DEADLY BLOWBACK

Two high-ranking American customs officials are murdered at a luxury Mexican resort, and the rare artifact they were investigating goes missing. Was the motive terrorism? Mack Bolan’s ultrahoned instincts say something far more sinister is at work. And when he rescues a possible witness to the crime, The Executioner also becomes a target...

Bolan’s merciless hunt for the truth pits him against a vengeful Mexican drug lord and a brilliant weapons contractor—and puts him in the crosshairs of a cutting-edge weapon designed for ultimate carnage. Now he must not only protect the witness, but two major world leaders and hundreds of innocents. And to do so, The Executioner will wreak hard-core, scorched-earth justice...one explosive showdown at a time.

#375 Salvador Strike

#376 Frontier Fury

#377 Desperate Cargo

#378 Death Run

#379 Deep Recon

#380 Silent Threat

#381 Killing Ground

#382 Threat Factor

#383 Raw Fury

#384 Cartel Clash

#385 Recovery Force

#386 Crucial Intercept

#387 Powder Burn

#388 Final Coup

#389 Deadly Command

#390 Toxic Terrain

#391 Enemy Agents

#392 Shadow Hunt

#393 Stand Down

#394 Trial by Fire

#395 Hazard Zone

#396 Fatal Combat

#397 Damage Radius

#398 Battle Cry

#399 Nuclear Storm

#400 Blind Justice

#401 Jungle Hunt

#402 Rebel Trade

#403 Line of Honor

#404 Final Judgment

#405 Lethal Diversion

#406 Survival Mission

#407 Throw Down

#408 Border Offensive

#409 Blood Vendetta

#410 Hostile Force

#411 Cold Fusion

#412 Night’s Reckoning

#413 Double Cross

#414 Prison Code

#415 Ivory Wave

#416 Extraction

#417 Rogue Assault

#418 Viral Siege

#419 Sleeping Dragons

#420 Rebel Blast

#421 Hard Targets

#422 Nigeria Meltdown

#423 Breakout

#424 Amazon Impunity

#425 Patriot Strike

#426 Pirate Offensive

#427 Pacific Creed

#428 Desert Impact

#429 Arctic Kill

#430 Deadly Salvage

#431 Maximum Chaos

#432 Slayground

#433 Point Blank

#434 Savage Deadlock

#435 Dragon Key

#436 Perilous Cargo

#437 Assassin’s Tripwire

#438 The Cartel Hit

#439 Blood Rites

#440 Killpath

#441 Murder Island

#442 Syrian Rescue

#443 Uncut Terror

#444 Dark Savior

#445 Final Assault

#446 Kill Squad

#447 Missile Intercept

#448 Terrorist Dispatch

#449 Combat Machines

#450 Omega Cult

#451 Fatal Prescription

#452 Death List

#453 Rogue Elements

#454 Enemies Within

#455 Chicago Vendetta

#456 Thunder Down Under

#457 Dying Art

Dying Art

Don Pendleton

ISBN: 978-1-474-08614-1

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

DYING ART

© 2018 Harlequin Enterprises Ltd

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Worldwide Gold Eagle, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Bolan heard gunshots ring out inside the room.

The Executioner delivered a powerful kick, and the door flew inward, bouncing against the wall.

Romero lay on the floor. His face was canted to the left, his sightless right eye staring at nothing as a crimson pool soaked into the carpet beneath his head. No one else was in the room, but the window had been smashed out.

A blood trail wound toward the window, and more smears of red decorated the wall next to it. Bolan sprinted to the opening and chanced a quick look. Twenty feet below, the black van revved its engine, then started to roar away from the scene, the rear door partially open. A hand holding an MP5 jutted from the rear and fired another blast of rounds skittering off the side of the building.

Bolan ducked back. By the time he was able to return fire, the van was no longer in sight. He’d been too late...

The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

The road I’ve chosen hasn’t been an easy one to travel, but anything worthwhile seldom is. I’m committed to justice. And I will follow a money trail to the end. Count on it.

