Dying Art Read online

  Grimaldi shrugged. “Yeah, whatever. Anyway, we got to shake it a bit. They’re going be putting a no-fly zone in effect over these parts pretty soon. The president’s going to be doing his PR thing down in Nogales for that Unity Day bullshit. It’s supposed to be broadcast live on the six o’clock news back in New York.”

  Bolan saw Diaz coming down the hallway toward them.

  “Fine by me,” he said. “The sooner, the better.”

  Chapter Nine

  Lucien Technologies

  Temptation, Arizona

  Tragg reset his watch to Arizona time, feeling a bit of relief now that their flying time in the twin engine airplane was coming to an end as they circled the private airfield. Using a prop-driven aircraft had been more low-key and easier to arrange, but it had significantly increased their flight time. He’d spent way too much time in the air lately to suit his tastes, and even thought he’d “gained” two hours coming west, he was anxious to get back on solid ground.

  His gaze floated over the eleven other passengers, his team members from the raid, and the prize, Sergio de la Vega, the principito, or “the little prick,” as Tragg and his team had covertly been referring to him. Tragg could hardly wait to deliver this spoiled burden back to his father. The kid’s petulance and lack of civility grated on everyone. He hadn’t shown any gratitude whatsoever toward the men who’d just rescued him from jail and certainly a life behind bars. That hadn’t sat well with Tragg, or the other Granite Security members. It was too reminiscent of Iraq and Afghanistan.

  They were almost there, Tragg thought as the plane touched down on the landing strip. Almost time to pass Go and collect his money.

  But he also knew he had to keep balancing on the proverbial tightrope for the time being. That meant maintaining the delicate finagling that not only kept the pampered and spoiled brat out of harm’s way, but also dealing with his totally ruthless and vindictive father. Tragg knew that Don Fernando would never forgive or forget if anything happened to his son, but that was one of Tragg’s lesser concerns at the moment. He was more concerned about the don’s money transfer to the Granite Security account in the Caymans and his own survival.

  Throughout Tragg’s association with the drug cartel kingpin, the man had been fanatical about not leaving what he termed any “loose ends.” Tragg recalled coming up behind Sinclair, the lawyer, as he was fixated on the briefcase... How Tragg had held the little .380 under the fat man’s chin at just the right angle to achieve what he hoped would look like the right trajectory for a self-inflicted gunshot wound. No loose ends, all right. But lately Tragg had a suspicion that he and the members of his team might also fall into that category. Once this mission was done, and the little prick was safely ensconced back in Mexico, Don Fernando might just want to clean house.

  Tragg did a computer check of the Cayman account on his smartphone.

  Partial payments had been previously made, but it was nowhere near the agreed upon final sum.

  Perhaps he was worried about nothing. After all, in the past Don Fernando had always paid without a problem, and Tragg could hardly expect full remuneration before the package was safely delivered. However, something still gnawed at him. An essential distrust of Don Fernando. The man was way too paranoid.

  Tragg’s eyes locked on Dean, who obviously was feeling a similar bit of discord, and then to Sergio. The little prick had already unbuckled his seat belt and was bouncing up and down, like a spoiled kid on a carnival ride, as the aircraft taxied to a stop.

  “I am ready to get off this piece of shit plane,” Sergio said, looking out the window. “I want a joint and a woman enseguida.”

  Tragg affected what he hoped would look like a commiserating smile. “We’ll have to wait on that for a bit. Things still aren’t totally secure.”

  “Mierda.” Sergio frowned and flopped back into his seat. “I do not want to wait. Get me to Mexico. Pronto.”

  Worst case scenario, Tragg thought, would be deviating from the plan to drop this little shit off south of the border tonight and then have his father renege on the rest of the money transfer. Or maybe even make the payoff with lead.

  It would also mean splitting the team. Tragg knew he had to figure out a way to keep the punk here in the US until the payment was made, or at least until the rail gun had been fired, and the chaos factor was unleashed.

  Tragg considered his options, and then it came to him. He remembered how Sergio had been so insistent on offing that guard in the van who’d offended him.

  Hubris... That was the key.

  “We could do that,” Tragg said. “But I figured you wanted to be directly involved in exacting your revenge.”

  Sergio perked up, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

  Tragg took his time replying, choosing his words with the utmost care. It was like trying to convince a child that he didn’t want to go directly into a candy store, but rather to wait outside awhile and look through the window.

  “You obviously didn’t see the American president on the news when you were in jail.” Tragg canted his head and affected a serious expression. “He’s here in Arizona to meet with the Mexican president, and the man was laughing at you.”

  Sergio’s face darkened, the cords in his thin neck bulged outward.

  “He laughed...at me?”

  Tragg managed a reluctant nod. “Called you a cowardly little punk.”

  “Hijo de puta.” Sergio spat on the floor between the seats. “I will kill him for that.”

  “Which is why I figured you might want to be in on this last act, before you go back to Mexico.” He smiled fractionally. “We’re taking down the presidents, and we’re only going to get one shot.”

  Sergio inhaled sharply with something close to rapture glowing in his eyes.

  “Two presidents. Killed,” he said. The dreamy expression lingered.

