Dying Art Read online

Crystal, Bolan thought. They’d just have to be ready for the guy when he did.

  “Jack,” he whispered. “Glasses.” He cocked his head toward one of the young Arabs next to Grimaldi. The guy was wearing eyeglasses with wire frames.

  Grimaldi winked, rose into a crouch and then began wiggling his body, and more specifically, his hands, closer to the young man’s head. As the pilot’s fingers brushed the guy’s face, the youth flinched.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  From the tremble in the young man’s voice, Bolan knew the guy was scared. He tried to think of something reassuring to say.

  “Easy. We mean no harm.”

  Bolan noticed the student stiffen. Grimaldi’s fingers brushed over the other man’s face and snared the glasses.

  “Hey!”

  “Quiet,” Bolan said, and added in Arabic, “We mean you no harm.” He had a limited knowledge of the language, but that was a phrase he knew.

  Bolan saw Grimaldi struggling with the glasses, his hands behind him.

  “This is like trying to wind your watch wearing boxing gloves,” he whispered.

  The Executioner watched his progress. He had to break off one of the side parts of the frame, then bend it into a Z shape so it could be inserted into the handcuffs to release the lock.

  The van rolled over several more bumps and ruts.

  Grimaldi grunted in pain.

  Bolan waited, silently urging him on, and then he noticed something: the vehicle was slowing down.

  Apparently sensing that as well, Grimaldi’s lips tugged into a thin line.

  The van continued to move forward, but at a much slower pace.

  “We must be there,” Bruns whispered. “The ghost town.”

  “Anybody live here?” Bolan asked, keeping his voice equally low.

  Bruns shook his head. “Not much left of the place. Only the shells of some old buildings.”

  “Power? Telephone lines?”

  Bruns shook his head again.

  Grimaldi clicked his tongue. “We may have a winner.”

  The van came to a stop and Bolan watched the two guards in front. The driver shifted into Park and started to get out.

  “Hey,” the passenger guard said, “where’re you going? I gotta take a leak.”

  “I gotta do more than that,” the driver said.

  “Yeah, but I gotta go bad.”

  “Well, what’s stopping you?”

  The passenger jerked his thumb toward the rear passengers. “What about them?”

  “So lock the damn doors. They’ll be safe enough for a couple minutes, and we gotta get them out pretty soon anyway.” The driver pushed the door open and got out.

  The passenger shot a quick look back at them, then opened his door and got out, too.

  Bolan shifted his body around, holding his hands out behind him. Grimaldi twisted so that his back was toward his partner and, holding the misshapen fragment of the glasses frame, began to frantically seek the keyhole in Bolan’s handcuffs. He called out to Diaz, whom he was now facing.

  “Consuelo,” Grimaldi said, “I hate to ask you to do this, but we don’t have much time. And you’ve got the best position and the smallest hands. See if you can undo the front of my pants and reach inside.”

  “What?” she said.

  “I’ve got a gun down in there. It’s about the same size and shape as a stack of credit cards.”

  “You hid it in...?” she asked.

  “Sure. No tough guy in the world would search me there.”

  Without hesitation she turned away from him and started exploring the front of his pants, fumbling with his belt.

  “I don’t need to tell you we’ve only got a minute,” Bolan said. He could feel Grimaldi’s fingers against his hands, twisting back and forth.

  “Damn,” Grimaldi said. “Almost had it.”

  “Hurry up,” Bruns said. “They could come back here any second.”

  “Thanks for the update, pal,” Grimaldi said, the strain evident in the modulation of his voice. He grunted a few more times, then grimaced a bit and said to Diaz. “It’s just a little more to the left.”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Bolan thought he heard voices coming toward the van. The driver had left the window cracked, and the voices grew more distinct. Two men stopped outside the van, and Bolan could hear snippets of their conversation.

  “Tragg wants us to...all of them...now.”

  “How we supposed to set this...?”

  “How the hell should I know?” The voices were getting louder.