—Mack Bolan

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Quotes

The Mack Bolan Legend

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Casa del Mar Resort Baja California, Mexico

It was 2:45 a.m., and the party was still going strong. The cacophony emanating from the exclusive resort was loud, and the smell of marijuana wafted down from the white stucco buildings and over the rows of cabanas and the large potted palm trees along the private beach. As well as the sweet odor of the cannabis, the lively music and sounds of laughter carried far into the warm summer night. Several couples strolled down the multitiered stone staircase toward the rows of smaller thatched-roof shelters along the beach. Some walked in the moonlight near the wire fencing that separated this section of oceanfront from the vacant expanses on either side of the resort. A few ventured out into the shallow portion of the surf. One particular couple had retreated into a beachfront shelter, apparently to enjoy the modicum of privacy the shadows offered.

The tension was coiling within Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, as he checked the directional indicator on his smartphone and then focused his night-vision binoculars on the amorous pair. Half a dozen solitary men, all carrying Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns, followed the would-be lovers at a close, but respectable, distance.

Bodyguards for the drug lord’s son, no doubt, Bolan thought.

He and the team of Mexican marines had been in place for hours, and the waiting and watching had long since grown tedious. But he knew it was also necessary to monitor various couples if they wanted to catch the brass ring.

Sergeant Jésus Martinez checked the directional scope and said, “Those two.” He was a big man, dressed in the camouflage uniform of his team. He and Bolan had worked missions together before, and the Executioner felt a confidence in the man’s abilities and expertise. He’d specifically requested that Martinez and his men accompany the two Americans on this special, unauthorized mission south of the border. The balaclava mask that usually covered Martinez’s face during ops was rolled up on his forehead. The area around his eyes was blackened with camo paint. “You see them?”

“The pair necking in the shelter?” Bolan whispered. He pointed to the area. “You’re sure?”

Martinez brought his own night-vision binoculars up and studied the amorous pair intently for several seconds. Then he grunted. “Sí.”

Bolan took another look at the man and the woman. They were stretched out on a lawn chair under the thatched roof of one of the beach shelters, only a scant hundred feet or so away. She was deliberately turning her face to the side, assuring that her visage would be clearly visible to them. Sergio de la Vega was nuzzling at her neck, his hands exploring her body through her clothes. Hopefully, he wouldn’t rip the gold cross from around her neck. It held the directional transmitter. They had to move fast.

“You’re certain she can be trusted?” Bolan asked. He slipped his smartphone into his pocket.

Martinez grunted again, this time closer to an expression of disgust. “Sí. Both of her brothers were murdered by the cartel, and they have threatened to kill her father. She has no love for Los Bajos Diablos.”

“Let’s get ready to move.” Bolan keyed his mic and told Grimaldi, who was several miles away in an orbiting helicopter, to get ready.

“Hot damn,” Grimaldi’s voice whispered back through Bolan’s in-ear receiver. “We’re finally getting some action!”

“Let’s not get overconfident,” Bolan replied.

“Yeah, I know. It ain’t over till it’s over.”

Martinez whispered into his mic, instructing his own men to get ready to move.

Los Bajos Diablos was the name of the drug cartel run by Don Fernando de la Vega and his son and intended successor, Sergio. Both Don Fernando and Sergio were wanted on drug trafficking and murder charges in the US, but thus far had avoided any attempts of arrest or extradition. But their respective behaviors had no similarity. While Don Fernando stayed in the periphery, dancing among the shadows and rarely allowing himself to be seen in public, his son had a penchant for being more audacious. Not only did he openly stride through the streets of various cities with his array of heavily armed bodyguards, he would often live stream his activities or post them on the internet. It was his open and defiant invitation for the police and members of the other cartels to try to crash his upcoming party that had attracted the attention of both the US and Mexican authorities.

Of course, Sergio had been too crafty to give more than a vague hint of where and when the party would take place; the time, date and location had been intercepted by Stony Man Farm. The recruitment of two dozen beautiful women had led to one of them, Consuelo Diaz, who, as Martinez mentioned, had her own ax to grind with the cartel: two dead brothers. Through the network of informants of her father, a well-known Mexican reporter, Consuelo had been contacted and persuaded to assist in a special operation of the Mexican marines. In reality, it was a joint, but totally unauthorized op, between the Mexicans and the Americans designed for secrecy and geared to eliminate the red tape that had frustrated officials on both sides of the border who wanted Los Bajos Diablos brought down.

