Dying Art Read online

  “Good,” Bruns said. “Tell him it’ll be the same arrangement as the last time. As soon as the formalities are complete, we’ll make the transfer.”

  “The formalities” meant the forged paper trail that Karga would create to “document” that the item was sold through proper and established channels. It was total bullshit, but Bruns had been burned before when he’d been ordered by US Customs and Border Protection to return a series of cuneiform stone tablets that he’d purchased without proper documentation. Now that things had settled down somewhat in the war zones in Iraq and Afghanistan, both the US and foreign governments were looking a lot closer at these transactions out of Geneva and Istanbul. The “transfer” referred to the actual exchange where the money would be wired to Karga’s special Swiss bank account, and the artifact would be turned over to Tragg for transport to Bruns. The mistake the rich son of a bitch had made the last time was transporting them directly to the United States. This time he’d arranged for them to come in the back door, via Mexico, which had in turn opened up the second, and secret, part of Tragg’s plan.

  “There’s one more thing, sir,” he said as he placed a hand on the professor’s shoulder and pushed him toward the door. After the little man was shoved into the hall, Tragg closed the door behind him.

  He studied the image of the fat man on the small screen. The twin creases between Bruns’s eyebrows were deep. “What’s going on?”

  “It seems we may have a problem,” Tragg said.

  “What?”

  “There’s another bidder who’s interested.” Tragg waited a few seconds to heighten the tension. “And Hakeem seems to favor his offer.”

  Chapter Two

  Stony Man Farm

  Virginia

  Bolan crouched behind a large metal mailbox and waited for Grimaldi to move to the next cover point, the shell of an old Lincoln Continental. This was the third time they’d worked the Hogan’s Alley portion of the shooting range in tandem, and each time the targets had varied.

  Bolan caught a sudden flash of movement in the second-story window of the faux building about thirty yards away just as Grimaldi began his run. The Executioner brought up his Beretta 93-R, acquiring target acquisition in a split second, and fired a quick burst.

  Three holes dotted the center of the cardboard target of a scowling man in a black mask holding an AK-47.

  Grimaldi completed his roll, taking cover by the rear fender, and held his SIG Sauer P-220 with arms outstretched.

  It was Bolan’s turn to move.

  As he did so, he caught another target moving in a doorway.

  Grimaldi’s weapon cracked three times.

  Bolan saw that this target was another bad guy. He dropped to his knees beside Grimaldi, who grinned.

  “See? Another terrorist bites the dust, courtesy of yours truly and SIG.”

  They were wearing GunSport–PRO electronic earplugs that allowed them to converse in normal tones, yet blocked out any sudden noise over 500 decibels.

  “Better do a combat reload before we move,” Bolan said. “By my count, you’re down to your last two rounds.”

  Grimaldi dropped the magazine from his gun and verified that Bolan’s assessment had been correct. A solitary round sat atop the magazine. “How the hell do you do that? I can’t keep track of my own rounds, much less my partner’s.”

  Bolan said nothing, but they both knew the answer was training and practice. He slapped Grimaldi’s shoulder, signaling him to move across the street. “Go.”

  Grimaldi grunted and tore around the rear of the Lincoln, staying low as he ran, his weapon held close to his chest with both hands, ready to shoot as he moved.

  Another target popped into the doorway. Bolan couldn’t take the shot because Grimaldi veered left into the field of fire. The Stony Man pilot’s SIG Sauer barked numerous times and a plethora of holes pierced the target’s chest, but this time it was a woman holding a grocery bag. Grimaldi groaned and shook his head at the rare mistake, and his pace slowed as he completed the last few steps to take cover on the right side of the doorway.

  Bolan was already moving to his next position, keeping the Beretta trained on the various openings on the building’s front.

  No new targets popped up, and the Executioner got to the opposite side of the doorway.

  Before they could enter the building, the buzzer sounded, indicating the session was over, followed by a loud Bronx cheer over the speaker system from the range master.

