It was Grimaldi. He feigned a surprised look.
“What? You two think you’ve got a lock on the insomnia around here, or something?”
“Were you able to find anything?” Bolan asked.
“After cutting through a mountain of red tape,” Kurtzman said, clicking his mouse, “I got your two dead Anglos ID’d.” The driver’s license image of the red-haired man they’d killed in Cancun popped up. “Look familiar?”
“Yeah. Who is this guy?”
After another click of the mouse, the corresponding information from the driver’s license popped up next to the photo.
“His name’s Paul Cronin,” Kurtzman said. “Or it was. Address on his DL comes back to a phony place in Columbia, Maryland. One of those business mailboxes. Fortunately, he served two tours in Iraq. US Army Rangers. After his discharge he went back to the sandbox to do security work in a private military organization.” He clicked the mouse again, and another male’s photo appeared. “Same with this guy. Robert Munson, except he was former Force Recon. More or less the same dates of service, and eventually, the same PMO.”
“So they both had extensive training and combat experience,” Bolan said. “What was the name of the PMO?”
“Granite Security.” Kurtzman clicked the mouse once more, and the image of a huge white Trojan horse superimposed over a mountain range emerged on-screen. “It was originally founded by this gentleman.” Another click, another photo on-screen. This face was older and more haggard-looking. It had a dated look to it. “Say hello to Wilson Goddard, ex–Green Beret, served thirty years in the army before retiring and starting his own security organization when things started going that way in Iraq. Unfortunately, he was killed by an IED about four years ago. Granite Security kind of withered, but didn’t die completely.”
“Who took over?” Bolan asked.
Another image showed a man in his late thirties or early forties with a face that exuded confidence set on a bull neck. “Name’s Clayton S. Tragg. Another Special Forces Army vet. Served with Goddard before he retired, and when Granite Security started, Tragg came on board as sort of a second in command. When the old man got blown up, he took the helm.” Kurtzman paused to take a drink from his coffee mug. He pointed it toward Grimaldi. “The pot’s over there if you want some.”
“Not hardly,” Grimaldi said. “I’ve got aspirations of getting some sleep sometime in the next week or so.”
Kurtzman frowned. “I did some more digging on this Granite Security PMO. It’s based in Virginia, or at least it was. In recent times it’s sort of dwindled down a bit, not doing much overseas work and instead specializing in private security jobs here in the States and down in Mexico and Central America.”
“Which fits with those two bozos being with the cartel gangsters trying to take us out in Cancun,” Grimaldi said.
“You find anything connecting them to any particular cartels?” Bolan asked.
Kurtzman shook his head. “Nothing substantial. They’ve got a special account set up in the Cayman Islands, and all their payments are routed through there. It’s next to impossible to hack into it.”
“Figures,” Grimaldi said.
“Here’s something else of interest, though.” Kurtzman’s finger clicked the mouse again. “I did find that one of their recent security gigs was for Lucien Technologies. Sound familiar?”
“The defense contractor?” Bolan asked.
“One and the same. Awarded a contract to produce a scaled down, portable version of the rail gun.”
“Rail gun?” Grimaldi asked.
“Electromagnetic Propulsion firing system,” Bolan said.
“I know that,” Grimaldi said, shrugging. “I just thought it was something the navy already had.”
“Yeah, right.” Kurtzman set down the empty mug. “And now, maybe the army wants to get in on the action. Lucien Technologies is trying to miniaturize the rail gun. And there’s something else that’s interesting. The company’s owned by Lucien Leonard Bruns, a multimillionaire who probably has enough pocket change handy to pay off the national debt. Besides having more money than God, Bruns also has a very esoteric and expensive habit.”
Numerous images advanced, first showing a view of Lucien Technologies’ corporate logo, some views of a tall skyscraper against an urban backdrop, a large facility set against a desert backdrop of the American Southwest and finally a set of crude-looking stone tablets.
“Know what these are?” Kurtzman asked.
“Looks like somebody’s sixth-grade art project,” Grimaldi said.
“Hardly. They’re some ancient Mesopotamian stone tablets dating back to 911 BC.”
“They worth anything?” Grimaldi asked.
“To the right collector,” Kurtzman said, “they’re practically priceless.”
“Yeah?” Grimaldi snorted. “Maybe I can mix up some cement and knock out a bunch of them.”
“Figure out a way to age carbon thirteen isotope,” Bolan said, “and you might be able to pull it off. But what’s this have to do with Bruns?”
“Bruns,” Kurtzman said, “is a collector of rare Middle Eastern artifacts. He got into trouble a few years back when he purchased these tablets from a less than reputable Turkish art dealer, who couldn’t provide the provenance to substantiate the claim the tablets were purchased from a dealer who allegedly bought them from the National Museum of Iraq. US Customs and Border Protection got involved and made Bruns give them back, in addition to paying a hefty fine. We’re talking about four million in penalties.”
Grimaldi emitted a low whistle.
