on vacations and sick days. It wasn’t a pleasant task, nor was it particularly unpleasant. It was merely time-consuming. But his employer had specified that none of the employees be left alive, and the Talon was all about carrying out whatever assignment he undertook.

He stuffed the extra mags into the special holders by his hips. After screwing a sound suppressor onto the front barrel of the pistol, he carefully placed it into his crotch holster, after first checking the de-cocking lever once more.

He took out his cell phone and made a quick call, speaking in Italian this time. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, we are ready,” a voice replied.

The Talon told the man to be prepared to proceed on the signal. He placed the cell back in his purse. After taking care to flush the toilet, using the tissue on the lever, he left the restroom and walked back to the security desk.

“I am sorry,” the guard apologized, still holding the phone, obviously confused at not having been told of any such appointment. “But Mr. Chevalier does not have you down for an appointment.”

“Tell him I represent William J. Stevenson,” the Talon said. It was risky using the real name of his employer, but the big man had assured him it would not be a concern since he’d done business with the Chevalier Institute before.

The guard spoke softly into the phone again. After a moment he nodded and hung up. “Someone will come to greet you shortly,” he said.

As the Talon waited, he observed. The building had three levels. Once he’d achieved entry, the rest should be a simple matter. Messy, but simple. He tripped the stopwatch function on his phone. His estimate was five to seven minutes total, at the outside.

Beyond the row of metal detectors, the elevator doors opened, accompanied by a warning ping. A heavyset, middle-aged woman with dark brown hair frosted with gray, stepped out and ambled toward them, identifying herself in French as Sylvie Bois, Monsieur Chevalier’s personal assistant. She stayed on the other side of the row of metal detectors.

“Do you speak English?” the Talon asked in French. “My French isn’t fluent.”

“Yes,” the woman said, “I do. How may I help you?”

“I must see Monsieur Chevalier,” he said, stepping forward, past the security guard. “It is a matter of the greatest urgency.”

The middle-aged woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise and she stepped back.

The Talon kept moving forward, despite the woman’s protestations. The metal detector’s alarm went off as he stepped through the first portal. The guard’s head turned toward them.

The Talon laughed and feigned surprise, apologizing and saying first in English, “I’m sorry. I have an artificial hip,” then adding in French, “J’ai une prothèse de la hanche.”