Dying Art Read online

  Lucien Technologies

  Main Facility

  Tragg watched as the XR-25 was being secured on the truck for transport. Bruns stood about five feet away looking like a concerned father whose daughter was being ushered into a limousine by an unctuous rascal for her first prom date. Too bad he didn’t know that this was to be the XR-25’s first and last lethal delivery launch.

  Tragg checked his watch: 2:15 p.m.

  It would be tight, but that would be just fine. The trip to the ghost town would take about twenty minutes. The rest of his team waited there with the weapons and the escape vehicles. Bruns had bragged that the setup time for the rail gun was less than fifteen. Once his man in Nogales called that the ceremony had started, it would simply be a matter of zeroing in on the cell phone coordinates and pressing the button. He’d let Sergio do that. It was the least he could do, after hornswoggling the little prick into staying here instead of heading down to be with his old man.

  Then the world would think the Unity Day meeting was blown up, courtesy of the decoys. And Bruns would subsequently be found dead in his office, clutching the safe-deposit box key containing the other half of The Lion and Lioness Attacking the Nubian in one hand and a remorseful suicide note in the other. Tragg already had the note in a plastic bag in his pocket. All it would need would be the defense contractor’s signature, and Tragg could fake that, if necessary.

  Bruns stepped over to Tragg and lowered his voice to a whisper. “When am I going to get the other half of it?”

  “As soon as we take off,” Tragg said. “I’ll want your technicians to accompany us out to the site just in case something goes wrong.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but where’s the artifact?”

  “In a safe place not too far from here. A safe-deposit box.” He was stretching things just a bit, but what the hell difference did it make? This idiot was never going to get his hands on it anyway. “We need to step into your office so you can sign something.”

  “My office?”

  Tragg shrugged. “Someplace private. So I can tell you the procedure for getting it.”

  The man’s eyes brightened, and Tragg knew at that moment he could tell the rich son of a bitch to jump through a hoop of burning fire and he would do it without hesitation.

  Bruns took out his cell phone. “I’ll send the rest of my staff home early. Clear this place out.”

  The phone chimed. Bruns pressed the button and held the phone to his ear with an accompanying “What?”

  As the defense contractor listened, his eyes widened, and then the tip of his lizard-like tongue shot out and licked his lips. He said, “Just a minute,” and held his hand over the phone.

  “That was the gate guard,” he said, his voice trembling. “There are two agents from the Department of Justice here to see me.”

  Things had been going so smoothly that Tragg hadn’t been expecting any last-minute curveballs, and this one obviously meant trouble.

  But a good special ops man always knew how to adapt, he thought.

  “Send them up to your office,” he said.

  * * *

  Bolan and Grimaldi were ushered through the gate after the guard had a brief conversation with someone on the phone. The place was surrounded by a twelve-foot cyclone fence that had a triple strand of barbed wire running along the top. The Executioner saw one roving patrol of guards clad in black fatigues, another pair driving a Hummer and at least one rooftop man with a rifle. The main building was enormous, with a large warehouse-type building adjacent to a four-story office building.

  “Pretty heavy-duty security for the place,” Grimaldi commented as he drove the rented sedan toward the office building. A black guy in the same uniform stood by the sidewalk leading up to the glass-doored entrance and waved them forward, pointing to an open parking slot marked Visitor. He was wearing a SIG Sauer P-220 Emperor Scorpion semiauto in a low-slung holster. Two spare magazines were inserted top-down in an ammo pouch on the opposite side on his nylon utility belt. As they got out of their car, Bolan noticed there was no name tag on the man’s shirt, and he was eyeing them closely. The Executioner thought he detected something akin to recognition flash in the man’s eyes.

  “Right this way, gentlemen. Mr. Bruns is waiting for you in his office.”

  They walked across the atrium, which had a floor of reddish marble tiles. A large reception desk sat vacant in the middle of the area. The entire interior was virtually deserted. The black guy walked them to a set of elevators, pressed the button and the doors opened immediately.