  Grimaldi swore and jammed his pistol into its holster.

  “All right, all right, so I shot an alleged noncombatant. But I’ll bet you a ten spot she had a big, old .357 hogleg hidden in that grocery bag.”

  The range master’s laugh sounded over the speaker. “Not hardly, Jack. But considering what a lady’s man you are, why don’t you give her a nice kiss to see if you can bring her back to life?”

  Bolan allowed himself a ghost of a smile as he holstered his weapon.

  Grimaldi shook his head and smirked. “Nah, she doesn’t look like my type.”

  “Make that a lady-killer, then,” the range master said. “Anyway, Hal called. Needs to see you, guys, ASAP.”

  “Good,” Grimaldi said. “Maybe he’s got something for us. All this training is giving me a case of the ass.”

  “Careful what you wish for,” Bolan said as he headed toward the exit pathway.

  “Hey,” Grimaldi called. “Hold on a sec. I got something neat to show you.”

  Bolan stopped and turned around.

  Grimaldi reached into his pants pocket and took out a black rectangular object that was about the same size as a stack of credit cards.

  “I got credit,” Grimaldi said. He held up the object, then with a quick move he pushed a latch and the bottom section flipped down displaying a trigger and a handle. Grimaldi pulled a small rectangular section back and whirled, pointing at the target.

  A subdued pop sounded, and Grimaldi turned back to Bolan with a sly grin. “Told you I had credit.”

  He held his hand out, and Grimaldi gave him the weapon.

  “Just picked it up. It’s called a LifeCard .22LR. Single shot .22 long rifle. Stores four rounds in the handle.”

  Bolan checked the action and then handed it back to Grimaldi.

  “Don’t leave home without it,” he said.

  Fifteen minutes later they were walking into the War Room in the main building. The huge wall screen had been lowered and muted images from a cable news show danced across it. Hal Brognola, who was on the phone, indicated that they should sit with him at the conference table.

  “Hey, look,” Grimaldi said, pointing at the screen. “There’s our buddy Sergio!”

  An unlit cigar dangled from Brognola’s mouth as he emitted a series of nearly inaudible grunts. Grimaldi grabbed the remote off the table before he sat down and played with the buttons. The volume came on and Brognola shot him a dirty look. The pilot muted the sound, pressed a few more buttons, and enabled the caption function.

  Bolan watched with interest as the white-on-black letters began appearing in a box at the lower right section of the screen.

  ...And security was extremely heavy this morning as reputed drug kingpin Sergio de la Vega was brought before a federal magistrate in downtown Chicago.

  Sergio, in an orange jumpsuit, stood in front of a judge.

  “Hey, I like his wardrobe,” Grimaldi said with a chuckle. “Looks like a leftover from Orange Is the New Black, doesn’t it?”

  Brognola, who was continuing to speak quietly, snapped his fingers at Grimaldi, who stopped talking.

  This was the first appearance de la Vega has made since his initial arraignment two months ago when he was mysteriously taken into custody at a remote location in Southern California by DEA agents.

  “Ha,” Grimaldi muttered. “All those DEA gu
ys did was score a touchdown with the ball we handed them at the goal line.”

  De la Vega, who was accompanied by his lawyers, was once again remanded to custody without a bond being set due to his international ties and infamous reputation regarding the Bajos Diablos drug cartel. It was decided that the case will be held at the Dirksen Federal Building in Chicago, since the US Attorney’s Office filed an indictment at that location. De la Vega’s lawyers reiterated their claim that their client was illegally abducted from Mexico by clandestine government operatives working in conjunction with the Mexican authorities, and was therefore being detained unlawfully, having been denied the right of extradition.

  “Extradition.” Grimaldi snorted. “Yeah, right. So his old man could’ve had time to bribe one of those crooked judges down there?”