The plan was simple. Once the location of Sergio’s party was known, Bolan, along with Martinez and his men, were inserted farther inland to make their way surreptitiously to the edge of the resort. Consuelo Diaz, who was wearing a tiny directional transmitter, would lure Sergio away from his bodyguards, ostensibly long enough for a romantic interlude, at which time Bolan and the marines would sweep in and grab Sergio. Grimaldi was standing by in a specially equipped Black Hawk helicopter to whisk the prisoner and the team away. For safekeeping, Diaz would be taken, as well. That was one part of the plan that Bolan didn’t like: putting innocents in the line of fire. Plus, if the woman could not maintain her composure during the subterfuge as they were taken into custody, she’d be marked for certain death by the cartel. Even though he didn’t know her, Bolan wasn’t going to let that happen.

He got to his feet with a practiced ease, despite the heavy ballistic vest and pistol belt laden with weapons and equipment. Martinez did the same and then rolled down the balaclava to cover his features. Bolan wore black camo paint on his face and no mask. He didn’t need one. With luck, he’d be leaving Mexico this night, while Martinez and his men would be staying.

Martinez told his solitary overwatch sniper to target the bodyguards, while the rest of his men began moving down the slope toward the beach.

Bolan checked Diaz and Sergio again. They were still engaged in the preliminaries and by planned design were in the last beach shelter in the row—and the one closest to the fence line. He slipped the binoculars into the case on his utility belt and flipped his night-vision goggles down.

Time to get down and dirty, he thought as he began his descent. And get that woman out of harm’s way.

The outcropping provided easy access to the wire fencing that separated the property of the resort with the rest of the area. It had been purposely left undeveloped by the resort owners to ensure the privacy of its patrons, and provided adequate concealment right up to the metallic privacy rampart. As Bolan approached, he saw that two of the marines were busy with the wire cutters. The man with the cutters finished quickly, and the second man pulled back the fence. Bolan slipped through, followed by Martinez and two others.

Both the sergeant and one of the marines carried MP-5s. Bolan and the other man had only handguns, but the Executioner’s weapon was a Beretta 93-R, with an extended magazine and sound suppressor. His pistol could fire three-round bursts, as well as single shots. Additionally, Bolan had a Taser. The plan was to stun and subdue Sergio so he could be taken alive. That way he could be brought to trial and also be bait for an even bigger fish, Don Fernando, his father and king of the cartel.

Bolan held up his fist to stop the others and then flattened out on the sand. The greenish embellishment of his night-vision goggles showed that Sergio was now trying to strip off the young woman’s clothes. She was doing a little to delay him, but her face was showing signs of a growing distress.

Martinez crawled up next to him.

“We had better hurry, my friend,” he whispered.

Bolan silently concurred and rose to a crouch. Glancing toward the beach, he saw the bodyguards had congregated in a small group by the water’s edge. They were passing around a lit cigarette, most likely not tobacco.

The pitfall of having easy access to the cartel’s product, Bolan thought as he ran toward the beach shelter with the Taser in his hand. He was perhaps twenty-five yards away now. Almost close enough for a risky shot. Sergio’s back offered a tempting target, but Bolan wanted to be sure of a good, solid hit.

The young woman’s moans of protest carried in the velvety darkness. Bolan’s knowledge of Spanish was adequate enough for him understand. “You are going too fast, Sergio.”

She was trying her best to hold him off.

“Shut up, bitch.” His guttural reply was punctuated by the sound of his hand striking her face and then the ripping of cloth. Diaz screamed.

Glancing toward the bodyguards, Bolan saw they were still laughing and passing around the joint. They wouldn’t be getting any rewards from Don Fernando when all this was said and done. Or at least none that they would enjoy.

Bolan covered the last few yards in a few seconds and raised the Taser, centering the laser sight between Sergio’s shoulder blades. The accompanying pop mixed in with the sound of Consuelo Diaz’s cries.

Sergio’s entire body stiffened as Bolan let him take the full electric ride for about thirty seconds. The drug lord’s son fell to the ground and writhed as the 50,000 volts coursed through him. Martinez and the other marine flattened out in the shadows of the beach shelter and pointed their MP-5s at the group of bodyguards.

“Use these,” Bolan said, handing the third marine a pair of flat black handcuffs. The man took the cuffs and snapped them over Sergio’s wrists, then wrapped a gag around the prone man’s mouth and tied it tightly behind his head. He pulled a black hood from his pocket and secured it over Sergio’s face, then he slipped two pre-tied nooses around the man’s knees and ankles. Within sixty seconds, their quarry was trussed up tighter than a snug gym shoe.

