Dying Art Read online

  Diaz regarded him, her expression still unsettled and wary. “Lieutenant Romero said he was taking me back to Mexico.” She shook her head. “I don’t think he is a very good man.”

  “You don’t need to worry about him,” Bolan said. “He was killed in the shootout.”

  That visibly affected her. She closed her eyes as she spoke. “So much death...”

  “What else can you tell us about the incident?” Bolan asked.

  Her eyes remained closed. A tear wound its way down one cheek. “I don’t know what happened. It was so fast. We went upstairs in the elevator, the three of us. Agent Webber didn’t get in.”

  “He waited to talk with us,” Bolan said.

  “The doors opened, and we were heading down the hallway,” she said. “When we got to the door of my room, Lieutenant Romero took the key from me and inserted it in the slot.” She stopped and opened her eyes. The tears ran freely now, and she wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Then. What he did next was very strange. He knocked hard on the door and yelled something. The next thing I know, those men attacked us. There were guns going off. Agent Louis jumped in front of me. I closed my eyes and don’t know what happened after that.”

  Bolan recalled Romero slinking into the room as the shooting started. Apparently, he’d received his payoff in the form of a copper-jacketed 9 mm bullet.

  “Romero yelled something,” Bolan said. “Do you remember what he said?”

  She compressed her lips, shook her head. “I can’t be sure. Perhaps it was, estámos aquí.”

  “It was in Spanish?”

  “Sí.” More tears escaped from her eyes. “You said he was killed, as well.”

  “Yes,” Bolan said. “It sounds like he was trying to signal the shooters. What about the flash drive?”

  “I don’t know. I left it in the safe in the room. We never actually got inside to get it.”

  Bolan remembered the open door of the damaged safe. The assailants had entered the room and broken into it before the arrival of the Feds and Diaz. Romero had evidently tipped them as to the room number. And his tip-off meant that he knew they were in there, probably waiting to grab the woman. Bolan wondered if Romeo’s usage of Spanish meant that the assailants were from Mexico?

  Grimaldi echoed the thought. “You think they could have been cartel gunmen?”

  Bolan shook his head. “I just don’t know. There are too many intangibles.”

  “Well,” Grimaldi said, “that note in Arabic is still bugging me. How the hell does that fit in?” He shrugged.

  Bolan shook his head and addressed Consuelo. “And that’s when Agent Louis got shot?”

  She nodded again and covered her face with her hands. “He saved me from the bad men. This has all been so terrible. First my father, then the men who tried to kill us in Cancun, and now this...”

  She began to sob, and, not missing a beat, Grimaldi placed his arm around her shoulders and said to Bolan, “Like I said, she’s still pretty shaken up.”

  The Executioner paused. The rest of the interview could wait. The best thing to do now would be to get out of the area ASAP, before the police canvass extended across the highway. With a shooting of that magnitude, he was sure it would, but then something else struck him. He had seen little activity by the side entrance, where he’d shot the first assailant. The dead body in the stairwell hadn’t even drawn a guard or crime scene tape on the outside door, which struck him as strange.

  “Jack, after the shooting stopped, you went back down the stairs to go after the van.”

  “And I would have got them, too, if it hadn’t been for that damn flat tire.” Grimaldi held up his left hand, which was streaked with black dirt from the tire change.

  “Did you see the guy I shot in the stairwell?”

  Grimaldi shook his head. “I saw some blood, but there was no body. You sure he was dead?”

  Bolan didn’t answer.

  That meant that after the assailants had made the jump out of the window, they’d taken the time to check on their absent comrade, found him and removed his body. Bolan knew there were at least two of them on the second floor during their retreat, and one was wounded. To take the time to stop and pick up the fallen man’s body and place it in the van had cost them precious seconds. So what was their motivation? Bolan had dropped the man with a head shot, so there was little doubt that he was dead, and a quick look by the fleeing assailants would have confirmed that. Yet they’d still taken the time to remove the body. It suggested that they were reticent to leave someone behind who, even in death, might be traced back to them.

