Dying Art Read online

  Tragg affected an accommodating smile and held his left arm up toward the heavy equipment operation, while motioning the caravan through with his right. The cop behind the wheel of the lead squad car waved a thanks.

  If he only knew. The two vans sped past, followed by the last marked squad car. The nondescript black van was following at a fairly good pace about a hundred fifty feet behind. Tragg keyed his mic and said, “Get ready. Target approaching... Entering zone... Execute.”

  As the van began to pass, Tragg stepped into its lane of traffic. The vehicle braked hard and sounded its horn. Tragg shot the driver a dumbfounded expression and hopped out of the lane. He raised his middle finger and stepped forward yelling, an effective diversion as the man operating the bulldozer to his left abruptly drove onto Dearborn, the huge shovel lowering to catch the front end of the van. The driver braked hard and the vehicle skidded, but still slammed into the shovel with an accompanying metal-on-metal crunch.

  Tragg covered the distance in seconds, pulling the M&P pistol from his pocket and aiming it at the front and rear tires on the left side. The silenced weapon made only a plunking sound. He raised his arm, acquiring target acquisition on the driver and front seat passenger, both trying to push away the airbags. The glass of the passenger window shattered with Tragg’s next bullet, and then he shot both men in the face. He pulled the ski mask down over his own features.

  Behind him the metal arm of the backhoe crashed down in the center of the lane, blocking any traffic from the rear.

  Tragg heard the crunching sound of the pry bars popping open the rear and side doors, simultaneously accompanied by more suppressed gunshots. As he went to the rear of the van, Tragg keyed his mic and said, “Watch that decoy caravan.”

  “They’ve stopped and are moving back,” someone said over the radio.

  “Roger. Neutralize.”

  Seconds later the sound of more automatic gunfire sounded. Tragg knew that the rear guard was taking care of business.

  As he rounded the open rear door, he saw Sergio shackled to a bench between two slumped-over guards. One was still; the other struggled to move. Tragg reached in and grabbed the shotgun from the wounded man’s limp grasp while Dean adjusted his MP-5 across the front of his body and brought up a huge bolt cutter. He fitted the open blades over the chain securing Sergio’s leg irons to the bench and clamped the handles of the cutter together. The chain links snapped.

  “Get this fucking shit off me,” Sergio said, holding up his handcuffed wrists. A longer chain secured the center links of the cuffs to a ring on a leather belt around his waist. “And give me a gun.”

  Dean lifted the blades of the cutter and snapped the longer chain.

  “Get these off.” He held up his cuffed wrists again. “And give me a fucking gun.”

  “No time for that,” Tragg said, trying to fit the handcuff key into the slot. “We’ve got to move.”

  “No.” Sergio spat down on the wounded guard. “This bastard laughed at me. I want to shoot him myself.”

  “Hold still,” Tragg said, thinking that this little punk was not only a liability to the mission, but a real asshole, as well. A very valuable asshole. He managed to unlock the first cuff, then stuck the key in the second slot and twisted. The securing bracket fell open, and Sergio reached for Dean’s dangling MP-5. Dean’s hands immediately secured the weapon.

  Sergio’s eyes blazed at Tragg. “Tell him to give me that gun now. I want to finish off this hijo de puta.”

  Dean looked at Tragg, who nodded. Dean slipped the sling of the MP-5 over his head and handed it to Sergio. He pointed it at the wounded guard and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened, and Tragg knew that Dean had engaged the safety.

  Sergio tried again, with the same result. Tragg reached over and grabbed it and placed his other hand on Sergio’s shoulder.

  “That’s all we have time for,” Tragg said. “Move now, unless you want to go back to jail.”

  Sergio spat again on the wounded guard and hopped down from the van. Pulling him over to the sidewalk, Tragg joined the others who had formed a loose skirmish line delivering fire at the police officers who had managed to start climbing over and around the bulldozer. No time for the plumber’s van transport. They’d have to run it on foot.

  The timetable was definitely off, thanks to the idiot kid’s belligerence. Tragg kept him moving east. They had less than a block before the subway entrance on State Street.