The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together for Bolan now: Rolando Diaz, who’d been working on a story linking the stolen artifacts that were purportedly for sale in Mexico, and the PMO thugs who worked for a wealthy American collector, who’d gotten in trouble before for buying stolen artifacts... But how and why was a drug cartel involved? Could the cartel be in possession of the artifact? And, if so, what did they have to gain by selling it to Bruns? Could they be switching from importing cocaine and heroin to the international stolen art market? Bruns also happened to have a critically important weapons system DOD contract...
“Does Lucien Technologies produce any other types of weapons?” Bolan asked.
Kurtzman shook his head. “They might. The most prominent thing on their agenda right now is the rail gun.”
If something like that fell into the wrong hands, it would be an unmitigated disaster, Bolan thought.
But transporting something under government scrutiny across the border would prove challenging to say the least. Plus, if it were ever used by the cartels, it would be immediately traced back to Lucien Technologies. Bruns was rich, but selling a weapon like that, especially one under a DOD contract, would land him in prison in a hurry, money or no money.
“Where’s Lucien Technologies located?” Bolan asked.
“Their corporate headquarters is in New York,” Kurtzman said. “But Bruns usually operates out of their research facility in a place called Temptation, Arizona. South of Tucson in Cochise County.”
Bolan turned to Grimaldi. “You feel up to doing a little cross-country flying?”
“To deliver us into Temptation?”
Bolan didn’t reply to his associate’s rhetorical question. Instead he got up and said, “I think it’s time for us to pay Mr. Lucien L. Bruns a little visit.”
Chapter Eight
Chicago, Illinois
Tragg gazed down from the third level of the parking garage to the street below. The concrete overhang of the fourth floor shielded him from any prying eyes on the surrounding rooftops, but he doubted there were any. Three stories below, the police cruiser was parked on Clark at Van Buren, no doubt waiting until the MCC caravan was ready to pull out from the special basement exit. He imagined those officers were probably bor
ed, drinking their morning cups of coffee, while waiting for the radio signal telling them to block the street. Pretty soon they’d have more than enough to do.
He checked his watch again: 7:00 a.m. A bit too early for the caravan to leave, plus the tracking device still showed Sergio to be on the fifth floor. By his estimation, he had more than enough time. Everything had to be in place before he went down to assume his position on Dearborn and directly supervise the extraction.
No mistakes, he thought.
“Anything?” he asked Williams, the computer geek who was manning the laptop.
“Still on five, unless he’s had a sudden bout of diarrhea.” He giggled like a girl.
Tragg frowned and thought about jamming this little creep into the trunk of a car as soon as this part of the mission was over. But that would have to wait. Eventually, he planned on jettisoning all of the crew, except for Dean. He would be needed to effect the final escape act to the Caymans, by way of Mexico. Plus, if Don Fernando did have a double cross in mind, no loose ends, a top gun like Dean would come in handy. They could part ways later, somewhere in the Caribbean. Don Fernando wasn’t the only one who didn’t like to leave loose ends.
“I’m getting some movement,” Williams said. “Looks like they’re still on the fifth floor, though.”
This caught Tragg’s attention. Most likely they were taking Sergio out of his cell now to prepare him for transport. He keyed the mic on his radio.
“Team leader to squad,” he said. “Initial movement reported. Teams One and Two, verify positions.”
What followed next were several verifying replies that the two teams were on Dearborn. One was masquerading as construction workers using heavy equipment in the middle of the street. The other was a group of five on the opposite side of the roadway, wearing orange community service vests with MP-5s in their plastic bags instead of trash, and one uniformed fake county sheriff supervising. Ten men total... With Tragg joining in, it would be eleven.
He hoped this number eleven would be a lucky one.
Tragg contacted the other two teams, if you could call them that. One was just a backup. One man in a windowless, empty plumber’s van on Jackson Boulevard that would transport them out of the area if something prevented them from making it to State Street and the subway entrance. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be needed. Tragg checked again to make sure he had a pocket full of tokens. Dean had an equal amount. No sense attracting undue attention jumping over the gates.
The final check he made was with the driver of the big delivery truck waiting in an alley at Jackson and Holden near the sidewalk grate and just outside any quick perimeter that Chicago PD would set up. The city that works would work for them, getting them the hell out of Dodge while the cops combed the gridlock inside their perimeter zone. The plumber’s van, which had been stolen and repainted, would swing back and pick up Williams, and both trucks would then head at a leisurely pace out to the distant small airfield.
Except for me, Tragg thought, checking to make sure the tiny Bersa was in the lower pocket of his cargo pants. He had one more stop to make after the extraction had been completed: Sinclair’s office. And he was looking forward to that.
No loose ends... No mistakes.
Stony Man Farm
Virginia
Bolan was packing a duffel bag with extra ammunition when he heard a knocking on his door. He stepped over and opened it. Consuelo Diaz stood there starting at him. Grimaldi stood next to her with a frown on his face.
“I tried talking to her,” he said.
Bolan immediately regretted telling Jack to speak to the woman to give her a partial update, but it was a job he didn’t have time to do himself.
“You’re up early,” he said.
She ignored his comment. “You are going after one of the men who may have been involved in killing my father?”