  Not only were these guys pros, he thought, but they were careful about loose ends.

  He thought about the demise of Romero. That was one body that was still on scene for the locals to process. Romero...foreign national, foreign police officer, brought to the scene with the FBI. He’d let Webber explain that one. No doubt the FBI agent was struggling to sort things out.

  They all slid out of the booth and headed for the Escalade. Diaz was crying, her face buried in Grimaldi’s shoulder. He winked at Bolan, executed a one-shoulder shrug and handed him the keys.

  “I guess it’s my turn to drive,” the Executioner said.

  Grimaldi and Diaz got into the backseat. Bolan slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Across the street the drive going into the hotel was a sea of rotating red-and-blue lights.

  Anthem, Arizona

  As Tragg waited for the small plane to be readied for takeoff, he reviewed the plan in his mind. He’d just finished dropping off the male half of the artifact, the lion, in the bank safe-deposit box. The twenty-four-hour surveillance of Sergio and the tracker was well underway back in Chi-town, and Dean and the team had retrieved the reporter’s flash drive, although Consuelo Diaz was still at large. All traces of the op in Virginia, the van, the weapons, the dead team members, had been properly disposed of. Dean was most likely back in Chicago getting ready to start running the practice scenarios and ensure that all the necessary props had been obtained, including the two Arab students who’d be their homegrown radical decoys. Almost a perfect score, except for the part about the woman.

  Tragg studied the crew gassing up the plane. They were almost through with the preflight prep. He took out his burner phone and punched in the number for Don Fernando. The irritation was obvious in the cartel boss’s voice when he answered.

  “I consider myself a patient man,” the don said, “but I have grown weary waiting to hear from you.”

  “My apologies, sir. I was on a commercial flight, and that particular carrier does not allow passengers to use their cell phones.”

  Don Fernando seemed to accept that explanation. “Where are you now?”

  “In Arizona, en route to Temptation.”

  “And?”

  “Everything has gone according to plan,” Tragg said, hesitating before adding, “More or less.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tragg gave him a quick rundown of the Virginia events, finishing with, “But we didn’t get the Diaz woman.”

  Silence.

  “It shouldn’t be a factor overall,” Tragg said, uneasy with the don’s lack of response. “It’s doubtful she knew much of anything anyway. Her father kept her out of the loop.”

  “You speak of doubts and loops,” Don Fernando said, “of which I care little. I am interested only in results. What of Romero?”

  “That’s one loose end you don’t have to worry about. Killed in the shootout.”

  “Bueno.”

  Tragg could hear the man take a deep breath.

  “But this business about the woman disturbs me.”

  “As I said, I don’t think it’ll be much of a problem.” Tragg realized he needed to be more demonstrative. “She’s nothing, nothing at all. Not a factor.”

  He wai
ted to hear a response, but heard only silence for several more seconds. Finally, “I hope that you are right.”

  From the don’s tone, the “for your sake” implication was easily inferred.

  “Now, more importantly,” Don Fernando said. “What of Sergio?”

  “He’s all right. Everything’s going well. According to our plan.”

  “And tomorrow? I told you, I will tolerate no mistakes.”

  “There won’t be any. My best man is there now, running practice drills. It’ll be like clockwork.”

  “It had better be,” Don Fernando said. “Clockwork... It is wise for you to remember, then, that I am expecting nothing less than a Rolex.”

  Safe house, Stony Man Farm

  Virginia

  “Where have you taken me?” Consuelo Diaz asked as the blindfold was removed and she looked around at the room’s sage green walls. The “safe house” was tastefully decorated, with all the amenities of a modern studio apartment.

  Grimaldi asked her if she wanted some tea or coffee. “I’m an expert at making both.”

  “Coffee, please.”