  More rounds sounded behind them.

  The police were giving chase.

  The stairway to the subway was about twenty yards away now. Tragg keyed his mic and said, “Use the Claymore.”

  Several seconds passed, and then a loud roaring explosion ripped through the morning air, sending out a spraying burst of ball bearings at lethal velocity. They’d hidden a Claymore mine underneath a mailbox on the escape route just in case they needed to buy themselves some extra time. Tragg doubted the mine would do extensive damage to the pursuers, but it was bound to slow them down and give them pause in the chase, especially with civilian casualties now in the area.

  He steered Sergio down the steps of the subway entrance, and Tragg heard the sounds of people screaming behind them. The rear guard of the team set up a defensive position on the stairway. The original plan was to use the tokens for a low-key entrance through the gates, but now, with the police in hot pursuit, being low-key was the last thing on his mind. He raised the MP-5, flipped the safety off and fired a burst across the tops of the ticket-dispensing machines. The eyes of the clerk in the Plexiglas encasement widened, and she ducked out of sight. Tragg scanned the ceiling for cameras as he vaulted over the closed gates. Sergio followed, slipping once and then being helped by Dean. The rest of the team descended, and Tragg pumped his arm up and down in a signal for them to hurry. Turning and scanning the ceiling for cameras, he spotted two and sent two bursts from the MP-5 to take them out.

  Pedestrians were screaming and running toward the exits. Tragg located and shot out three more cameras on the ceiling. Satisfied that the rest of the team would be able to follow discreetly, he pulled Sergio toward the edge of the platform and then toward the fenced-off end.

  Dean raced ahead, used the lock cutter to snip the padlock securing the metallic grate at the end of the platform, pulled open the door and waited. Tragg pushed Sergio through the opening toward the narrow ledge that led to the maintenance tunnels. He slung the MP-5 over his shoulder and pulled out his flashlight. The ledge continued to wind into the darkness. One slip and they’d end up on the tracks below where the lethal third rail carried enough voltage to fry a person’s body in a matter of seconds. Sergio made squeaking grunts, like a scared little girl, and Tragg smirked. The punk was certainly not the hard-ass that his old man was.

  “Sitrep,” Tragg demanded as he keyed his mic. He rolled the ski mask off his head and jammed it into the pocket of the coveralls. No need for it now.

  No cameras down this low, he thought.

  “Resecuring gate.” It was Dean. “Everybody’s through.”

  Tragg knew that Dean putting a new padlock on the gate to replace the one he’d cut would throw the police off their trail.

  “Roger that,” Tragg said and kept pulling Sergio forward. “Charlie Mike.”

  They had perhaps a hundred more yards to go before the ledge veered away from the tracks and upward into the section that housed the air shafts. Then it would only be a thirty-foot climb or so to the surface. He hoped Sergio was up to it.

  If not, Tragg thought, he’d have to carry the little shit.

  The walkway seemed to grow narrower, and Sergio emitted a mild shriek as a pair of big city rats skittered out of their way.

  Tragg chuckled to himself.

  Fifty more yards to go. The ledge pathway had begun a gradual incline and the trek became a bit more treacherous.

 
; Water dripped down from the stone ceiling and the wall felt moist. Tragg could feel the rush of air on his face now. They were close, very close.

  As they wound around a curve, Tragg shone his flashlight on the wall, looking for the spray-painted arrow they’d left weeks ago on their previous rehearsal. It pointed to the right.

  “Go this way,” he said, steering Sergio off the ledge and down a narrow corridor. Up ahead a column of light was visible. As they grew closer, Tragg saw the familiar design of the three separate columns, spaced closely together. His flashlight danced over the wall illuminating the iron rungs of the ladder embedded in the concrete wall.

  “We climb up here,” he said.

  Sergio was out of breath, but had a nervous grin plastered on his face.

  “Go,” Tragg said, giving him a pat of reassurance on the shoulder. “I’ll be right behind you. Go till I tell you to stop.”