Consuelo Diaz stood up and crossed her arms over her bare breasts. Her blouse and brassiere had been completely ripped off. Her eyes darted to Bolan’s face and then to the ground. The Executioner handed the still-connected Taser to the marine and slipped off his black shirt. He held it toward the young woman and whispered in Spanish for her to put it on.

She accepted it, murmured, “Gracias,” but still did not look him in the eye.

Satisfied that her modesty had been preserved Bolan shot a quick look toward the bodyguards. Their reckless indulgence had not slackened. Keying his mic, Bolan called Grimaldi.

“Jack, you ready for the diversion?”

“Ready, willing and able,” came the reply.

About forty seconds later Bolan heard the unmistakable sound of the approaching rotors. Apparently, the bodyguards noticed it, too, as one man tossed the joint and they began to trot toward the beach shelter where they’d last seen Sergio, MP-5s up and ready for action if need be. Bolan and the marine pulled Sergio and Consuelo farther back into the shadows. Martinez let the two runners get almost too close before he and his partner took them out with silenced head shots.

The bodyguards twisted and fell to the sand. Martinez grabbed one and jerked him into the shadows, stripping him of his weapon. The other marine did the same.

“Paco, is everything all right?” one of the bodyguards on the beach called out in Spanish.

“Yes,” Martinez yelled back, standing and giving a quick wave. It was a gamble. They were about fifty yards away, and dappled by moonlight and shadows, but the big marine probably figured the marijuana usage had sufficiently impaired the faculties of the bodyguard.

The gamble turned out to be wrong as the bodyguard on the beach stiffened and then brought up what was apparently a pair of night-vision goggles hanging from a strap around his neck. A few seconds later he called out an alarm and began running toward them, his MP5 spitting rounds. Another man joined him.

“Vincente,” Martinez said into his radio mic.

A second later one of the running bodyguards jerked and fell to the ground, courtesy of Vincente, the sniper.

“Stop firing, idiot!” one of the other bodyguards yelled. “You could hit Sergio.”

The first running man, disobedient of the cautionary command, switched to a zigzag pattern and fired off another burst, and the rounds zipped around them.

Maybe this gunner figured he had nothing to lose, Bolan thought. Perhaps the marijuana had lowered the guard’s inhibitions, or perhaps he realized that Sergio’s father would be none too pleased about their performance regardless.

Bolan had been counting on their ballistic restraint, figuring they’d be reticent to open up for fear of hitting the boss’s son.

Drawing his Beretta 93-R, Bolan fired a quick, three-round burst that stitched across the running man’s chest. The man continued one more step before slamming face-first into the sand.

More armed men sprinted toward them—perhaps a dozen—and they began firing now, but their shots were wide and probably intended for show until they could get closer. But it was all for naught. Seconds later a blur of blinding lights zoomed into view above them as Grimaldi swept overhead, the helicopter’s rotors slicing the air and the forward-mounted machine guns strafing the beach with an accompanying staccato popping on his first pass. Then the Black Hawk seemed to freeze in midair and swing back over the beach again, this time in the opposite direction, after turning on a dime in midair to send two 70 mm Hydra rockets streaking into the stone walls that tapered down toward the beach. The stone shelves exploded, belching a billow of smoke and cascading rocks.

Grimaldi’s appearance had been the cue for the team to get moving. Bolan jammed his Beretta into its holster and picked up Sergio, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of rice. He motioned for the other marine to help Diaz, and they ran back toward the hole in the fence through which they’d come.

Back up the rabbit hole, Bolan thought and he went down to one knee and dropped his burden onto the ground so he could be pulled through the fence. Two marines on the other side pulled Sergio through the opening. Martinez, almost breathless from the running, spoke into his mic to order all his men to the LZ.

Bolan helped Diaz through the opening and then went through himself. First one in, last one out, as usual. Behind him, he could hear the sound of more explosions. He picked up Sergio’s bound body and ran for the LZ, hearing the man’s raspy breathing.

Martinez had his men count off as they made their way through the shrubbery toward the long expanse of beach.

The number verified that everyone was accounted for as they formed up at the predetermined location. The scream of the approaching helicopter’s rotors sounded like the beating of a thousand bat wings. The Black Hawk descended with perfect ease about thirty feet from them. A few shots sounded from the bodyguards, and the marines on the perimeter returned fire. Bolan got to the open door of the helicopter and tossed Sergio onto the hard metal floor.