  “Bingo,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan felt the securing loop of the bottom cuff fall away from his left wrist. He brought his hands in front of him, the handcuffs now dangling from his right arm. At the same time he heard Diaz murmur, “I think I’ve got it.”

  The Executioner leaned over and took the LifeCard .22LR from her hands. He pushed the bottom latch and the lower half popped down, forming a handle. A trigger jutted from the upper section.

  “I’ll see you over there,” a voice said from outside the van. It sounded very close.

  Bolan cocked back the hammer, then whispered to Grimaldi, “Is there a round in the chamber?”

  The pilot grinned back at him. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  The sound of a key being inserted into the lock on the rear door of the van was unmistakable.

  “Stay down and keep calm,” Bolan said as the rear door opened.

  The guard had an MP-5 slung in front of him, allowing both hands to be free. He rotated slightly and started to flip open the second rear door. Bolan reached over and grabbed the man’s collar, pulling him forward and holding the LifeCard against the man’s temple as he pulled the trigger. The somewhat muffled sound of the .22 round reverberated in the confines of the van. Bolan pulled the man inside and immediately removed the MP-5 from his body. He then reached down and removed the man’s holstered pistol, a 9 mm Smith & Wesson M&P, and set both weapons aside before closing the rear door. The inside of the van was semidark again. Bolan placed his finger against the guard’s open eye and the lack of an involuntary reaction meant the man was dead. A search of his pockets turned up a ring of keys, one of which was for the handcuffs. He quickly uncuffed Grimaldi and then the others. The two Arabs looked ready to bolt, but Bolan grabbed the arm of the one closer to the door.

  “Not yet,” he said. “If you run now, they see you and shoot.” The students exchanged nervous looks. Bolan continued to check the dead guard’s pockets, but found no van keys or cell phone. Flipping the guard over, he removed extra magazines, two for the MP-5 and two for the pistol, from the man’s utility belt. He gave the machine-gun mags to Grimaldi and put the pistol mags in his own pants pocket.

  “Listen carefully,” he said to the civilians. “My partner’s going to take you to safety. Go with him, keep up, and do exactly what he tells you to do. Otherwise, you’ll get killed. Understand?”

  “I’ll pay you anything to get me out of here,” Bruns said. “Anything.”

  “Just do as he says,” Bolan repeated, handing the MP-5 to Grimaldi, who pulled back the charging handle ever so slightly to make sure there was a round in the chamber. Bolan did the same with the pistol. He didn’t know how much time remained before the Unity Day meeting started, but he knew it probably wasn’t a lot.

  “What about you?” Diaz asked.

  Bolan didn’t answer. He cracked the door open slightly. The area looked relatively clear, but the other guard might be coming back at any moment to check on his partner. About fifty feet away several men milled about, but they had their backs to the van.

  “Pull off his shirt,” Bolan said, stripping off his own jacket. Grimaldi pulled the black shirt off the dead man and handed it over. Slipping it on over his white shirt, Bolan grabbed
the dead man’s ball cap and jammed it on, as well.

  “Any idea how many of them are out there?” Bolan asked Bruns.

  The defense contractor shook his head. “At least ten or fifteen. Maybe more.”

  “Our favorite odds,” Grimaldi said. “Piece of cake.”

  “I’ll go out first,” Bolan said. “If it’s clear, I’ll tap twice on the door. Lead them to a safe position.”

  Grimaldi nodded. “Then I’ll come back and help you clean up.”

  Bolan thought about telling Grimaldi to just make sure he got the rest of them out, but knew it would do no good to argue the point. Besides, they were heavily outnumbered and without access to any transportation, unless he could hot-wire the van.

  “It’s no use,” Bruns said. “We’ll all be killed. Maybe we should surrender. Try to negotiate with them. We’ve got guns now.”

  Grimaldi reached out and slapped the rich man’s cheek. “That kind of attitude will get you killed, understand? Now follow my lead and get ready to run if and when I tell you.”