  He watched the cartel man’s son begin his ascent, hoping that none of the rugs would give way. On their practice run they’d all seemed to be in pretty good shape. And they only had to climb about thirty feet to get to the grate. Tragg grabbed one of the rungs and began climbing, the MP-5 bouncing against the wall and iron rungs with each step up. He paused and let the weapon settle against him, keying his mic at the same time to inform the rest of the team that he’d reached the access point.

  The rungs went all the way up to the street level. A ledge protruded about every twelve feet of so, and, as they neared the top, the illuminating sunlight filtered through the tiny slots of the grated covering. The sidewalk was about eight feet above them.

  “That’s good,” Tragg said. “Hold up here.” He watched as Sergio stepped off onto the ledge. Tragg joined him seconds later and keyed his mic again.

  “Ready for extraction,” he said into his mic.

  Two silhouettes above partially blocked out the sunlight as they inserted a special pry bar into the sidewalk grate and popped it upward. A garment fluttered down and Tragg grabbed it. He handed it to Sergio and said, “Put this on over your clothes.” An aluminum ladder scraped against the top of the opening and began to descend. Tragg reached up and guided it into place. The grunts and scrapes of the team climbing up the iron rungs below drifted upward.

  Sergio was having trouble maintaining his balance as he slipped the large coveralls on over the orange jumpsuit. Tragg steadied him, and then pointed for him to go up the ladder. His grin was wolfish. Tragg watched as the two men on the surface lifted him up and out of the opening. They escorted him to the open rear of the delivery truck parked in the alley and kept him secured.

  Tragg remained in place on the ledge as the rest of his team, all ten of them, got onto the ledge, deposited their weapons in two duffel bags, and then climbed out of the hole two at a time, one using the embedded iron rungs and the other the ladder. Dean, who was the last man, stepped onto the ledge. Tragg stuffed his MP-5 and the M&P pistol into one of the duffel bags and then held it open for Dean to do the same with the bolt cutters.

  After securing the bags, each man slipped one over his shoulder and began his final ascent. Tragg went up the aluminum ladder while Dean took the iron rungs. They both stepped onto the sidewalk at about the same time. Tragg stepped beside the truck and watched as the sidewalk grate was lowered back into place and Dean hopped into the rear of the delivery truck with the duffel bags. The two team members dressed as delivery men were removing the DANGER—WORKERS PRESENT signs from around the sidewalk and closing up the rear doors of the truck.

  Tragg stripped off the coveralls, revealing a dark blue suit, white shirt and tie. He felt his pants pocket again for the Bersa pistol. It was there.

  Nodding to the last team member who then headed for the driver’s door, Tragg went to the passenger side and climbed into the cab. The briefcase he needed to complete the ruse with the lawyer was on the floor by the seat.

  They were outside the police perimeter, but just barely. They had to get moving. Tragg glanced at his watch: 8:09 a.m. He was still a few blocks from Sinclair’s office, too. The truck started down the alley at a leisurely pace. They’d be at Washington Street in a few minutes.

  “Stay off the boulevards with this truck,” Tragg said. “And obey all the traffic laws. Don’t get stopped.”

  The driver grunted in agreement and Tragg took out his cell phone, removed his leather glove and hit the speed dial.

  The anxious lawyer answered on the first ring.

  “Good morning, Counselor,” Tragg said.

  “Where are you? I’ve been waiting for you.”

  The petulance in the lawyer’s voice irritated Tragg, but he kept his tone conciliatory. “Sorry. I’m running a few minutes behind. Is everything cool?”

  “Of course,” Sinclair said. “My staff won’t be here till noon.”

  “Good,” Tragg said, once again feeling the comfortable presence of the Bersa in his pocket. “Are you ready for your final payment?”

  “More than ready,” Sinclair said. His tone had lost some of its umbrage.

  Tragg bet he was. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  He terminated the call, placed the phone back in his pocket and slipped the leather glove back on his hand.

  No loose ends.

