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  The head edged out again, and this time Bolan was ready. He ignored the first peek, and the second, keeping his body perfectly still. The gunner curled around the corner, his MP-5 extending in front of him as he crept toward his two prone comrades. A second man took up a cover position at the corner.

  The Executioner continued to wait, the seconds ticking by in his head. The gunner continued forward, apparently not noticing Bolan, who was still motionless along the shadowy edge. He waited a few more seconds as the first man stooped to check his fallen team members, then keyed a button on his radio and said, “Baker and Curtis are down. Proceeding toward the main street from the building directly across from XR-25.”

  As the man straightened, Bolan’s round struck him in the base of the throat, spinning him in a half circle before dropping him to the ground. Bolan rolled to the other side of the stone pile. Drawing his body into a crouch, he leveled his weapon at the corner where he’d seen the other gunner. The man did not disappoint and popped into sight, holding his submachine gun at chest level and starting to fan left to right with a quick burst of rounds.

  Bolan took him down before the spray of bullets reached his new position.

  Two more down, ten to go, he thought, if Bruns had been correct.

  Operating on the assumption that his position had been compromised, Bolan scrambled to his left into what had once apparently been a two-story building of some sort. The remnants of a second floor jutted about twelve feet above him. One long beam formed the hypotenuse of a right triangle with the floor and the standing wall. Hoping it was sturdy enough to support his weight, the Executioner stepped on a stack of piled rocks and boards, then bounced on the angled beam, using it as a spring board to give him enough lift to grab the jutting second floor. His left hand grabbed for the deteriorating wood and was met by a host of jagged splinters. Ignoring the flash of pain, Bolan managed to pull himself up onto the second floor and roll, flattening out with his weapon extended.

  His pistol had a magazine capacity of eight. He’d used four rounds and hadn’t checked initially to see if it had been full or if there’d been one in the chamber.

  A new enemy burst through the opening, spraying on full-auto as he entered the area. Beams of light from the built-in flashlights cut through the shadowy interior below him. Bolan squeezed off a round and the man collapsed.

  Nine to go.

  He crawled to the window and peered across the street. Tragg stood there arguing with Sergio. Bolan couldn’t hear their words, but the conversation was animated. The floor felt tenuous beneath him, and his battle sense told him to keep moving. There was a large gap in the wall to his right that had once been a window. Moving to the opening, he saw that the roof of the building next door was about an eight foot drop. More movement stirred below, and rounds started zinging up through the rotting floor.

  Bolan leaped through the window and landed on the adjacent roof seconds later. The wood gave way under him, and he felt himself falling.

  He clawed out with his left hand, trying to catch himself or at least break his fall, collecting more scrapes and splinters as he cascaded downward, landing with a substantial impact on the uneven floor. As he got to his feet, Bolan tried to breathe and assess his condition. Besides having the wind knocked out of him, he seemed to have no injuries, except for scrapes, and splinters that felt like needles in his left hand.

  He ran to the front of the structure, an open, rectangular hole where the front door had been. Bolan saw Tragg yelling and pointing at the technician standing on the rear bed of the truck.

  A shadow materialized on the wall next to him, and he ducked and whirled.

  Two men had entered the rear door of the structure, their guns at the ready.

  Bolan brought up the 9 mm M&P and popped two rounds into each of them. The slide locked back and he dropped the magazine, reaching into his pants pocket for a fresh magazine. The pain of the movement made him involuntarily wince, but he was able to complete the combat reload. Whirling, he saw a figure in front of him, silhouetted within the frame of the doorway. He automatically brought up the pistol and squeezed off two rounds. The figure fell. Bolan saw that it was the black guy, Dean, who’d ushered them into the trap back at Lucien Technologies.

  Bolan advanced out of the doorway and ran straight for the rail gun. Rounds zipped along the dirt street to his left as he covered the distance, stopping about twenty feet from the rear of the XR-25. One of the guards standing on the bed of the truck was aiming at him. Bolan dropped and rolled as more bullets stitched the ground next to him.

  The Executioner extended his gun arm, targeted the guard on the truck and fired. The man pitched forward and fell. The other guard sent a burst of rounds in Bolan’s direction, but they went wide. Bolan’s round did not. The guard’s head snapped back and he crumpled.

  Getting to his feet, Bolan collided with Tragg, who’d been running toward him. The two men grabbed at each other’s weapons as they did several stagger-steps, each trying to maintain his footing while seeking to throw the other man. Tragg brought up a booted foot and tried to kick at Bolan’s groin. The Executioner was able to deflect the full impact of the kick by twisting away, but it caught his inner thigh, jolting the strained muscles there.