Bolan shook his head. “We’re not sure of that at this point.”
“But you suspect it?”
Again, Bolan didn’t answer. Her dark eyes kept staring up into his.
Finally, he said, “It’s looking that way, but like I said, we’re still not sure.”
“I want to go with you,” she said.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Please,” she said. “I must see this through. I must see his face, look into his eyes, so that I can complete the article, finish my father’s work.”
Bolan shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
Her eyes glistened. “Haven’t I faced danger already?”
“We could stash her in a hotel near Temptation,” Grimaldi suggested.
Bolan shot him a sharp glance, wondering just how much he’d already told Diaz.
“If you leave me here,” she said, “I will escape and follow you there.”
Locking the woman up at the Farm with a Blacksuit guard was an option, but he didn’t want to do that. Keeping her with them, and out of harm’s way, might be a viable alternative. Plus, this could possibly be a fact-finding mission. With any luck, they’d connect Bruns to the stolen artifacts and the murders, and then call Webber and turn the whole thing over to the FBI. They could take their customary time building their case, and in the end, justice would be served. It would only be a matter of connecting the dots, and the terrorism angle seemed to be nothing more than a crudely fashioned ruse, which took the urgency of their intercession out of the picture.
“All right,” he said, giving her a stern look. “But if we do let you come along, you have to give me your word you’ll do exactly as we say.”
“Muchas gracias, señor.” She placed her palms together in a steepling gesture and bowed her head. “Es para el honor de mi padre. De mi familia.”
The words needed no translation for Bolan, and they struck a chord within him. He knew all about wanting justice for one’s family.
He’d been there.
Chicago, Illinois
Tragg was slipping into his construction overalls on Dearborn Street when Williams’s voice came through the ear receiver.
“I lost them when they got to the basement,” he said. “I’ll get them back when they leave from the garage.”
“Roger that,” Tragg said after keying his mic. He pulled on the tight leather gloves and adjusted the rolled-up ski mask on his head and added, “Keep me posted.”
It was expected that they’d lose the signal when Sergio was in the basement. What was crucial now was figuring which vehicle he’d be placed in for transportation. The previous time they’d had two vans and two marked police cars as escorts. Nothing had happened, and the transport had gone off like a charm, but Tragg suspected that this time they might try to shake things up a bit. It was dubious that the police had any direct information that there might be trouble, but if they were competent, they might be expecting it anyway. It didn’t matter that much. He was ready either way.
After a call-around communications check that verified everyone was in place, he zipped up his overalls and checked the positioning of the Smith & Wesson M&P Shield. It had a sound suppressor attached, but still fit easily into his long pants pocket. On Dearborn the monotonous hum from the diesel engines of the heavy equipment they’d positioned in the center of the roadway was being absorbed into the normal cacophony of the morning traffic.
Just another construction project in the Chicago Loop, Tragg thought. The city that worked.
His words over his ear receiver interrupted his reverie: “They’re blocking off Clark Street.” Williams’s voice was tense, full of excitement.
Tragg willed the kid to stay cool and get it right. No mistakes.
“Okay, the caravan is starting to exit the building.”
Tragg waited. They had to figure out which vehicle Sergio was in.
Precious seconds ticked by.
He felt like prodding Williams for the inf
ormation, but waited instead. Grace under pressure meant not jumping the gun on your people.
“Caravan’s assembling on Clark now,” Williams said. “Four vehicles. But I’m still not showing target location.”
Tragg felt the customary preaction fist clenching his stomach. This could only mean one of two things: the tracker had ceased to function properly, or they were still holding Sergio inside the basement of the MCC.
“Caravan’s moving out,” Williams said. “Still no signal.”
Tragg felt the tension ratchet up several notches. The radio was silent. Everybody waited...
“Caravan’s proceeding east on Congress,” Williams said. “Losing visual.”
Radio silence dominated.
Everybody knew it was up to Tragg to make the call.
Suddenly Williams’s voice, full of glee, came back over the radio band: “Elvis has left the building. He’s in a black unmarked van trailing behind the caravan.”
The caravan was a decoy. Tragg had been right about his feeling that they might try a ruse of sorts this time. The tracker had paid off. In spades.
“Roger that,” he said, keying his mic. “Everybody copy?”
A series of clicks assured him that they had.
“Elvis’s limo is now on Clark, about to turn onto Congress.”
It was bringing up the rear, Tragg thought. Close enough that it was within shouting distance of the caravan, which was no doubt carrying a heavily armed react team, in case of trouble. It wasn’t a bad plan, just an outclassed one.
“Let the caravan pass through,” Tragg said. “Then we execute on the black van. Be careful of round placement.” He did a visual check of the two men operating the backhoe and the bulldozer. Each gave him an acknowledging thumbs-up. They were ready.
A quick blast of a police siren cut through the morning air, warning the construction crew. Tragg was on the street now, watching the first marked squad car approaching, its blue lights oscillating as they proceeded north at a moderately fast clip. The two vans were behind it, and he knew the second marked squad would be bringing up the rear.
Dying Art Page 13