  “Yeah.” Tragg chuckled. “But, since you don’t want to pull the trigger yourself...”

  The dark eyes flashed. “Pull it myself? Is that possible?”

  Tragg raised an eyebrow, as if he were considering it. Then he nodded. “Yeah, it could be arranged. But I don’t think your father would approve—”

  “Fuck him.” Sergio’s mouth twisted into an ugly scowl. “I want to do it.”

  Low impulse control. Definite anger management issues. Easy to manipulate.

  But it was nothing Tragg didn’t know already.

  “Do it. Set it up. I want to do it. Do you hear me?”

  “Well, we have to get the rail gun ready for transport and then program it. Any delay could throw off our chances of hitting those prime targets. We’re fighting the clock here.”

  Sergio glared up at him. “I don’t care what you gotta do. Just set it up so I am there. So that I pull the trigger. Comprende?”

  Completely, Tragg thought.

  It had been easier than he’d figured.

  Cochise County Airport

  Arizona

  Bolan and Diaz waited just inside the private hangar as Grimaldi made the final arrangements for the proper servicing and storage of their Learjet and the delivery of their rental car. Bolan took out his phone and saw he had three missed calls from Agent Webber. The Executioner considered calling the man, but decided to brief Brognola first to inform him of the decision to steer things back toward the FBI since the terrorism angle was all but debunked. Then Diaz gasped, and Bolan followed her line of sight to a midsized flat screen TV behind the counter. The volume was off, but the screen was showing an arrest mugshot of Sergio de la Vega. The scrolling feed underneath told the tale: Drug kingpin escapes custody after daring raid in Chicago... Suspect’s lawyer apparent suicide.

  Bolan told the clerk to turn up the volume on the television. The waspish young man grabbed a remote and pressed a button. The sound came on and Grimaldi’s eyes shot to the screen, as
well. Diaz stepped in closer.

  The newscaster’s voice-over described what had occurred as footage from city surveillance cameras depicted the attack on the transport van from various angles. Several more grainy videos depicted the ferocity of the firefight and the subsequent explosion.

  “Can it be true?” Diaz asked. “Can he be free?”

  “Looks that way.” Grimaldi frowned and slammed his fist down on the counter, causing the clerk to jump. “And after all that hard work we did getting him there.”

  “It has all the earmarks of a military operation.” Bolan ushered the woman away from the counter. “This is a game changer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He made sure they were out of earshot of the clerk, who was also staring up at the television screen.

  “You could be in danger again,” Bolan said. “Our first priority will have to be getting you to a safe place.”

  She stared back at him. Her irises were so dark that he could barely distinguish her pupils. “Does this mean you are not going to confront the man who killed my father?”

  He didn’t answer her. Instead, he turned to Grimaldi.

  “When’s the car going to get here?”

  The pilot repeated the question to the clerk, who shrugged.

  “Well, find out, dammit,” Grimaldi said, leaning his forearms on the countertop. “And tell them however long it is, to shorten it. Got it?”

  The clerk’s head bobbed up and down as a nervous smile seemed frozen on his face as he grabbed the phone.

  “You didn’t answer me,” Diaz said.

  Bolan looked down at those dark eyes again. She’d put herself at risk with the subterfuge to capture Sergio to avenge the loss of her brothers, and then lost her father to violence and almost her own life, as well. Bolan couldn’t rule out that sending her back to Mexico, as he’d been intending, would keep her out of harm’s way, even with Martinez guarding her. Obviously, Sergio’s escape showed that Don Fernando’s influence was extensive in this country. The precision of the operation displayed on the news flashed through his mind again.

  Like a military op, he thought. Maybe that Granite Security outfit?

  The theme kept repeating itself. He knew they needed to figure out the connection between Granite Security and Bruns’s Lucien Technologies sooner rather than later.

  Airfield Hangar

  Lucien Technologies

  After texting Don Fernando about their success thus far, Tragg requested a Skype call for a further update. He figured they had about five minutes of relative privacy as Dean and the rest of the team off-loaded their gear from the plane’s cargo compartment and placed it into the two limos that Bruns had sent to bring them back to the main building. Tragg completed the call and held the phone at arm’s distance. The face of Don Fernando came on the small screen.

  “Good evening, sir,” Tragg said. He hoped the subtle manipulation he’d managed to effect on Sergio would not be wasted in favor of the don’s standing instructions to bring the little shit back to Mexico ASAP.

  “Where is Sergio?” he asked.

  “I am here, Papa.”

  Tragg had hoped to set the stage a bit more, but realized this wasn’t an option when dealing with these two self-centered pricks.

  Sergio centered the phone in front of himself. The old man’s face crinkled with obvious joy.

  “Wonderful,” he said. “How long will it be before you arrive here?”

  Sergio turned toward Tragg. “How much longer?”

  “As I told you. It’s going to take several hours. We have to get the weapon ready for transport and—”

  “I am not talking about that,” Don Fernando shouted. His anger was palpable, even through the distance of the transmission. “When will you be here?”

  Sergio sneered as he glanced at Tragg, then refocused himself and said, “I’m going to stay here awhile.”