  “Looks like everyone got the day off,” Grimaldi said. “Or is it always this busy?”

  The black guy’s smile was still in place. “Yeah, everybody wanted to rush home and watch that Unity Day thing with the two presidents.” He pressed a button for the fourth floor as they all stepped inside the elevator.

  No one spoke on the ride up.

  As was his common practice, Bolan was assessing the weak points in the facility in terms of making a covert entry or a full-fledged raid. Trying to storm a facility of this size would be problematic without a sufficient force. He’d have to mention that to Webber in case the FBI man eventually got approval for a search warrant and had to hit the place. Bolan also started thinking about the possibility of Grimaldi and him having to shoot their way out. It was a mind game he always played: ever vigilant, hoping he wouldn’t need to put the plan into practice.

  The doors opened to a wide area of lush gray carpeting that extended to a glass wall about twenty-five feet away. White lettering, edged in gold, had the company logo emblazoned on the wall, under which was Lucien L. Bruns, President.

  The security man ushered them to an inner office, this one with solid oak walls that seemed to ensure privacy. A thick-bodied man with a face creased with deep-set wrinkles and a very dark head of hair was seated behind the desk. Bolan recognized him as Lucien L. Bruns. Another man, this one a white guy, dressed in the same black fatigues, stood next to the seated man: Clayton Tragg.

  Bruns stood and barely came up to Tragg’s shoulder.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, extending his hand across the empty desk. His face twitched a bit before settling into a welcoming smile. “Lucien Bruns. What can I do for you?”

  Bolan felt moisture as he shook the man’s hand.

  Before he could speak, Tragg said, “You’re from the DOJ? May we see some identification?”

  “Certainly.” Bolan took out his faux government ID identifying him as Matt Cooper. Grimaldi showed his, as well.

  As the big guy scanned the IDs, Bruns emitted what sounded like a nervous chuckle. “This is Clayton Tragg, my head of security. Always likes to take proper precautions.”

  “He seems dressed for action,” Bolan said, replacing the ID in his pocket and looking down at the huge .50 caliber Desert Eagle holstered on Tragg’s right upper thigh. Both Bolan and Grimaldi had elected to wear typical government agent, off-the-rack suits as part of their subterfuge. As a result, Bolan was forced to wear his Beretta 93-R in a shoulder rig, which, because of its design, prevented a smooth, quick draw of the weapon. He did have a special folding tactical knife strapped to the inside of his left leg, which would be even harder to acquire.

  Once again, he mentally weighed the pros and cons of his possible defensive moves and hoped he wouldn’t have to test them. He decided to get right into it.

  “You always have such heavy security?”

  “Well, I—” Bruns hesitated and Tragg took over.

  “Actually, we were doing some training today,” he said. “You know how it is. Always ready, always vigilant.”

  There was little doubt who was in charge. Bolan focused on Tragg.

  “Where do I know you from?”

  Tragg raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say. I move around a lot. You think you seen me before?”

  Bolan waited a cou
ple of beats before answering. “You were with Granite Security, weren’t you?”

  Before Tragg could answer, his cell phone rang. He snatched it from the holder on his belt and checked the screen, then said, “Excuse me, I’ve got to take this.” As he walked out of the room, Bolan noticed that it was a cheap burner phone.

  Bruns pointed to some chairs in front of the desk. “Sit down. Relax.” He seemed to be getting more nervous by the moment. The tip of his tongue shot out and moved over his lips. “I’d normally offer you some coffee, but I gave my staff the afternoon off.”

  “We heard,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan noticed his partner’s guarded tone, and knew that Grimaldi was getting the same vibe that he was.

  “Well,” Bruns said. “It’s not every day I get a visit from the Justice Department. What’s this all about?”

  “It has to do with numerous things,” Bolan said. He purposely let the conversation lag, watching Bruns for any reaction.

  The man didn’t disappoint. He raised his hands in front of his chest in an almost defensive gesture and began working them together.

