“Right,” Webber said. “Emailed it to headquarters. They’re going over it now for specific distinctions.”
“I feel better already,” Grimaldi said.
Webber frowned. “That sarcasm was uncalled for.”
Grimaldi shrugged. “Look, we’re field agents. They sent us down here because they wanted the best of the best to look into it.”
“Jack,” Bolan warned.
Grimaldi compressed his lips.
Bolan turned to Romero. “What can you tell us about the crime scene?”
“It was very...tragic,” the lieutenant said. His English was impeccable, with only the slightest hint of an accent. “Apparently, your two Customs agents arranged a clandestine meeting with a Mexican journalist. His name was Rolando Diaz.” He pointed to a large patio door that had been shattered. Shards of glass were scattered around the room, and a few still dangled from the top of the doorframe. “It appears that several armed men entered from that location. We found numerous 9 mm shell casings on the floor. My best guess is that they were using submachine guns.” Numerous patches of blood were still visible on the bamboo rug. “Most likely Heckler & Koch MP-5s. Photographs of the crime scene were emailed to the FBI yesterday.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders slightly. “It has been more than twenty-four hours since the crime occurred.”
“I’m sorry about your two marines,” Bolan said to Martinez.
Romero’s face crinkled a bit as his gaze focused on the marine sergeant. “Yes. They were assigned as bodyguards to the journalist, Diaz.”
“How were they killed?”
Romero’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “The autopsies have not been completed, but apparently their guard was down, and they were taken by surprise.”
“I can answer that,” Martinez said. “Both of my men, they were shot in the back. Betrayed by someone in this room, with the reporter and your agents.”
Bolan studied Romero, trying to read the man. The lieutenant only shrugged and offered a slight smile. “All of the bodies, five in total, were riddled with bullets. We cannot draw any significant conclusions at this point.”
“Mierda,” Martinez said.
Romero appeared amused. “As I said, the matter is still under investigation. We do not have all of the facts, and it would be premature to draw any possible conclusions at this point.”
Martinez interrupted, “My men were not careless.”
“That’s quite a trick, considering five people—including your men—died,” Romero said, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Martinez’s face darkened with rage.
Agent Louis began to speak in Spanish, trying to calm them both down.
Bolan stepped forward and placed his hand on the big marine sergeant’s shoulder.
“I know your marines. They are always honorable men.”
He turned back to Romero, who had an amused look on his face. “Any idea what Señor Diaz was working on?”
Romero shook his head. “His laptop, which he always kept with him, was not recovered in this room.”
“So you’re conjecturing that the assailants took it?” Bolan asked.
“It would seem so.”
The Executioner turned back to Martinez. “I heard his daughter is missing.”
Martinez eyed Romero, and then nodded. “My men are looking for her now. She had accompanied her father here, to San Martin, but I do not believe he allowed her to come to this resort for the meeting.”
“Or, it is quite possible,” Romero said, “that when she heard the gunshots, she fled.” He cast a disparaging glance toward Martinez. “And may I add that my men are also looking for her?”
Martinez stared at him, about to say something, when his cell phone rang. His brow furrowed as he studied the number, then answered it and listened. After a few seconds he asked, “Where are you?” and began speaking in a hushed tone.
Bolan listened intently to the one-sided conversation.
“What’s the address?” Martinez asked. “Stay where you are. I’ll be there shortly.”
He terminated the call.
Romero addressed him in Spanish, demanding to know if they had found the woman. “I can have a police patrol there in minutes.”
“No,” Martinez said. “We alone were assigned to protect her.”
“As you protected her father?” Romero shot back.
“Gentlemen,” Webber said. “I suggest we all proceed to the location immediately. We’re wasting time arguing over nonessentials.”
Martinez and Romero eyed each other for a few moments more, then they both headed for the door.
“Hot damn,” Grimaldi said with a grin. “Now that the pissing contest is over, let’s roll.”
Lucien Technologies
Temptation, Arizona
The desert air in the fading heat of the afternoon was hot and dry as Tragg watched the technicians, clad in their white jumpsuits, set up the XR-25 on the sandy surface. They swarmed around it like ants attacking a discarded candy bar. Bruns was still in the comfort of his air-conditioned limo with Hernandez and the two DOD reps. The CEO had introduced Tragg as his head of corporate security, which was a bit of an exaggeration, but he didn’t mind. The less the government idiots knew about him, the better, and their thinking of him as “security” made him seem even more invisible. Just part of the wallpaper, or in this case, the car upholstery. He’d opted to step out, ostensibly to monitor things as they proceeded to the range area, but Tragg was more interested in watching them set up the weapon.
The truck they’d seen on display in the auditorium perhaps twenty minutes ago was an ersatz duplicate. The one they’d driven out for this practical demonstration was the real McCoy. It had special chrome anchors that descended along the frame of the truck to secure it to the ground, although blowback recoil was not much of a factor with the rail gun. The cannon-like barrel was mounted on a swivel, and could be pointed in a variety of directions. Massive twin generators sat on either side of the two parallel rails, one for positive conduction and the other negative. The specially designed armature was in between holding the projectile, in this case, a nonexplosive tungsten round. The armed version could be programmed to explode at specific coordinates. Once these coordinates were entered into the guidance computer, the XR-25 was ready to deliver its deadly payoff, accuracy guaranteed for several hundred miles.