  Satisfied that Diaz was somewhat relaxed, Bolan took out his phone and called Webber. A special app designed by the Farm’s Akira Tokaido would automatically block Bolan’s location. The FBI man answered after three rings.

  “Special Agent Webber speaking,” he said rapidly. “Who’s this?”

  “Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. “How’s Agent Louis?”

  “He’s still in surgery, but they’re cautiously optimistic. They said the first aid given at the scene probably saved his life.”

  Bolan had assumed as much.

  “I wanted to thank you,” Webber said. “You guys saved my partner, and...” His voice trailed off. After clearing his throat, he continued, “Anyway, do you know the whereabouts of Ms. Diaz?”

  “We’ve got her,” Bolan said. “We felt it best to get her away from the scene for safety purposes.”

  “Safety purposes?”

  “Yes. She told us that Lieutenant Romero intentionally pushed your partner into the line of fire.”

  “Romero? But he was killed in the shootout.”

  “Executed is more like it,” Bolan said. “Killed by the assailants. It’s a good guess that he was the one who tipped them as to where you were heading. We’re checking his cell phone calls now.”

  “His phone... Hey, wait just a minute.” The outrage grew in Webber’s voice. “This is still a Bureau case, until I’m advised that it isn’t. All evidence needs to be turned over to us to preserve the chain of custody. And Ms. Diaz, as well.”

  “You can take that up with the Mexican embassy. And as for the other stuff, submit your request through the proper channels.”

  Before Webber could respond, Bolan added, “Give our best to Agent Louis. We’ll be back in touch as time permits.”

  He terminated the call.

  “All right,” Grimaldi said. “It’s about time you laid it out for that straitlaced, superanal Fed. I wish you woulda let me talk to him.”

  “The guy’s just a little green,” Bolan said. “Does things by the book because that’s all he knows.”

  Grimaldi set two cups of coffee on the dining table along with creamers and sugar. “Yeah, and I’m just the guy to tell him what he can do with that book, too.”

  Bolan took Romero’s cell phone out of his pocket. “I’m going to get this to Aaron to see what he can find out.”

  “That Romero’s?” Grimaldi asked.

  Bolan nodded. He caught a slight movement from Diaz.

  “Señor,” she said. The fact that she’d addressed him formally in Spanish told Bolan that something was up. The question was, what?

  He paused and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  She bit her lower lip. “I do have something more to tell you.”

  She paused and Bolan waited. Patience was the key.

  “I wasn’t sure who I could trust,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t tell Agent Webber about the flash drive. Back in Mexico I copied the file and sent it to myself in an email. As I said, it was encrypted, and I could not open it, but if you want, I can send it to you, as well.”

  Bolan appreciated her candor and the trust she was extending to him. “That could be very helpful. Why don’t you come along and we can see to that?”

  She stood and Grimaldi emitted a groan. “I just finished making you this coffee. Aren’t you going to drink it?”

  “We can get some of Aaron’s coffee,” Bolan said with a grin.

  Grimaldi rolled his eyes.

  Lucien Technologies

  Temptation, Arizona

  Since the Lucien Industrial Complex had its own airstrip, the flight had taken a little under ninety minutes. Tragg hated flying in small planes. The pilot seemed competent enough until it came to the landing, which he took too fast and bounced the plane twice. Tragg chuckled, thinking that he’d have to tell Bruns how close his pilot had come to destroying one half of the valuable artifact. The guy would probably be looking for a new job shortly thereafter.

  As Tragg descended onto the asphalt runway, he saw that Bruns had a limo waiting at the hangar. Not a bad setup: private planes and pilots, his own airfield... This would make Tragg’s return trip the following day a bit less problematic. He strode over to the limo and pulled open the rear door, even as the chauffeur was hustling around the rear fender, managing to get there in time to grab the door and hold it open.

  A voice from inside the limo called out to the chauffeur, telling him to “Wait outside, by the hood.”