  “Mr. Bruns,” Bolan finally said, “we’ve been working with another federal agency regarding a matter. How long have you employed Granite Security?”

  “Granite... Well, I’m not sure. I’d have to have my secretary check our HR records.” He paused and inhaled sharply through his nostrils. “Why? Is there some kind of problem?”

  Again, Bolan milked the silence by not immediately replying. He and Grimaldi exchanged knowing glances, and then the Executioner asked, “Have you ever heard of an ancient Iraqi artifact called The Lion and Lioness Attacking the Nubian?”

  Bruns appeared stunned. He opened his mouth, but only a faint stuttering sound came out. He swallowed hard and was about to speak when Tragg came back into the room and said in a loud voice, “I think you already know the answer to that, don’t you, Agent Cooper?”

  The way he’d pronounced Bolan’s fake name caused him to turn and look at the other man. He was pointing the Desert Eagle at Bolan. The black guy they’d seen earlier stepped in right behind Tragg and was pointing his weapon at Grimaldi.

  “Lace your fingers behind your heads,” Tragg ordered, striding toward them.

  Bolan thought about making a move, perhaps trying to dive over the desk and using Bruns for cover, but from a seated position initiating such a jumping motion would be next to impossible. He and Grimaldi exchanged glances once again, and they slowly raised their hands.

  The black guy walked across the room, took up a position about twelve feet to Tragg’s left, then smirked.

  “Nice seeing you two again, by the way.”

  Bolan instantly knew what he meant. The weapon looked familiar. So did the way the guy moved.

  “You mean since the hotel in Alexandria?” he asked.

  The black guy’s grin grew wider. He came forward and closed his left hand around Grimaldi’s laced fingers and told him to stand slowly.

  Tragg kept the Desert Eagle trained on Bolan and said, “You just stay put for the time being.”

  Behind the desk Bruns seemed ready to faint. “Tragg, what the hell are you doing? You can’t—”

  “Shut up.”

  The black guy did a pat-down search of Grimaldi and pulled the SIG from his shoulder holster, then removed his cell phone and wallet. He took out a set of handcuffs, pulled Grimaldi’s arms behind his back and ratchetted the cuffs over his wrists.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Tragg said.

  The black guy repeated the searching technique on Bolan, removing his Beretta, cell phone and knife before securing him in handcuffs.

  “Dang,” the black guy said, holding the Beretta toward Tragg. “Look at this thing.”

  A woman’s scream emanated from the hallway.

  Two more uniformed guards came in, pulling a struggling woman with a bloody lip inside the office. It was Consuelo Diaz. Sergio de la Vega strolled in after them, his face twisted with a leering grin. He grabbed Diaz’s chin, forced her to look at him and made a kissing sound with his lips.

  “Who’s that?” Bruns asked.

  “Amigo, this is the little puta who set me up down in Mexico,” Sergio said. “They found her lingering around one of the gates.”

  Diaz lowered her head and sobbed.

  “Tragg,” Bruns said, “this is spinning out of control. We need to pull back, reconsider things.”

  Tragg said nothing.

  “You are pulling back nada,” Sergio said. He reached out and slapped Diaz’s face. His smile turned ugly. “I’m taking her with me so I can kill her nice and slow.” His dark eyes flashed pure hatred.

  “Leave the woman alone,” Grimaldi barked.

  Sergio canted his head toward the pilot with a querulous expression, then stepped toward him. “Are you speaking to me?”

  He raised his hand and slapped Grimaldi’s face twice, then kneed him in the groin.

  Grimaldi, whose hands were handcuffed behind his back, sank to his knees.

  Sergio drew his fist back to continue the beating, but Tragg grabbed his wrist. Sergio turned and glared at him.

  “Take your hands off me!”

  Tragg didn’t move, but simply stared down at the waspish Mexican drug lord. Sergio tried to pull his arm out of Tragg’s grasp, but couldn’t.