Bolan turned and helped Diaz into the chopper, then jumped aboard himself. Positioning himself by the door, he swung the M60 machine gun on the swivel mount, adjusted the belt and pulled back the lever. The rest of the marines piled inside, followed by Martinez.

As the helicopter began to lift off, a few rounds skidded off the outer shell. Bolan fired a burst from the M60, and then heard Grimaldi’s voice come over his in-ear receiver.

“Those guys still want to dance? I got something for them.”

He used the mounted M240 machine guns to strafe the resort side of the beach again, and as they ascended Bolan could see the men below scattering like shell-shocked ants.

Bolan snapped the safety on the M60 and swung it back behind against the wall of the cabin. He pulled the door closed and turned to check on everyone. With the high-pitched roar from the rotors spinning at max speed, conversation was next to impossible. He flashed a thumbs-up to Martinez, who had rolled his mask up on his head. Sergio still lay on the floor, immobile, but quivering. Martinez gave a thumbs-up back. The Executioner went to the cockpit and sat in the copilot’s seat.

Grimaldi pointed to the headset, which Bolan then slipped on.

“We’ll be touching down on the Mexican side in fifteen,” Grimaldi said. “To make our deposit.”

Bolan acknowledged him.

Despite a few minor bumps, the op had gone pretty well. Still, they had to drop off Martinez, his marines and Diaz, before flying to US soil and delivering Sergio to the waiting DEA agents. Since this mission technically did not exist, Bolan assumed this second drop-off would be accomplished with minimal conversation and complications. Everything wrapped up nicely and tied off with a pretty bow.

Still, he worried about the young woman.

Should Sergio figure out that it was she who set him up, her life wouldn’t be worth a handful of pesos. There was no way to keep Sergio from his lawyers, and therefore the eventual communication with his father, Don Fernando, was inevitable. But Martinez had assured Bolan that the marines would protect her.

“That is all we have been doing lately,” Martinez told him. “Protecting reporters, informers and their families.”

This time they had their work cut out, Bolan thought.

La Fortaleza Diabla

Baja California, Mexico

Don Fernando de la Vega sat calmly behind his large teakwood desk smoking one of his Havanas and contemplating the recent turn of events. His rise to power as leader of Los Bajos Diablos had not happened overnight, and he prided himself on possessing an abundance of virtues, not the least of which was patience. He gazed about the empty room, plush in its opulence. Mayan statues decorated the walls, as well as paintings by some of Mexico’s greatest artists, alongside the works of Rembrandt, Van Gogh and Gauguin.

He drew on the cigar and savored the smoke in his mouth. It suddenly turned bitter tasting as he heard a knock on the door and his thoughts returned to Sergio.

“Enter,” he said.

The door opened and Gordo, his immense and extremely loyal bodyguard, entered along with Lupe Garcia, another of his lieutenants.

Don Fernando blew out a cloudy breath. Garcia stood at attention, Gordo looking down at him with the watchfulness that had endeared him to Don Fernando for many years. Nothing could get by the giant, no one could move to hurt his master... Gordo would give his life to assure that, and he had many scars of failed attempts.

“Has it been verified?” Don Fernando asked.

He could see beads of sweat beginning to run down Garcia’s cheeks. That told Don Fernando the answer even before the other man could speak. Prescience was another of Don Fernando’s virtues. He could read other men as clearly as a book.

“Yes, Don Fernando,” Garcia said. He swallowed hard, then continued, “He was taken from the resort in the dead of night.” He took a breath and seemed ready to say more, but stopped as Don Fernando held up his palm.

Sergio, his only son, taken... But by whom? The reports said that a military-style helicopter had been used in the abduction. Surely none of the other cartels had such equipment. So had it been the Mexican government? Doubtful, since he had heard nothing from his internal sources that they would be mounting such an audacious attack. There was only one certain answer.

“The Americans?” Don Fernando asked.

Garcia swallowed again, then gave a quick nod. “We believe so. He has vanished without a trace.”

Don Fernando took another draw on the cigar. If that were so, it meant both good and bad news. Good news meaning that Sergio was probably alive and unharmed, bad that he was most likely not in Mexico anymore. Looking up at Garcia, he frowned.

“Where were his bodyguards when this occurred?”

