Dying Art Read online

  Tragg waited what he felt was a sufficient amount of time, and then said, “The XR-25. He wants to use it.”

  The man’s head shot up. “What?”

  Tragg repeated the words.

  A look of panic twisted Bruns’s face now, his head twitching back and forth, his body shaking. “That’s... That’s impossible. I’m under a government contract. I couldn’t possibly...” He stopped and stared directly at Tragg. “What’s going on? Who is this guy?”

  “His name’s Don Fernando de la Vega.” Tragg waited to see if the name registered. It apparently didn’t, so he added, “He runs the Los Bajos Diablos drug cartel in Mexico.”

  “A drug cartel.” Bruns’s expression was vacuous. He was silent for a while, perhaps ten seconds, then said, “Well, it’s not like I’d be dealing with terrorists, or anything... But how could I explain it?”

  Tragg kept his voice even, like he was describing a sure thing. “Just put it off to an error. A malfunction. An accident.”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose I could... It may very well ruin my chances for continuing with the contract, of course.” Bruns seemed to be trying very hard to take all this in. His mouth closed, his lips compressed, his eyes remained distant and unfocused. Finally, he gazed again at the lioness and then back to Tragg. “And the resulting lawsuit...a settlement could be reached...” Finally, he shook his head. “But, the XR-25... How does he... It’s impossible. I could never smuggle that into Mexico.”

  “You won’t have to,” Tragg said. “He doesn’t want to keep it. All he wants is one shot.”

  Chapter Seven

  Stony Man Farm

  Virginia

  Bolan poured two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for Diaz, from the pot that the Kurtzman had going. Grimaldi got his own, but shot Bolan a wink as Diaz took a sip and wrinkled her nose. The Stony Man pilot pushed the cream and sugar toward her.

  “You might want to try adding some of these.” He jerked his thumb at the big man in the wheelchair. “His coffee’s usually a little too thick to pour and too thin to walk on.”

  She gazed at the computer expert with a questioning look, and, seeing that he was not offended by the comments, she smiled. Bolan remained in the Kurtzman Computer Room while Grimaldi escorted Diaz to a nearby break room down the hallway.

  Bolan had given the cyber team leader Romero’s burner phone. As well, the file that had been languishing in Diaz’s email cloud had been downloaded onto a flash drive. It took Kurtzman about ten minutes to crack the burner phone and give Bolan a list of the calls made on it.

  “This other file might be a little more challenging,” Kurtzman said, hunching over his computer as his fingers danced over the keyboard. “Give me about twenty minutes.”

  Bolan took the printout of the calls and went to join Diaz and Grimaldi in the break room. He scanned the list as he walked. There were several to the same two numbers in the past two days, including one immediately prior to their arrival at the hotel.

  They looked up expectantly as he entered.

  “There doesn’t appear to be much doubt that Romero was in contact with the men who hit the hotel,” Bolan said, holding up the printout.

  “I knew he was one of the bad guys,” Grimaldi said.

  “So he was involved in the death of my father?” Diaz asked.

  “It looks that way.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes and she covered them with her hands. Her body shook for several seconds.

  Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged glances.

  After a few moments more, she regained control of herself and wiped her nose.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It brought everything back too quickly.”

  “That’s all right,” Bolan said. “We understand.”

  Grimaldi placed a hand on her shoulder. “Plus, the son of a bitch got what he deserved. His own associates did him in.”

  “Why did they kill him?” she asked. “If he was one of them?”

  “Most likely they were afraid of what he might say if he remained alive,” Bolan said.

  “Once a rat, always a rat,” Grimaldi added.

  “A rat?” she said.

  Grimaldi grinned. “The human kind.”

  About fifteen minutes later Kurtzman rolled his wheelchair through the doorway with a thick sheaf of papers on his lap. The grin on his big bearded face told them he had been successful.

  “I made a hard copy so you could go over it easier,” he said, then cocked his head slightly. “I also ran it through a translator that put the text in English, more or less. I can run one off in Spanish for you, too, if you want.”

  “I read English,” Diaz said.

  “But give us the Spanish one, as well,” Bolan said. “We may need to go over them both.”

  Kurtzman set the printouts on the table, and wheeled himself out of the room, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll put on some more coffee.”

  “Don’t do us any favors,” Grimaldi called to him.

  Thirty minutes later they had the gist of the story without needing to read the Spanish version. Rolando Diaz had been following the story of some allegedly stolen artifacts from the Middle East, more specifically from the National Museum of Iraq, which had been circulating in the black market in Europe. Although the theft and original sale of the items was attributed to a terrorist group, the interested parties were purported to be wealthy Westerners. The main item in question, a piece called The Lion and Lioness Attacking the Nubian, was a piece from the Islamic Period, dating back over twelve hundred years. Interpol had information that the artifact had been allegedly purchased by someone in Mexico.

  “Most of this stuff is routed through Europe, isn’t it?” Grimaldi said. “Through London, Switzerland or Turkey.”

  Bolan tapped the paper on the tabletop. “Perhaps that’s why it piqued Rolando’s interest. In any case, it does fit with the variety of players we’ve seen in the game.”