  “Let me go,” Sergio ordered, gritting his teeth. “When my father finds out—”

  “Your father is paying me a lot of money to break you out of jail and deliver you safely back to Mexico,” Tragg said. “We don’t have time to play your games.”

  “Games.” Sergio’s mouth twisted like an ugly gash. “Let go of my arm.”

  Tragg held the Mexican’s wrist for several seconds more, then released him. “If you keep causing these delays, you’ll upset the timetable. Besides, having two DOJ agents found at the scene of our little assassination will add credence to our operation. I don’t want them to look all beaten up.”

  “Assassination?” Bruns said. “What do you mean, assassination?”

  Tragg didn’t answer. He directed his men to transfer Bolan, Grimaldi and Diaz to the van.

  Bruns stepped forward, touching Tragg’s arm. “I asked you a question, dammit.” His voice was insistent.

  “What do you think we are going to use your stupid rail gun for, chingadero?” Sergio asked. “We’re going to kill us a couple of presidentes.”

  Bruns face blanched, his jaw gaping. “No, no. I thought it was some kind of drug retaliation thing down in Mexico. I won’t be party to this.”

  “You already are.” Tragg stared at the man, then motioned to Dean. “He goes with, too. I’ve just rewritten our final scenario. They can die in a shootout with the decoys.”

  Bruns began protesting, but Dean grabbed him and twisted his arms behind his back.

  “Remember,” Sergio said, still rubbing his wrist as he stepped in front of Tragg. “I get to pull the trigger.”

  Tragg stared at him a moment. “Of course.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The six of them sat in a jumble on the unforgiving metal floor in the rear of the van, their hands still cuffed behind their backs. Enough light filtered in through the front windshield that they could see each other: Bolan, Grimaldi, Diaz, Bruns and two swarthy-looking young guys who Bolan had pegged as Arabs. They’d been mostly silent since they’d been loaded inside. Both of them looked terrified; one of the young men said they were students from the University of Arizona. Bruns wouldn’t stop talking, and one of the two guards in the front section of the van yelled back for him to shut up.

  “I didn’t know anything about this,” Bruns said, lowering his tone to just above a whisper. “You’ve got to believe me. I even voted for the president. If I had any idea...”

  Bolan estimated that about forty minutes h
ad elapsed since their capture, which would put it about nineteen minutes or so away from the Unity Day meeting.

  “How long does it take to set up the rail gun?” Bolan asked. “Before it’s ready to fire?”

  Bruns compressed his lips before he answered. “Fifteen minutes or so. The setup doesn’t take long, but the two generators need to build up sufficient power for the...”

  His voice trailed off.

  Bolan did the math. Tragg and his buddies were cutting it pretty close, probably due in part to the change of plans caused by the unexpected visitors, but he doubted it would make enough of a time difference that the two presidents would be out of harm’s way. Their cell phones had been confiscated as well, so even if they could somehow get free, the chance to call Brognola and have him, in turn, warn the Secret Service was just about impossible. Still, he knew they had to try. They couldn’t quit.

  “Hey,” Grimaldi said, jerking his head toward his legs. “Did I mention that I still got credit?”

  Bolan knew exactly what his partner meant: the LifeCard gun. Their captors had missed it during their search. It was only a single-shot .22, but it represented a chance.

  “Credit?” Bruns said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Quiet,” Bolan said. He kept pondering their options, which were few, as the van pulled onto a secondary road filled with ruts and bumps. “Where are they taking us?”

  Bruns blinked several times. “The original plan was to do the launch from an abandoned ghost town on the edge of my property. But again I assure you—”

  “Can it,” Bolan said. “How far is this ghost town from Nogales?”

  “A couple hundred miles,” Bruns said. “But the range of the XR-25 is tremendous. It shoots a round at Mach seven.”

  “I thought I told you assholes to quit talking,” the guard growled from up front. “I hear one more word, I’ll come back there and beat the shit out of all of ya. Understand?”