  The sound of automatic gunfire erupted behind him, but Bolan could only focus on the intense struggle with his adversary.

  Tragg shifted his weight, bearing down with his right hand, which held the big Desert Eagle, the barrel looming a few inches from Bolan’s head. Blood on his left hand made his grip tenuous, but he managed to push Tragg’s arm away, and at the same time angle his own weapon toward the other man. Tragg tried another kick, but Bolan shifted to the side again and this time brought his own foot upward. His instep smashed into Tragg’s groin and, after the accompanying two or three seconds, the other man’s legs sagged and his grip on Bolan’s right wrist slackened.

  The Executioner adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger, not bothering to worry about affecting the trajectory with the jerking motion. They were at close quarters. Too close for Tragg. The round entered the left side of his chest, next to his body armor, and his mouth contorted into a grimace, then softened to a neutral expression as he died.

  Bolan let the man fall, kicked the Desert Eagle away from his now limp fingers, then turned toward the rail gun. The generators were cycling with an incredible roar. The two techs stood there frozen. The second guard lay at their feet. One of the techs yelled and pointed, and Bolan whirled.

  Sergio stood ten feet away holding an MP-5, his face frozen with a maniacal expression. He pointed the gun directly at Bolan and fired, just as the Executioner brought his own weapon up and loosed two rounds. The MP-5 remained silent.

  The 9 mm bullets hit Sergio in the shoulder, and he took several steps back, his face revealing shock and disbelief that he’d been shot. Suddenly, the arms and chest of his cream-colored shirt were perforated with a dozen small black holes and his body continued to dance backward until his legs stopped moving and he twisted into a heap on the ground.

  Grimaldi, holding the MP-5, raced toward Bolan.

  “You didn’t think I was going to let you make me stay with the civilians,” the pilot said, “did you?”

  He strode over to the prone body of Sergio de la Vega and pulled the MP-5 out of the drug lord’s slack hands. Rotating it, he grinned.

  “Some badass gangster. He didn’t even know enough to take the safety off.”

  “Good thing he didn’t,” Bolan said. “It would have been close. Are all of Tragg’s men down?”

  “Looks that way. Consuelo and the others are stashed in an old abandoned barn. I knocked off about four or five of the enemy, and then came back to help you.”

  Bolan nodded, then walked to the rail gun. He pointed his pistol at the two techs.

  “Is that thing set to fire?”

  The technicians exch
anged glances, then one said, “It is, but it won’t fire unless this button is pushed.” He pointed to a lit panel with three buttons, one red, one yellow and one green, in a horizontal assembly.

  “Looks like a damn traffic light,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan told the techs not to touch anything and to jump down. They did. The Executioner did a quick pat down of each of them.

  “Hey, mister, we didn’t want to be here,” one said.

  Bolan turned his graveyard eyes on the man, and the tech abruptly shut up.

  “Hey, look what I found.” Grimaldi held up an open backpack that was brimming with cell phones and their IDs and weapons. He took out the Beretta 93-R and held it toward Bolan. “Bet you’ll be glad to get this baby back.”

  Bolan slipped the Beretta into his beltline.

  “And,” Grimaldi said, taking out one of their cell phones, “we can call Webber and have him send in an FBI SWAT team so we can make one of our Lone Ranger exits.”

  Grimaldi pointed to a blinking, vibrating cell phone lying next to Tragg.

  “Looks like he’s got an incoming call.” Grimaldi picked the phone up and studied the lettering. “El Rey. Hey, that means king in Spanish, right?”

  Bolan took the phone from him. He pressed the button and answered with a grunting, “Yeah?”

  “Tragg,” a voice said, “is that you?”

  Bolan didn’t answer. The voice had tinctures of Spanish inflections.

  “What is going on?” the voice asked. “I am watching the stupid event on the television, and nothing has happened.”

  Bolan still said nothing.

  “Are you there?” the voice continued. “Why do you not fire?” A few more seconds ticked by. “Where is Sergio? Let me speak to my son.”

  Bolan knew then he was talking with the big man himself, Don Fernando de la Vega.

  Lowering his voice to imitate Tragg’s as best he could, Bolan said, “Bad connection. Barely hear you. Here, wait, I’ll get Sergio.” He terminated the call.

  He pointed to their cell phones and said, “Call Aaron ASAP.”