  Commercial Section

  Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport

  Bolan, Grimaldi and Diaz walked across the tarmac as their private Learjet was being refueled and serviced. The Stony Man pilot glanced back, and Bolan knew his associate would be keeping a watchful eye on the ground crew. Diaz had been mostly silent during the entire trip, and Bolan had elected to grab a quick nap to avoid conversation with the woman.

  Initially, he had been resistant to the possibility of her accompanying them, but then reconsidered. The case was rapidly evolving into something more appropriate for the local and federal authorities to handle, since the terrorism angle was apparently unfounded. He hoped they could nail down the involvement of Bruns and Lucien Technologies, and then hand things over to the FBI. Despite a few aspects that still bothered him, like the bodies piling up at the hands of the PMO, Bolan saw the situation ultimately morphing into a series of search warrants, interagency investigations, and long drawn-out court proceedings, none of which would involve him. This wasn’t his usual hit-and-git mission. The DOD weapons contract with Lucien Technologies also needed to be halted.

  They stopped at the doors of the maintenance area and Grimaldi, who had been walking backward so he could watch the plane being prepped, tripped on the raised concrete section of the sidewalk. He waved his arms, did a quick dance, but kept his balance.

  “The next thing we know,” Bolan quipped, “the ground crew will be calling for a pilot sobriety test.”

  “Ha, ha,” Grimaldi said. “I just wanted to keep an eye on those jokers. Make sure they know what they’re doing is all.”

  “Do you think they are connected with the bad men?” Diaz asked, her eyes widening.

  Grimaldi reassured her that he was concerned only about their mechanical competence. Bolan thought again about the prudence of bringing the woman with them, and considered the possibility of contacting Martinez and making arrangements to turn her over to him. They were a lot closer to the Mexican border now, and with Romero out of the picture, hopefully her life could get back to some degree of normalcy in her own country. In any case, he knew a more permanent solution was needed now that she didn’t seem to be in imminent danger.

  “I’m going to make a call,” Bolan said, and walked away from them.

  Grimaldi eyed him, but said nothing.

  Bolan removed Special Agent Webber’s card from his pocket and dialed the number. It went immediately to voice mail.

  “Special Agent Webber,” Bolan said, “we’ve made some progress in the investigation, and I wanted to touch base with you to get you up to speed. Call me back.”

 
He left Webber the number of his burner phone and disconnected. He scrolled down to find Jésus Martinez’s number next and called him. Once again, the call went directly to voice mail.

  Grimaldi walked up next to him. “Consuelo went to the ladies’ room, so we’ve got a few minutes.” His countenance assumed a sly look. “Or, we can just take off now and leave her here.”

  Bolan knew his partner wasn’t serious, but rather was trying to convey his anxiety about the situation with the girl.

  “I left a message for Jésus,” Bolan said. “Maybe we can fly down to meet him somewhere and he can take over guarding her.”

  Grimaldi made a clucking sound. “I guess that’s about the best plan. I was kind of looking forward to maybe taking her out to dinner before that, though.”

  “If we can nail this Bruns connection down quickly enough, you might just have the chance.”

  “I think after we interrogate this guy we’ll have the whole megillah. I mean, we basically got the whole thing figured out, don’t we?”

  “Maybe,” Bolan said. “And if that’s the case, we can hand it over to Special Agent Webber.”

  “The Feds?” Grimaldi’s face went from sly to skeptical. “Why would we want to do that?”

  “It is a Bureau case now. They can handle what’s going on and I can move on to something that needs my attention”

  Grimaldi snorted. “Yeah, and they’d be absolutely nowhere on it if we hadn’t taken over. Hell, they’d probably both be pushing up the daisies, and Consuelo, too.”

  “For which I’m sure we’ve got their eternal gratitude. But there’s no pressing reason for us to keep on this one. It’s basically turned into a paper chasing trail now, and they’re more suited to handle that than we are.”

  Grimaldi sighed. “I’m just thinking about the glacial speed they work at. Plus, I hate to think of the army having to wait around for that rail gun update while Webber and his buddies keep dragging their feet. It’s a bad use of our tax dollars.”

  “As if you pay taxes.” Both of them had been off the official grid for years.