  Don Fernando’s eyes widened on the small screen.

  “No... No. Come home now. It is too dangerous for you to remain there.”

  Sergio’s smile did not diminish. “No, Papa. I want to be here. I want to kill those presidents myself. I want to pull the trigger.”

  “That is what I pay others to do. You need not sully your hands. Come home. At once. Now. I insist.”

  “Not until I am ready.” Sergio’s face had taken on a look of utter defiance. “I have no more to say to you.” He abruptly handed the phone back to Tragg.

  On the screen, Don Fernando’s expression was vivid with rage.

  “Is this your doing?” he said. “Did you talk him into this?”

  Tragg debated whether to show subservience or autonomy. He decided on a combination of the two with a noncommittal reply of “No, sir. It was his idea.”

  Don Fernando’s lower lip jutted out. He turned and yelled a command in rapid Spanish that Tragg couldn’t understand. Then the don turned back to face him, bringing his hand up, with an extended index finger for emphasis.

  “Let me tell you, Tragg, if anything happens to my son... Anything, I will hold you responsible. Not only will you never get your money, but you will be hunted to the ends of the earth until my vengeance has been exacted.”

  Tragg had faced down bullies and despots before and knew they understood and respected only one thing: strength. He sensed that showing any fear now would be perceived as weakness, but he also knew better than to appear antagonistic.

  “Sir, I assure you that no harm will come to him while he’s with me.”

  Don Fernando’s image glared at him from the screen. “You had better pray to God that you are right.”

  “We’re only talking about a matter of hours anyway,” Tragg said. “And afterward, the trip will be less noticeable.”

  Don Fernando seemed to consider that.

  “You have the decoys? The Arabs?”

  “All taken care of, sir.”

  Don Fernando gave a quick nod, but said nothing, his face still showing the strain of his son’s defiance. But he seemed to have acquiesced, and Tragg figured he wasn’t going to get a better chance than now to nail down the arrangements for the final payment.

  “One other thing, sir,” he said, waiting with almost obsequious politeness until he was certain he had the don’s full attention. “About the final transfer.”

  “It will be done as soon as the regalo último has been delivered.”

  “The regalo?”

  “It means ‘gift,’” Sergio said. “The ultimate gift.”

  Tragg understood the meaning. “Yes, sir. As you say, it will be done on our end, as well.”

  Don Fernando said nothing for several seconds as his eyes drifted downward, and then shot back to the screen with a new intensity. “Call me when everything is ready. And do not proceed with the weapon until I give the word.”

  Tragg was about to reply when the connection was terminated and the screen faded to black. He lowered the phone and saw Sergio standing there with a huge grin.

  “You heard what my father said. Now get your ass in gear.” He turned and began walking toward one of the waiting limos.

  Chapter Ten

  Temptation, Arizona

  The city of Temptation was larger than Bolan had expected and had three hotels, although two of them were rather decrepit. They chose what appeared to be the best of the three. While Grimaldi brought in their duffel bags and weapons, Bolan used their laptop to get a satellite view of Lucien Technologies. The facility was about five miles outside the city limits, and seemed to cover several acres. Diaz was looking over his shoulder.

  “Is that his place?” she asked. “The man involved in my father’s murder?”

  “We don’t know that for sure yet,” Bolan said. “We’ve got to talk to him. Then we should know more.”

  “Can I go along?”

 
He shook his head. “That wouldn’t look right. It’s better they don’t know you’re here at all, which is why you’ll have to stay in this room for a while.”

  Before she could respond, the door opened and Grimaldi came in pushing a luggage cart with their bags.

  “I didn’t know what all to bring, and what to leave in the car,” he said. “So I brought everything.” He looked at Diaz. “If you want, we can take a run down to the local Walmart to pick you up some stuff.”

  She shook her head. “Thank you, but no. You two have plans, right?”

  Grimaldi turned to Bolan. “Do we?”

  Bolan rotated the laptop so Grimaldi could see the overall image of the facility.

  “This place is pretty big,” he said. “I think it would behoove us to do a preliminary run using our DOJ credentials to get a look at the inside of the place.”

  “And then hit them hard after dark?”

  “I’m leaning more toward contacting Webber and having him fly out here. We can turn things over to him, and fade out of the picture.”

  Diaz’s face took on a grave expression. “You’re going to stop trying to bring the men who killed my father to justice?”

  Bolan stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but this is an FBI case, and they’re actually more suited to handle it than we are. It’s something that needs to go through our legal system, and Agent Webber will see to that.”

  Grimaldi emitted a mild snort.

  The woman started to cry, but caught herself and wiped at her eyes with her fingers.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you have done so much... You have saved my life. I must seem so terrible. So ungrateful.” She threw her arms around Bolan’s neck, and he held her in a somewhat awkward embrace.

  Grimaldi winked and gave a quick nod, making a thumbs-up sign.

  Bolan frowned.

  “We’ll call Hal to give him a sitrep,” Bolan said, as he gently pushed Diaz to one side. “And then I’ll call Webber and bring him up to speed. In the meantime, we’ll unpack and get dressed in our suits. We’ll have to look like typical government workers when we go talk to Lucien Bruns.”