But Tragg thought he shouldn’t need more than a hundred or so.
The technicians on the truck were hunched over, some pressing keys on a monitor and others checking the dials and gauges while speaking into their radios. One told Tragg to “inform Mr. Bruns that the XR-25 is ready to fire.”
Tragg gave a quick acknowledgment, walked over to the limo and tapped gently on the rear window. It rolled down electronically, and Bruns’s round face loomed in the opening.
“We’re good to go, boss,” Tragg said. He could see Hernandez busily talking and gesturing, evidently to the two DOD inspectors who were seated across from her.
The window rolled up and Bruns got out first, flashing a smile toward Tragg, as if they were sharing some inside joke or scheme.
Tragg held the door as Hernandez exited next. He caught a glimpse of her well-toned legs and appreciated Bruns’s shrewdness.
Pick the right delivery system and it didn’t matter what bill of goods you were selling.
He wondered if that were the case with the XR-25... Would it live up to all the hype? Maybe Bruns had found a way to solve the major problems, the constant and excessive power requirements and the wear-and-tear on the rails as each round was fired. But in the end, it didn’t matter to Tragg.
Once again, he’d need only one shot.
“Gentlemen,” Hernandez said, stepping over to the safe zone, which was about thirty yards from the XR-25 itself. Not that there was any significant danger by being closer, bu
t with government inspectors involved, caution won out every time. “We’ve taken the liberty of setting up a limited, scaled down, demonstration for your edification.” She pointed to the distant mountain range.
“As you can see, those hills are exactly fifteen miles away,” she continued. “While the range of the XR-25 is much greater, we had to reduce the distance for safety reasons.”
“All this area is owned by Lucien Technologies,” Bruns said, flipping his hand with a nonchalant gesture.
The spoiled king showing off his fiefdom, Tragg thought.
“While we were in the auditorium,” Hernandez said, “our duty-tech team was busy setting up the prototype and making sure the area is completely secure.” She turned and smiled at them again. “As soon as the helicopter team gives us the final all clear from the target site downrange, we’ll commence with the demonstration.”
A trio of white jumpsuits began discreetly handing out binoculars and earmuffs to everyone. Hernandez looped the strap of hers around her neck but let it rest against her chest, just below her breasts.
Tragg watched the government reps surreptitiously ogling her cleavage.
“Once again,” she said, “the round we’re using for our demonstration today is nonexplosive, except for a very small charge that will ignite once the target has been reached.”
The two government men exchanged glances, looking like they were about to watch a peep show.
Hernandez asked Tragg, “Are they ready?”
He lifted his radio and spoke into it. “Command to helo. Status?”
“Area is all secure, Command,” the voice replied. “Fire when ready.”
Tragg nodded and Hernandez held her hand toward Bruns, who was standing there grinning.
“Gents,” he said. “Focus your range finder binoculars on that distant white X and get ready. This is going down so fast, if you blink, you’ll miss it.”
“But don’t worry, gentlemen,” Hernandez added. “We have cameras in place to record everything, but do put on your ear protectors at this time. We’ll be experiencing a nearly simultaneous sonic boom as the XR-25 is fired.” She adjusted hers. “But keep in mind that the target will have been struck by the time you feel it.”
The humming of the twin generators revved up to an extreme degree, their engines giving off twin wails like a stream of banshees, and they all donned their ear protectors.
“Fifty-four-hundred miles per hour, gentlemen,” Hernandez shouted. “Fifteen miles per second. Nothing, absolutely nothing you’ve ever seen can compare to this.”
Everyone raised their binoculars and focused. After determining that the two DOD inspectors were set, Bruns said, “Do it.”
Tragg repeated the command into his radio, and seconds later the banshee scream exploded and an invisible wave of ruptured sound waves washed over them, but the targeted X in the distance was already exhibiting a neat round hole in its center, a trail of white smoke slowly curling upward from the void.
The two DOD inspectors slowly lowered their binoculars, clearly impressed.
“Now just imagine,” Hernandez yelled, her voice sounding a bit strange due to the pressure distortion in their ear canals. “If that round had contained an explosive core.”
Yeah, Tragg thought, removing his ear protectors. Just imagine.
Cancun, Mexico
Bolan tossed the keys to Grimaldi and hopped in the rear seat, allowing Martinez to ride shotgun in the front passenger side. The FBI agents were trying to cram into the black-and-white Mexican police car, along with Romero and the two uniformed officers. Grimaldi grinned as he started the sedan and backed out of the parking space.
“Good thing they didn’t need a ride,” he said, dropping the car into gear and peeling out. “No way they’re keeping up with us.”
Martinez craned his head to look at the police cruiser and laughed.
“Hell, you gave them the address, right?” Grimaldi said. “I’m through wet nursing those snowflakes.”
“Snowflakes?” Martinez said. “Snow? I have never seen it.”
“What’d she say on the phone?” Bolan asked.