Garcia compressed his lips briefly. “Four of them were killed. The others, I am having brought here as we speak.”

“How many of them?”

“Six.”

Don Fernando raised an eyebrow. “So you are telling me that ten men, whose loyalty is supposed to be beyond question, could not protect my son from an abduction?”

“They were taken by surprise, sir,” Garcia said. “They fought back. Four of them died.”

“Silence!” Don Fernando slammed his hand on the desktop with such force that it snapped his cigar in two. He tossed the pieces away and opened his humidor to retrieve another.

Garcia said nothing. The sweat continued to cascade down his face.

Don Fernando snorted in disgust as he rotated the tip of the new cigar in the flame of his lighter.

“When you have them all here,” he said, “assemble them in the courtyard.”

Don Fernando felt a growing agony over this situation, but he immediately suppressed it. He placed his cigar into the antique, mother-of-pearl ashtray, pulled open his desk drawer and removed a stainless steel 9 mm Taurus semiautomatic pistol. Pulling back the slide slightly, he verified that a round was in the chamber, then set the weapon on the desk in front of him. “I shall attend to this personally. Show everyone the price of failure.”

“Yes, Don Fernando,” Garcia said.

The cartel leader waved his hand dismissively, and the other man scurried out the door. When Garcia had left, he picked up his cigar and spoke to the giant.

“Gordo, after I have dealt with the traitors in the courtyard, kill him. Slowly.”

The giant’s face showed no expression. He simply nodded and left.

Patience... Prescience...

Don Fernando drew on his cigar as he contemplated one of his other virtues: cunning. He thought about the plan that he already had in place, and how he could modify it to ensure that whoever had taken his son would pay a terrible price.

Yes, he thought as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. There will be a reckoning... There will be vengeance...

Two months later

Istanbul, Turkey

Clayton Tragg watched as the miserable little man used a jeweler’s loupe to inspect the two halves of the hand-carved ivory spheres. This professor, Higgins, the handpicked expert his employer had selected to accompany them, was almost as pathetic as Lucien Bruns himself had been when he was originally contacted about the artifact. How two grown men could get so excited about a pair of old hand-carved pieces of ivory, much less be willing to pay a fortune for them, was almost beyond Tragg’s comprehension. Still, it was what he was getting paid for, on two fronts if the truth be known, so who was he to complain? With things drying up in Iraq and Afghanistan, lucrative new work for the dark ops section of what remained of Granite Security, Inc., was getting more and more scarce. Plus, it beat the hell out of escorting some US-backed mullah and aspiring politician around a perpetual war zone worrying about snipers and IEDs.

He watched the Turkish art dealer, Hakeem Karga, who had “acquired” the artifact known as The Lion and the Lioness Attacking the Nubian, purported to be from the Islamic Period, and made even more valuable because it dared to show human figures when such depictions were considered idolatry by Sharia Law. Two corresponding circular spheres of hand-carved ivory and mother-of-pearl over twelve hundred years old...

Tragg reflected on that. The piece had been around for over a thousand years, the last several decades of which it had spent in the National Museum of Iraq, only to have been “removed” when American tanks rolled into Baghdad. From there it passed through various hands before ending up here, in the possession of one of the biggest crooks in Istanbul, who’d most likely bought it from ISIS or al Qaeda, or one of the other regional bands. Once the militants finally realized they could make themselves some money selling stolen stuff from the museums instead of getting their religious rocks off by destroying it, they quietly set aside their strict ideology of demagogy and covertly entered into the more profitable black market business. Maybe they were smarter than they looked. And then again, maybe not. Tragg was sure that Karga had paid them a fraction of what he figured he could get selling it on the black market to some rich American or European collector.

Or maybe even a Mexican one. Tragg silently chuckled at the thought.

The dingy little room had a sour smell to it and the four Turks were smoking those foul-smelling cigarettes with the extended filters that had been mashed one too many times. Tragg could hardly wait to get the hell out of there. His eyes went to his partner, Tyrone Dean, who stood by impassively with his hand in the pocket of his black shirt. His shaved head was gleaming with sweat, but Tragg knew it wasn’t from nerves. He’d been with Dean on too many missions. He was an iceman. No doubt he had his hand around the grip of his Walther PPK, ready in case the art dealer tried to pull something. Not that Tragg thought he would. He’d dealt with this Karga before, and the man always made a substantial profit on these black-market dealings. If word got out that he’d pulled a double cross during one of them, his reputation would take a severe hit.