  “Damn straight,” Grimaldi said. “But it still doesn’t explain that note in Arabic they found down there.”

  “Arabic?” Diaz asked.

  “The Arabic word for vengeance was found at the crime scene,” Bolan said.

  “Those guys who hit us yesterday were wearing masks, so it was hard to tell,” Grimaldi said. “I guess they could’ve been Arabs, but those guys in Cancun were hard-core Mexican gangbangers, except for the two Anglos. One had red hair.”

  “I wonder if the authorities found anything regarding those guys.”

  “Well, we can’t ask Romero.” Grimaldi took a sip from his coffee cup, then shook his head in disgust. “And I certainly hope you aren’t thinking about calling Special Agent Webber.”

  “Actually, no,” Bolan said, picking up Kurtzman’s desk phone. “I’ve got someone else in mind.”

  He punched in the number for Jésus Martinez, who answered on the third ring with a tentative, “Hola.”

  Martinez’s voice warmed when Bolan identified himself. After an exchange of amenities, the Executioner got right to the point, briefing the sergeant on the death of Romero and what they’d found out about his involvement with the gunmen who’d attacked them. “I believe they executed him.”

  “That does not surprise me,” Martinez said. “What about Consuelo? Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine,” Bolan said, shooting a quick look at the woman. “In fact, she’s sitting a few feet away from me.”

  Martinez grunted an approval, then said, “But I don’t feel bad about Romero.”

  “Same for me.”

  The sergeant sighed. “It was as we suspected. We must never stop fighting this corruption. These killers, they were of the same group as Cancun?”

  “Seems likely,” Bolan said. “Do you know if anything was found out about the ones we killed?”

  “Despite the late Lieutenant Romero
’s claim that they found nothing, I have made a few discreet inquiries myself. There are still a few members of the National Police I trust. Eight of the ten dead men were known to be with the cartels. The two gringos...nada.”

  “Think you could fax me copies of their fingerprints?”

  “Sí, I will look into it. What is your fax number?”

  Bolan gave it to him. “Jésus, I’d appreciate it if you could handle this secretly. Until we know who those guys were, we have to be extra careful.”

  “I will see to it myself, my friend. I need to make a few calls and get this done, but it may take me some time.”

  “How long?”

  Bolan could hear Martinez blow out a slow breath. “A few hours at least.”

  “Whenever you can,” Bolan said. “I appreciate it.” The sergeant’s call would be routed through several cutouts before finally connecting to the Computer Room’s secure fax machine.

  After they hung up Bolan advised Kurtzman to be on the lookout for the fax and to see what he could find out. The cyber team leader grunted an affirmation.

  “What do we do now?” Diaz asked.

  “We wait,” Grimaldi said.

  “And keep trying to put some of these pieces together,” Bolan added.

  Midway International Airport

  Chicago, Illinois

  Tragg walked briskly through the airport. It was sparsely populated at that late hour. Since he’d left half of the artifact with Bruns, he hadn’t even had any carry-ons so he’d been able to deplane almost immediately after the door had been opened. Now, at this late hour, he had only to call Dean and get a ride to their hotel. He punched in the number on his burner phone and waited. Dean answered after one ring.

  “Almost there,” Tragg said. “Come and get me.”

  “Roger that.”

  Tragg terminated the call and slipped the burner back into his pocket. He’d repressed the slight urge to ask how the mock drills had gone, but figured that was best left to a face-to-face meeting. Dean and the rest of the team were staying at a downtown hotel, which afforded them an excellent location near the MCC. The training drills had most likely been conducted in one of the vacant ballrooms that the hotel had graciously provided. Tragg felt fortunate to have avoided the monotony of the endless rehearsals, although he figured he’d go through a couple when they got back to the hotel. He’d be right there with them in the morning, so he would make the preparations this night. Making sure the extraction was handled in an expeditious fashion was paramount.

  No mistakes, he thought, remembering Don Fernando’s warning.

  He got on the moving walkway and kept a brisk pace. When he got to the next one, a man and a woman stood side by side, their suitcases in front of them, blocking the path. Tragg continued up to them and stopped, debating whether he should just shove the man aside. But knowing they were all on a surveillance camera, he instead made a polite, parting motion with his hands.

  The man flashed a smile and bowed as he stepped out of the way. “Sorry.”

  Tragg smiled back, resisting the urge to chop the bastard’s carotid.

  Not worth the chance of getting stopped, he thought.

  He was tired from all the traveling, and that had most likely set him more on edge than he should have been. Perhaps going through a few dry runs at the hotel would burn off some of his residual anxiety.

  Coming to the end of the moving walkways, he strode through the large and nearly deserted section where the shops and restaurants were, and proceeded past the final TSA checkpoint. The blue-shirted guard perked up at his approach with a trace of interest and surprise, but then dismissed him just as quickly. Tragg saw the main check-in foyer straight ahead, and the escalators leading down to the baggage claim area. Beyond that, through the automated glass doors, he could see the well-lit drop-off and pickup points. A solitary shuttle bus and a few taxis idled by the curb. He strolled down the sidewalk and watched for the headlights of Dean’s vehicle. The autumn night was a bit cool, despite the unusually warm daytime temperatures that had continued to linger in the region after the close of summer. He could see his breath.