  Tragg was surprised to see Bruns sitting in the spacious rear section. The door closed behind the security man, and he watched the chauffeur walk up to the front of the vehicle, ensuring their privacy. Bruns’s eyes shot to the briefcase in Tragg’s hand and widened appreciably.

  “Is that it?” His voice was almost a whisper, full of reverence.

  Tragg decided to keep him in suspense and settled in the opposite seat without answering. The inside of the vehicle was upholstered with fine gray leather. It was so commodious that Tragg was able to stretch his legs out.

  Bruns stared at him from across the expanse, his words a bit more forceful as he again asked, “Is that it? Have you got it?”

  “Yes, and no,” Tragg said. He’d once heard an Army psychiatrist reply to a question that way, so he knew it was the ideal anxiety builder, and Tragg wanted to maximize the man’s anxiety.

  The defense contractor’s hands fluttered slightly in front of him. “What the hell does that mean? Were you able to negotiate a deal or not?”

  “Not completely,” Tragg said. He paused to get maximum mileage out of the nebulous statement. “I was able to locate the buyer, and I approached him.”

  Bruns sat there, wide-eyed, hanging on every word. He took in two rapid breaths through his open mouth and then asked, “Who is he?”

  Again, Tragg was slow to respond. After what he deemed were a sufficient number of beats, he said, “He’s a very rich and powerful man. He resides south of the border.”

  Bruns’s brow furrowed with confusion or irritation. Tragg wasn’t sure which.

  “Quit beating around the bush. What’s his damn name?”

  “I’ll get to that. He’s also a collector of fine art, and paid handsomely for the artifact.”

  “Whatever he paid, I’ll match and exceed it,” Bruns said. “I’ll make it worth his while. Did you tell him that?”

  Tragg stared at the man for several more seconds, then said, “Negotiation, especially with a man whose wealth is comparable to your own, is not an easy task.”

  “What the hell are you saying?” His eyes shot to the briefcase again, then upward to lock on to Tragg’s. “What’s in that damn briefcase? Open it. Open it now.”

  Tragg kept his hand on top of th
e metal briefcase, making no move to open it. It was locked, and he had the keys in his pocket.

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Tragg stated. “As I said, this has not been an easy negotiation.”

  Bruns shook his head in frustration. “What? You want more money, or something? Does he?”

  “I told you, he’s a very rich and powerful man. He has no need for money.” Tragg paused and stared directly into the defense contractor’s eyes. “He’s willing to part with it, and this—” he patted the briefcase “—is a token of good faith. But he wants something else.”

  The creases grew deeper in Bruns’s face, his mouth fully agape now.

  “Quit talking in riddles.”

  It was time to bait the hook, Tragg thought. With the special bait.

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew the circular key. Without a word, he placed the container on his lap, inserted the key into the round slot and opened the first latch. Withdrawing the key, he then opened the second slot and slowly pushed the latches back, allowing the briefcase to be opened. Moving with deliberate slowness, he lifted the lid and turned the box toward Bruns, displaying the contents.

  The defense contractor’s mouth opened, and then closed. His breathing was rapid and shallow, almost panting. Reaching out slowly, reverently, he ventured a tentative touch against the finely carved ivory. His mouth worked rapidly now, his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips, flicking more like a lizard’s than a mammal’s.

  “This is only half,” Bruns said, his voice an almost breathless whisper again. “The lioness. Where’s the other part?”

  “To be delivered upon completion of the deal,” Tragg said.

  He was feeling relaxed now. He knew at this point he could tell him any price and it would be met.

  “What’s his price? I’ll pay it.” His eyes bulged like marbles inside their sockets. “But, wait a minute... How can we be sure he’ll deliver?”

  “I’ve done work for this gentleman before,” Tragg said. “I can assure you, he’s a man of honor. If he says he’ll deliver, he will.”

  Bruns’s eyes never left the artifact; his tongue kept flickering, his breathing still erratic. “What’s his price?” His voice was a whisper now.