  Bruns closed his eyes, bobbing his head up and down.

  Fifteen to one odds, Bolan thought. Fifteen to two if Grimaldi could provide cover. But they’d faced worse odds.

  “Okay,” the Executioner said, gripping the inside door. “It’s show time.”

  * * *

  Most of the buildings on the streets were composed of rotting walls, as fragile as balsa wood. An occasional fragment of a brick and mortar still stood upright, but the majority of the structures were just this side of total collapse. The truck bearing the XR-25 was parked in a clear spot at the end of the block of bedraggled old buildings. Tragg watched as the two technicians completed their work. One was adjusting the electric buildup of the generators while the other one stood ready to input the coordinates of the target. Two Granite Security guards stood next to them with MP-5s, assuring the techs didn’t try to cause any glitches or delays. They’d been a bit reluctant to come along in the first place, even though they had no idea about the actual target. It had been easy for Tragg to convince Bruns that they would be firing at some drug compound in Mexico, and the man had conveyed that to the techs. Memories of the test run a few days prior raced through Tragg’s mind as the revving of the generators whirred in the late-afternoon sun.

  He keyed his mic and asked one of the guards how much longer it was going to take, watching as the guard, perhaps forty feet away, posed the question to the tech working at the generators. After a brief conversation that Tragg could not hear, the guard turned and held up his hand, showing five fingers.

  Five minutes.

  They’d set up on the main street of what had once probably been a bustling Western town a hundred and forty years ago. Tragg appreciated the irony as he imagined hordes of miners coming west in the hope of striking it rich. Now he’d achieved that without so much as stepping on a shovel or swinging a pick. The visible mountains provided a picturesque backdrop to what would hopefully be the crowning achievement of his life. It had little to do with the imminent assassination of two presidents, or the chaos that would surely follow. No, what Tragg looked forward to was moving to an island somewhere with enough money to make sure he could stay drunk or happy or both for the rest of his life.

  But first, he had to make sure that the money transfer was complete.

  He took out his cell phone. All the other burners, except his and Dean’s, had been confiscated and placed in a backpack along with the guns, phones and IDs from the two government agents. If they really were government agents... Tragg had his doubts. They both had shown themselves to be highly efficient in close-combat situations. He wondered if they were part of some special military force masquerading as DOJ agents so as to avoid violating their government charter or the Posse Comitatus Act.

  Whatever. It didn’t matter. It was time to call Don Fernando. He set the phone for Skype.

  The drug lord answered on the second ring, his face staring from the screen.

  “Tragg, is everything set?”

  “It is. We’re about five minutes away from launch.”

  “Launch?”

  “From being able to fire. We have to input the coordinates once the generators are revved up.”

  “And the decoys?”

  “Everything’s set.” He decided not to clutter the drug lord’s mind by telling him of the new enhancements to the scenario, bringing Bruns and the two DOJ agents to add to the mix.

  “Where is my son?”

  “He’s here. We’re almost ready.”

  “Good. I am watching the event on television. They are about to lay the wreath. I want this done when their cameras are rolling. Do you understand?”

  “Understood,” Tragg said. It was better to deal from a position of strength, and this was the only point where he’d have that opportunity. “Now I have something I want.”

  Don Fernando’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

  “Once this happens,” Tragg said, speaking slowly. “Everything’s going to be shut down. I need you to make that money transfer now.”

  Don Fernando’s expression registered disgust. “You will get your money.”

  “Like I said, I want the transfer done now. Immediately, so I know there won’t be a problem later.”

  “You are doubting my word?”

  Tragg shook his head. “Just hedging my bets.”

  Don Fernando’s image glared at him. He was silent for several seconds, and then said, “Tragg, you son of a bitch.”

  Tragg said nothing.

  Don Fernando was silent as well, then, slowly, a smile crept over his face. “You know, you remind me of myself. A man after my own heart.” He paused again and his smile widened. “Very well, I will make the transfer now. But...” The merriment faded quickly. “As I told you, if any harm comes to Sergio, if he is not here with me by midnight, there will be no place you can hide from my wrath.”