Besides, Tragg felt confident that he and Dean could take them all out if it ever came to that.

The mousy professor squirmed in his chair, his tiny fingers rubbing the mother-of-pearl inlays with the care and tenderness of someone stroking a beautiful woman’s body, all the while murmuring under his breath, “Yes, yes, yes.” Tragg watched with amusement, figuring the little man’s reaction must be a good sign.

Karga brought his cigarette to his lips, drew on it deeply, and then said with a smoky breath, “See? Did I not tell you it was genuine?”

The professor gazed up, the loupe still in place over his right eye, his lips pulled back showing a row of small inward-slanted teeth. “I do believe it is.”

The art dealer cocked his head to the side. His features curved into a knowing expression as he winked at Tragg. “Then we have only to discuss the price at this time, correct?”

He snapped his fingers and then wiggled them back and forth, indicating that the professor should hand the item back to him. The little man complied with the utmost care.

“Now,” Karga said, placing the two pieces into a velvet-lined box and then placing that box into a metal briefcase that he secured with a special lock. He handed the briefcase to one of his big bodyguards, who stood close to him. “Are we ready to do business?”

“We need to phone our employer first,” Tragg said. “In private.”

Karga said something in Turkish to one of the bodyguards. “Very well. He will show you to a private room. But advise him that I am a very busy man.”

Tragg, Dean and the professor followed the big Turk down a narrow hallway. The professor was walking briskly at Tragg’s side trying to keep up.

“It’s authentic,” the little man said. “I’m sure of it. Of course, we’ll need some typing of the carbon thirteen to be absolutely certain, but I am ninety-nine percent convinced of its authenticity.”

“Good,” Tragg said. “You can tell that to the boss.” He took out his satellite phone and punched in the number. The big Turk stopped and pointed to a door. Dean disappeared inside for a few seconds, then stuck his head out.

“It’s clear,” he said as he stepped out into the hallway.

Tragg pulled the professor into the room and pressed the button to initiate the Skype call. He held the phone in front of him with his left hand and positioned the professor in front of him with his right. After completing the call and going through a series of underlings, Lucien Bruns’s round face came into view. His fat cheeks were somewhat distorted on the small flat screen, his eyes enlarged behind his thick spectacles.

“Professor Higgins has verified the item, sir,” Tragg said. “The L and L, A N.”

It was their code name for the artifact, which was no doubt on several Interpol and US Customs and Border Protection lists as having been stolen from the National Museum of Iraq.

Below Tragg’s chin, the little man’s head bobbed up and down like a yo-yo. “It’s definitely from the Islamic Period, and all the more rare due to the idolatrous aspects of its depiction of the human forms. I’d say it’s the genuine article, all right.”

Bruns’s eyes widened, and the tip of his pink tongue glided over his lips.

“That’s good news,” he said. “I assume the price is within the range as previously discussed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Like that would matter, Tragg thought. He knew how much Bruns coveted the damn thing. It had been all he’d talked about before sending Tragg and Dean on this special assignment to Turkey.

The Lion and the Lioness Attacking the Nubian... Two intricately carved little spheres of ivory that Bruns was willing to pay more money for than Tragg could ever hope to make in two decades. But if he and Dean played this one right, it would be a windfall for them that would set them up for the rest of their lives. And, there’d be enough left over to pay off the rest of the dark ops team, too. This wasn’t something the two of them could manage on their own. No, it would take a team effort, just like in Iraq, just like in Afghanistan. And it would require a whole lot of intricate planning, but what special ops mission didn’t? And this one would take them to the end of the rainbow.

“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 guys 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 magistrate, 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.

Again, this was not news to Don Fernando. Tragg had already told him the same thing, although the American mercenary had not shown any fear during his recital. Don Fernando would not have tolerated the man if he had. He needed someone who held no fear.

“I want you to arrange for Sergio’s wife to visit him in the American prison.”

Sinclair’s head bobbed up and down. “That shouldn’t be a problem. But she’ll be subjected to extreme scrutiny.”

“Just see to it,” Don Fernando said. He shot a quick look toward Tragg. “We have assembled all of her proper documentation, and obtained a passport and visa for her. She will accompany you back to the United States tonight.”

Sinclair bit his lip. “All right. There is one other thing.”