“Only that she had been ordered to remain in a small house in the city that her father had rented until he came for her. When he did not return her calls, and she did not hear from him for such a long time, she became concerned, but has continued hiding.” The space between his eyebrows furrowed. “When we ended our security duties a few weeks after Sergio de la Vega’s capture, I gave her my card with my personal cell phone number.”
“Did she say why it took her so long to call?” Bolan asked.
Martinez shook his head. “She trusts no one.”
Grimaldi took a corner so fast that they all abruptly shifted to the left, and then to the right.
“Madre de dios,” Martinez said. “I can see you drive just as fast as you fly, my friend.”
“Is she waiting at the house?” Bolan asked.
“Sí. It is near El Meco. The ancient ruins.”
They approached a built-up area crowded with pedestrians and Grimaldi slowed, but laid on his horn. People began to scatter. Martinez reached out and gripped the hand brace on the upper post of the car door.
“Her father was working on a story muy grande about the cartels, but said he had found something new, and interesting. And...” He turned his head toward Bolan. “He left his laptop with her.”
He directed Grimaldi to turn left at the next intersection, then scanned the side-view mirror. “Muy bien. I no see our little friends. I do want to get to Consuelo before they do.”
“How much farther?” Grimaldi asked. He floored he accelerator again.
“A few more blocks,” Martinez said. “But we must be cautious as well as rapido. Even though Cancun is not known for the type of violence as the rest of Mexico, it can still be a dangerous place. The cartel has eyes and ears everywhere.”
“A nest of vipers,” Bolan said.
“Qué?” Martinez asked.
“That’s the Mayan translation for Cancun.”
Martinez laughed. “I did not know that. And now, Jack, slow down a bit more. We must take that road. The left.”
“That gravel one?” Grimaldi asked, teasing the brake pedal a little.
“Sí.” Martinez gripped the dashboard with both hands.
Bolan turned toward the rear window. There was no sign of the National Police car, which pleased him. Not that he wanted to exclude the Bureau from this meeting, but he wanted to locate Consuelo Diaz first, and hopefully get that laptop.
Martinez pointed to a row of small houses butting up against a patchy mixture of whitish sand and spots of green.
Grimaldi skidded to a halt; Bolan and Martinez were out of the car as soon as it stopped. As they approached the last house in the row, the big American placed a hand on Martinez’s shoulder.
“Are you armed?”
Martinez shook his head.
“Then let me go first,” Bolan said.
Grimaldi ran up beside them, huffing and coughing. “Damn dust.”
“Who do we have to thank for that?” Bolan said as he went toward the door of the last cabin, positioning himself on the opposite side of the doorframe and gesturing to Martinez, who knocked on the door and called out Consuelo Diaz’s name.
There was no response, and Martinez repeated the call, and identified himself. This time, a woman’s voice responded. After a long ten seconds, the door opened.
Diaz was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. Her face was puffy, possibly from crying, but her immediate reaction upon seeing the familiar faces brought a smile to her lips.
“I remember you,” she said in Spanish.
The three men quickly entered and closed the door. It was a rather tiny one-room bungalow with two exits, front and back, and a bed in the corner. A few scant items of
furniture, a table, sofa, and three wooden chairs, graced the interior. A small television sat on the table.
Bolan pointed to the window, and Grimaldi flattened next to it, peering out.
Martinez and Diaz spoke in rapid Spanish, and Bolan was barely able to follow their conversation. Her father had been working on a big story involving the cartels and possibly some stolen artifacts from the Middle East. He’d contacted the Americans, who’d sent two agents. They all were supposed to meet with her father’s source, a man named Carmen, at the San Martin bungalow. Her father had told her to stay at this location and wait for his return, no matter what she heard. She was not to leave or try to contact him unless it was an emergency. He’d given her a disposable phone for that purpose. She was to keep the phone turned off, and turn it on only every four hours to check it. He’d also given her his laptop. When he didn’t return that night, she tried to call him, but received no reply. She gazed up at Bolan.
“I’m afraid that something’s happened to him,” she said in perfect English. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”
Bolan said nothing.
Her gaze darted from him to Martinez. When neither man spoke, she apparently read between the lines. She slumped against Martinez and began to sob uncontrollably.
“We’ve got company,” Grimaldi said, taking out his SIG Sauer.
“Romero and the Feds?” Bolan asked.
“Uh-uh,” Grimaldi said. “Half a dozen tough-looking Mexicans and a couple of badass Anglos. All of them carrying MP-5s.”
Martinez’s head jerked toward the windows. “They must be from the cartel. But how did they find us?”
Bolan didn’t answer, although he now had a firm suspicion that Martinez’s theory that the marines were set up by someone on the inside the meet—Diaz’s source, most likely—was correct. Five bodies... Two marines, two American Customs and Border Protection agents and Rolando Diaz. No Carmen. He’d probably had a gun secreted in the room, and used it to get the drop on the two Mexican marine guards. The guys with the MP-5s came in and finished the job.
And now the setup was continuing, Bolan thought. Only this time we’re the ones in the crosshairs.
Dying Art Page 6