  “Understood,” Tragg said.

  The screen went black.

  Tragg took out his smartphone and set it up to check for the transfer. As if on cue, Sergio came sauntering up to him.

  “Where’s the girl?” he asked. “I want her with me now.”

  “Relax,” Tragg said, turning so as not to display the screen of his smartphone. “They’re bringing them all over here as we speak.”

  Sergio’s head swiveled. “Oh yeah? So where are they?”

  Tragg held the phone against his leg and keyed his mic. “Where the hell’s Peters? He was supposed to be getting the prisoners.”

  Dean, who was across the street next to the shell of an old wooden building, signaled for another man near him to check. He walked over from the partially standing building, opened the front door of the van and peered inside. Seconds later, he ran to the rear and tore open the doors. His head appeared around the still-open rear door and he yelled, “We’ve got a problem.”

  Tragg looked toward the van. Dean ran over and momentarily disappeared from sight. When he reappeared, he said, “Peters is dead. They’re gone.”

  * * *

  So much for the element of surprise, Bolan thought as he made his way down a narrow path between the remains of two old buildings. He’d waited at the juncture of the structures and the main street, where the van and the other two vehicles had been parked, while Grimaldi ushered Diaz, Bruns and the two students away from the scene. But the cat was out of the bag now, and Tragg was already dispatching his men to spread out and do a close-quarter grid search.

  He rounded the end of the building and turned left, running roughly parallel to the main street and in the general direction of the rail gun. If he could get a clear shot, perhaps he could disable the XR-25 before it was ready. But from what he’d seen, the weapon appeared to be about as impregnable as an Abrams tank. Heavy metal side panels were fitted on the bed of the truck, and four hydraulic p
ylons were affixed to the sides to secure it to the ground during firing. That left only the rear portion open, where the technicians stood. Bolan momentarily considered the possibility of trying to take out both technicians, but dismissed the idea. If Bruns could be believed, the techs had been kept in the dark as to the true identity of the target, which made them reluctant participants and essentially two more hostages. They didn’t know it yet, but Tragg and company were no doubt planning to leave as few witnesses behind as possible.

  Bolan glanced quickly in all directions as he neared the next deteriorating shell of a building. This one had only two full walls standing, and no roof. A pile of broken wood and stones stretched out between it and the next dwelling. He moved to the edge of the pile and found concealment in the penumbra of a shadow creeping out from the adjacent structure. Peering over the edge, he saw it was still a good forty-five yards to the area where the rail gun sat idling.

  The Executioner crept past the stone pile, up to the edge of the building, and saw one of the guards by the XR-25. Bolan flattened against the wall and aimed the pistol, mentally debating the chances of a lethal hit from this distance. The guard was crouching and periodically moving back and forth. It was a risky shot at best, and certain to give away his position.

  If he could get closer... Maybe cross the street, a trio of partially collapsed buildings might afford him enough cover to take out those two guards by the weapon.

  A shout came from behind him.

  “There he is!”

  Bolan turned and saw two gunners advancing, one bringing up an MP-5 and loosing a burst. The Executioner dropped to a crouch and leveled his own gun, squeezing off two rounds at the first gunner as he felt the zing of rounds striking the wall next to him.

  The advancing man tumbled forward, his gun going silent. Bolan fired on the other enemy shooter, and dropped that man, as well.

  Bruns said Tragg had about fifteen men.

  With these two, and the guard in the van, the odds were now about twelve to one.

  Doable, Bolan thought as he started toward his fallen enemies in an attempt to retrieve a better weapon. He’d almost reached them when a head, along with the barrel of a weapon, peeked around the corner of the building. Bolan flattened next to the pile of stones and stretched out the slanting right side, leveling his weapon around a jagged slope. He was still about ten feet from the closer fallen figure.