  The picture shifted to a clip featuring the US president shaking hands with the president of Mexico as the white-on-black letters kept scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

  The presidents will both be in Nogales for the upcoming Unity Day meeting. When asked to comment on the lawyer’s charges during the White House press briefing, the assistant press secretary quoted the president as having said, “We will go to any length, cross any border, do whatever is necessary, to bring to justice the wrongdoers who continue to poison the youth of our country with the scourge of drugs.”

  Brognola ended his call, then said, “That was interesting.” He leaned back in his chair and twirled the cigar. “Hard to hear with all the conversing going on, but interesting.”

  “You wanted to see us, so I assume the call is about a mission?”

  “Yeah, but first off, the Man wants you both to know that he’s very pleased with how smoothly the mission to bring in Sergio de la Vega went.”

  “Well,” Grimaldi said, “I guess that’s a compliment.”

  Brognola held out his hand for the remote. The Stony Man pilot slid it across the table to him. After he pressed a few buttons, a breaking news story came on the big screen. The sound was still off, but the caption feature flashed a report of several murders at the newly opened plush San Martin Resort near Cancun, Mexico.

  Two of the victims are purported to have been Americans. Authorities declined comment at this time, and this report could neither be confirmed nor denied.

  The screen froze and Brognola turned to them. “It’s confirmed. Two dead Americans.”

  “Tourists?” Bolan asked.

  Brognola shook his head. “US Customs and Border Protection agents.”

  “CBP?” Grimaldi frowned. “Were they working a case down there?”

  “They were,” Brognola said. “Something about looking into the black-market dealings concerning some stolen artifacts from the Middle East. Most specifically, Iraq.”

  “It’s common knowledge that a lot of precious pieces were looted from the National Museum in Baghdad after the US invasion,” Bolan said.

  “And a lot of it’s starting to surface now that the situation’s cooled off a bit,” Brognola added.

  “Hey, I love art as much as the next guy,” Grimaldi said. “But what’s that got to do with us?”

  “A lot of that stolen stuff ended up in the hands of terrorists,” Bolan said. “Now, as they continue to lose territory, they need to find new ways to finance their operations.”

  “Right.” Brognola shifted back in his chair. “And this one had two interesting wrinkles.” He placed the still unlit cigar between his lips and affected a wry grin as he held up his right index finger. “One, the third person killed along with the Customs and Border Protection agents was a Mexican journalist. Rolando Diaz. Does the name sound familiar?”

  Grimaldi shook his head. “Should it?”

  “Diaz,” Bolan said. “The woman who helped us grab Sergio de la Vega was named Diaz. And I believe Jésus told me that her father was a journalist.”

  “One and the same,” the big Fed told him. “Two Mexican marines were killed as well, although that hasn’t been divulged to the media yet.”

  “Jésus mentioned that their latest assignments included guarding some journalists,” Bolan said. “Which was why he felt confident that he could adequately safeguard the woman, Consuelo.”

  Brognola leaned forward, placing his forearms on the conference table. “She’s also missing. Apparently she was with her father when all this went down. Something else that wasn’t released to the press. Our buddy Jésus sent word via back channels to the American Embassy in Mexico City that she took off with her father’s laptop. They’re looking for her now. And that’s not all. It seems there was one other little fact that they’d been sitting on down there. They found a handwritten note at the crime scene.”

  “What did it say?” Bolan asked.

  “Vengeance,” Brognola said. “And the funny thing is, it was written in Arabic.”

  Harbor de San Martin

  Off the coast of Quintana Roo, Mexico

  Don Fernando de la Vega watched as Gordo escorted the blindfolded lawyer down the companionway into the yacht’s cabin. They were almost like two bulls descending the narrow steps, the fine wood creaking under the strain of their combined weight. No, not bulls. Don Fernando knew that Gordo’s bulk was all muscle, but the same was not true for the lawyer. This man was no bull. He was grossly overweight, his body round and soft, but he was said to possess one of the finest legal minds the Americans had to offer, and that was all that counted. The intricate machinations had to be set in place with precision in order to make the plan work.