Don Fernando took another drag on the cigar and raised an eyebrow.

Sinclair’s smile appeared more forced than genuine. “I’m a little bit concerned about how I’m to be paid.” He paused and took two shallow breaths. “You see, the Attorney General has filed a motion charging that any funds I receive must not have any ties to...any illegalities.”

“So, handle his case pro bono,” Don Fernando said. “That is the term you use, is it not?”

“Pro bono, yes, but...” The corners of Sinclair’s mouth pulled back. “You don’t quite understand. I don’t work that way. I have a large staff, associates... I can’t expect them to work for free.”

Don Fernando purposely kept his face blank as he stubbed out the cigar in a gold ashtray. He then jerked his head toward a briefcase that sat on the credenza next to them. Gordo stepped over and grabbed the briefcase, set it on the table between his boss and the lawyer and moved his sausage-like thumbs to push open the securing snaps. When he lifted the lid, the densely packed, rubber-banded bundles of hundred-dollar US bills were plainly visible.

“This should suffice for a down payment, no?” Don Fernando said. He took another cigar from a humidor and moistened the end with his mouth.

Sinclair’s eyes bulged in his corpulent face. He couldn’t take his eyes off the money as he spoke.

“Well, I do believe...that is very gener—sufficient.” He stopped and compressed his lips again. “However, I may have some trouble bringing that much money back with me when I reenter the United States.”

Don Fernando held the flame of the lighter to the tip of the cigar, rolling it as he spoke, glancing at Tragg.

“You need not worry of such things, señor. We have thought of everything.”

“We’ll move the briefcase across the border by our own special means,” Tragg said. “Once it’s safely and unofficially in the US, I’ll hand deliver it to your office in Chicago.”

Don Fernando could see it: Sinclair’s eyes betraying his avarice. This fat pig would do their bidding, no questions asked. It was time to end this meeting.

“Gordo,” Don Fernando said.

The giant stepped over and pulled the blindfold out of his pocket.

Sinclair winced. “Not that thing again.”

Don Fernando laughed and blew some smoke in the other man’s face. “I’m afraid it is once again necessary. But do not worry. I trust Gordo with my life, so I have no problem trusting him with yours, as well.”

Before Sinclair could reply, the giant was slapping the blindfold in place. After securing it, he lifted the lawyer out of the chair and walked him to the companionway. Instead of guiding the man up the steps, Gordo merely hoisted Sinclair off his feet and ascended the stairs himself, carrying the other man as if he were hauling a bag of groceries.

Don Fernando listened to their footsteps on the deck above, and then watched as they descended the gangplank to the pier and walked toward the waiting limousine.

A frown curled down the ends of Don Fernando’s mouth. He waved Tragg over to the table.

“After Sergio is free,” Don Fernando said, “kill that fat bastard.”

“What about the money?”

“I do not care about the money,” Don Fernando said. “I do not like loose ends.”

“Not a problem,” Tragg said.

“Where do we stand on this other matter? The woman? The daughter of the reporter.”

“We’ve got a lead on where she might be,” Tragg said. “I’ve got some of my men working on tracking her down now, but Cancun’s a big place.”

Don Fernando drew quickly on the cigar and then exhaled the smoke. “This is clumsiness. I do not like clumsiness.”

“She and her father were being protected by the marines. As you know, they’re not pushovers.”

“I pay you well to handle such problems,” Don Fernando says. “Do I not?”

“Yes, but—”

The cartel leader cut him off with a dismissive gesture, keeping the fire in his eyes. “I care nothing for excuses. Only for results. You are supposed to be professionals, no?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it personally.”

Don Fernando considered that, then shook his head. “No, use no more than two of your men. I will send some of my men with them. They will mix in better with the locals. I want you to accompany Maria and that fat lawyer back to Chicago. Be certain your squad is totally prepared and ready. There must be no mistakes. And remember, Sergio is your main concern.” He pointed to a locked metal briefcase on the floor a few feet away. “And take that with you. You’ll need it to deal with the other American.”

Tragg glanced at the case. “I’ll take good care of it.”

“I care nothing for it. It is only a means to an end. But use it wisely. When dealing with the American, remember the parable about the grapes being so much sweeter when they were just out of reach.”

As Tragg stood and turned to leave, the drug boss stopped him. “Have your men find out what the woman knows first. And find that laptop. We must be certain that our plan is still in place.”

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