  Grimaldi began dialing.

  “Have him see if he can vector in on this frequency.” Bolan held up the cell phone and showed him the display of the number. As Grimaldi was relaying the information, Tragg’s phone began ringing once again. Bolan answered in similar fashion.

  “Tragg, what kind of game are you playing. Where is Sergio?”

  “He’s coming. Hold on.”

  He held the phone down and they waited as the seconds seemed to tick by with extraordinary slowness. Finally, Grimaldi held up his hand, waited a few more seconds, and then formed an O with his index finger and thumb.

  Bolan held the phone against his leg. “Where’s it coming from?”

  “Looks like a yacht in the Gulf,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan thought for a moment, and then said, “Get the coordinates.” He turned to the technicians standing there. “My partner’s going to give you some coordinates. Program them into the rail gun.”

  The techs eyed each other nervously, then one said, “I’ll do it, but I’m not pressing the button.”

  “Just program it,” the Executioner said. “And I’ll do the rest.”

  * * *

  The water was exceptionally calm in the Gulf, and the satellite reception on the large flat screen clear and precise. But Don Fernando’s mood was anything but tranquil. He paced back and forth, holding the phone to his ear.

  “Tragg. Tragg,” he said. “Why do you not answer? Where is my son?”

  Nada. Was the fool delaying him on purpose to check on the money transfer?

  Don Fernando stared at the flat screen again. The two idiot presidents were shaking hands, the flowered wreath on a stand between them.

  The drug lord was looking forward to their demise. Soon he would rule, and bring both countries to their knees.

  He regarded the television again. The American president slapped his Mexican counterpart on the back affectionately, and Don Fernando wondered if they would see it coming. Tragg had told him the weapon’s round traveled at incredible speed. Perhaps they would see only a flash of light, and then they would be gone.

  The call disconnected yet again, and Don Fernando lifted his arms in a frustrated rage.

  “I will kill him,” he said. “With my bare hands.”

  He began dialing again as something, a distant sparkle, winked up in the sky, catching his eye through the window of the cabin.

  “Tragg, you are dead. You hear me? A dead man.”

  A millisecond later the world dissolved into a fiery burst, and then there was nothing.

  Epilogue

  Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport

  Arizona

  Bolan and Grimaldi ushered Consuelo Diaz through the special VIP section of the line as they made their way toward the gate, bypassing waiting passengers. Bolan’s left hand was bandaged, and his face was spotted with a variety of bruises and swelling. Grimaldi’s face was equally discolored, but his grin was wide.

  “How come the bruises always look so much better on you?” he asked.

  “Rest assured they don’t feel any better,” Bolan said.

  Diaz smiled and placed her hand on Bolan’s arm.

  “You both do not need to accompany me back to Mexico, you know,” she said.

  “Ah, but we want to,” Grimaldi said.

  “It’s no problem,” Bolan added.

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it—” she paused and lowered her voice to a whisper “—but with the cartel leaders dead, I don’t think I am in any danger. Do you?”

  “Probably not,” Bolan said. “Another cartel will step in to pick up the pieces, but you won’t be on their radar. But we’re going to deliver you to Jésus Martinez just the same.”

  “Or,” Grimaldi said, raising an eyebrow, “you could take us up on our offer to let you stay here on a student visa. We can arrange a scholarship at one of the top journalism universities for you, and I could take you out to dinner sometime.”

  Her smile was bright, but she shook her head. “I need to go home. To finish my father’s work. Once I have done that, who knows?”

  “Well,” Bolan said, “you’ll have a great story to tell. Just remember to leave us out of it.”

  “Just like in the Mission Impossible movies,” Grimaldi said. “We were never there, and if we were, we’ll disavow all knowledge.”

  Diaz laughed. “Rest assured, I know what to say...” Her eyes drifted to Bolan. “And what not to say. But I will always remember that you saved my life.”

  “Yeah, and so did I,” Grimaldi said. “Plus, you and I kind of have a history. After all, you did get the LifeCard out of my pants.”

  “I’ll make sure to leave that part out of whatever I write,” she said with a wink.

  “Shakespeare said it best,” Bolan added. “That was much ado about nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Grimaldi’s jaw gaped.

  Bolan allowed himself a rare chuckle as he started to walk toward the gate, his thoughts drifting to Hal Brognola, wondering what the big Fed had waiting for him next.

  * * *

  ISBN-13: 9781488096105

  Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Michael A. Black for his contribution to this work.

  Dying Art

  Copyright © 2018 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited

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