  Don Fernando’s eyes shot to Clayton Tragg, who stood in the corner of the luxurious cabin like a silent sentry. He was a large man, too, but not as big as Gordo. Still, this American mercenary had proven himself to be both efficient and deadly, if the need arose. Don Fernando had no doubt that Tragg, like Gordo, could easily kill a man without the use of a weapon. And Don Fernando knew he needed such a man, an American, to do his bidding in this instance.

  The lawyer stumbled slightly as his feet hit the floor of the deck, but Gordo held the man’s arms, keeping him upright.

  Don Fernando lit the cigar he had between his lips, set the fine, gold lighter onto the tabletop and nodded.

  Gordo removed the lawyer’s blindfold and the fat man blinked several times and shook his head.

  “Was all this really necessary?” the lawyer asked.

  “My apologies, Señor Sinclair, but certain steps regarding my security must be taken.”

  Kenneth Sinclair pursed his lips and then gave a curt nod. “I understand, but I assure you, anything you may say is covered by attorney-client privilege.”

  Don Fernando blew out a puff of smoke. It obviously bothered the lawyer.

  “I have many more concerns than the ramifications of your legal system, señor.” He drew on the cigar again, this time allowing the smoke to creep slowly out of his mouth. “Tell me, how is my son?”

  Sinclair coughed slightly. “He’s fine. Well as can be expected, that is. I’ve arranged for him to be held in protective custody... Isolation, away from the other inmates.”

  Don Fernando’s face betrayed nothing.

  “At the hearing the judge ruled unfavorably on my motion to dismiss, based on the illegality of the arrest,” Sinclair continued. “He’s going to let the trial proceed, despite the unusual circumstances. There was a similar case involving—”

  Don Fernando slammed his fist on the table so hard the lighter bounced. Sinclair’s head jerked back, and the cartel leader could sense the other man’s fear.

  He decided to press his advantage and kept a scowl on his face.

  “And why is it that he is still incarcerated? Why is it that an attorney of your esteemed reputation has not been able to obtain bond?”

  Sinclair swallowed hard before he spoke. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than you’ve been led to believe. The judge is a federal ma
gistrate, and he has deemed your son, Sergio, a flight risk.” He paused to compress, then lick, his lips. “I’m preparing another motion based on the—”

  Don Fernando held up his open palm in a silencing gesture. The lawyer’s head jerked back again, as if he thought he was going to get slapped. His face flashed a quick, but nervous smile when no blow came.

  “I care nothing for your motions,” Don Fernando said, letting his disdain paint the last word. He leaned forward and drew again on the cigar. “Tell me more of this prison where they are holding my son.”

  The lawyer coughed slightly and pushed back, away from the smoke. “It’s not a prison, per se. It’s called the MCC, the Metropolitan Correction Center. It’s located in downtown Chicago and has extremely tight security.”

  Don Fernando already knew that, having been briefed by Tragg on the unfeasibility of initiating a direct assault on the building to free Sergio.

  “A direct assault would be virtually impossible,” Tragg had told him. “Both in terms of a successful extraction and ensuring the safety of your son.”

  Don Fernando did not doubt this. The extent of the efforts the Americans had gone through to abduct Sergio had made it clear that they would not place him in some flimsy box of a prison that could be easily broken into.

  “What about bribery?” Don Fernando asked, directing his attention back to the lawyer and thinking of the artful escape a cartel competitor had effected in Mexico City.

  “Again,” Sinclair said, “that would be virtually impossible to arrange. Plus, I couldn’t be party to something like that. If it ever came to light, if it were traced back to me, I’d lose my law license and be thrown in jail myself.”

  Don Fernando held up his palm again. “Do not use that tone with me.”

  “Sorry.” The fat man’s cheeks shook.