  The heat would be back, he thought with a smile. All hell was going to break loose the next morning.

  The distinctive headlights of the van popped into view, and Tragg stepped closer to the outer drive and waved.

  The van swung to the curb and slowed to a stop. Tragg could distinguish Dean’s dark face behind the wheel.

  “You do the rehearsals?” he asked.

  Dean pulled away from the curb before answering. “Been doing them for hours. About a million times.”

  Tragg thought he detected a bit of either weariness or sarcasm in Dean’s tone. He didn’t like either option.

  “Well, we’ll run through them again when we get back.”

  Dean blew out a long breath. “The men are getting pretty tired. Don’t want them to get burnt out, do we?”

  Tragg didn’t answer. The team was composed of members of Granite Security, and all of the men had seen some degree of combat action in Iraq or Afghanistan—or both. He cared little for their personal comfort. Not when a mission like this one loomed the next morning. He thought about reading Dean the riot act, but he needed him. For the moment anyway. Once everything was said and done, it would be a different story.

  He traveled fastest who traveled alone, he thought.

  Tragg eliminated any trace of anger from his voice. “Don’t forget about the team members we lost in Cancun, not to mention your little excursion in Virginia. And tomorrow I’m going to be in the thick of it. I want them to go through the drill a few more times with me participating.”

  He watched Dean for any reaction. There was none.

  “I don’t think I have to remind you,” Tragg said. “If anything goes wrong with this one, if we don’t get the kid out, or if he catches a stray round, we can kiss our money and our asses goodbye. Don Fernando would put a bounty on us so high it would attract the Pope.”

  “It won’t. We’re ready.”

  “That’s what you said about grabbing the bitch, too.”

  “That was different.” Dean angrily changed lanes. “Those guys were pros. Tomorrow we’ll just be dealing with a bunch of lax US Marshals and some bored coffee-drinking cops who won’t be expecting nothing but a simple four-block ride.”

  “Didn’t Force Recon teach you never to underestimate your adversaries?”

  Dean’s mouth puckered, but he didn’t reply.

  Tragg chuckled. Typical jarhead. Never questioning orders from a higher-up.

  “All right. Here’s the way it’s going to be. First,” Tragg said, holding up his index finger as he spoke. “No mistakes tomorrow. Absolutely none. Everybody has to be totally clear on that.”

  He waited until Dean nodded before continuing. “Second, we extricate the kid from the van with surgical precision. That’s why we’re going to do a few more dry runs tonight.”

  He paused and let the significance settle as a few cars passed them in the opposite direction, their lights shining on the darkened streets.

  “Third,” Tragg said, “you get Sergio out of the area as soon as we tag up with the truck. I’ll go pay my visit to Sinclair, and take care of that little matter. Speaking of which, did you get my piece?”

  Dean reached into his right jacket pocket and removed a small .380 Bersa Thunder and handed it to Tragg, who immediately dropped the magazine and checked the chamber. Empty. He then inspected the weapon and checked its action before reinserting the magazine.

  “Nice,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “From a guy I knew on the South Side,” Dean said. “Guaranteed not to be traced. Cops’ll think it was given to him by one of his shady clients as a payment.”

  Tragg stuck the Bersa into his right jacket pocket. He’d clean and wipe it down later.


  “Fourth,” he said. “You take Sergio to the airfield and wait for me there. Once the payoff is made at the lawyer’s, I’ll beat feet out there. Then we all take off for Arizona.”

  “Roger that,” Dean said.

  Tragg couldn’t read the other man’s mood, but it really didn’t matter in the long run. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, trying to let the anxiety and fatigue wash away like he did when he was over there, in the zone. As soon as they fired that round from the rail gun, the situation would get hot in a hurry. Taking out two presidents of two different countries, especially one from the US of A, would result in nothing less than total pandemonium, followed by a solid grid lockdown.

  An escape pod would be a necessity, but he’d already made that particular arrangement. He also needed to be certain that the payment was made to the Granite Security account in the Caymans before they dropped off Sergio at his daddy’s. By his own admission, Don Fernando didn’t like loose ends, and Tragg had no intention of becoming one.

  Stony Man Farm

  Virginia

  Bolan hadn’t been sleeping when the phone in his quarters rang several hours later.

  “Hope I didn’t wake you up, Striker,” Kurtzman said.

  “Not at all.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured. You’re probably the only guy who sleeps less than I do around here.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I was finally able to get some info on those prints that your Mexican buddy faxed. Thought you’d like to see what I found out.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “First of all,” Kurtzman said as Bolan walked in the Computer Room, “not only did it take next to forever for your buddy Jésus to fax me those prints, but the quality was so bad I had to run them through a special program to enhance them. That added more time, hence the lateness of the hour. Then I had to hack into AFIS, which is always problematic, and run the prints through their database.” AFIS was the national system used by police departments and federal agencies.

  A voice came from the doorway: “Sounds like a piece of cake for a computer wizard like you.”