Dying Art. Don Pendleton

      “Yeah, leave it to an officer to impede your libido,” Bolan said dryly. He pointed to the Learjet. “That’s our ride.”

      After running through the safety checklist, Grimaldi said he was ready to go. The flight time was estimated at two and a half hours, but the Stony Man pilot said he’d make it in way less.

      “Let’s just concentrate on getting there safely,” Bolan said. “Remember, our contacts will be expecting us there at a predesignated time.”

      “Hell, if we get there too early, I’ll just fly around in circles for a while.”

      Cancun International Airport

      Quintano Roo, Mexico

      “Man,” Grimaldi said as they taxied into a special prerented hangar. “Remember when this place used to be a little run-down rinky-dink, one-horse airport?”

      “Times change,” Bolan said, unbuckling his seat belt and getting out of the copilot’s chair. He grabbed his duffel bag and headed for the door.

      The plane rolled to a stop inside the hangar, and Bolan opened the door. Some airport maintenance personnel approached, and Bolan paid them to service and house the plane until the return trip.

      Grimaldi joined him as they walked toward the terminal. Since they’d traveled light, with only their duffel bags, they were able to bypass baggage pickup after getting their passports stamped and their IDs checked. They each received a paper that the agent said had to remain with their passports at all times.

      “I don’t remember doing all this on our last trip down here,” Grimaldi said with a wry grin. Then his gaze narrowed. “Don’t tell me we’ve got to stand in another line. Didn’t Hal or Barb put the motion to fix in?”

      “Jack, relax. We don’t want to call attention to ourselves. Besides, we’ll probably get the green light to go right through customs.”

      “Something tells me there’s a red light in my future.” Grimaldi frowned and patted his pocket. “If I had known the line was going to be this long, I would’ve put some video games on my phone. Or maybe a movie.”

      Bolan ignored his grousing and assumed the next position in line. He used the wait time to review the situation: two dead US Customs and Border Protection agents, who were working on a stolen art case: a possible artifact of Middle Eastern origin. One dead Mexican journalist. Two dead marines. One missing woman who was supposed to be under the protection of the marines. A note with vengeance written in Arabic at the scene.

      And last, but not least, two FBI agents sent down to investigate.

      He hoped they wouldn’t be the ultracurious kind regarding Bolan and Grimaldi’s faux Department of Justice credentials. While their cover was solid enough, the Executioner didn’t want to waste time jumping through hoops to satisfy some Bureau agent’s officiousness.

      The line inched forward, the people near the front separating into two distinct groups, designated by those who got a green light signal to proceed through customs without being checked, and those who received the red light, which meant that their possessions had to be inspected. The three couples ahead of Bolan and Grimaldi, who looked like members of some kind of fraternal organization, all received a green light. They bustled toward the main terminal area, a bluster of laughing and back-slapping merriment.

      The light flashed green for Bolan and Grimaldi.

      “Finally,” the Stony Man pilot said, and they headed for the exit. “I was getting pretty tired of standing behind those yo-yos.”

      The area outside the terminal was crowded, and lines of uniformed limo and bus drivers stood waving signs with various names printed on them. Off to the side Bolan spied two people, a heavyset man and a slender, rather attractive brown-haired woman, in proper business attire holding a sign that read COOPER—his consular agency contacts, no doubt.

      Lucien Technologies

      Temptation, Arizona

      Clayton Tragg watched Lucien Bruns study the photo on Tragg’s phone like a pubescent teenager getting his first glance at a naked woman. That professor, Higgins, had the same reaction. Maybe for these guys, the artifacts took the place of the fairer sex, but were probably just as much trouble in the long run. Tragg was amused by the thought.

      They were in Bruns’s private office. The walls were black slate with outcroppings of glass shelves upon which rested various crude artifacts that resembled the work of unskilled sixth graders instead of the priceless artifacts Bruns claimed they were. Still, if this rich idiot was willing to pay a king’s ransom for a bunch of hand-carved hunks of stone that were a couple thousand years old, that was his business... As long as he kept the cash flowing with those wire transfers to the Caymans. Tragg mentally thanked Wilson Goddard, the now deceased founder of good old Granite Security, for paving the way and showing Tragg the ropes back when they’d first started the private military organization during the early days of the Iraq invasion.

      “There’s a lot of money to be made,” Goddard had said. “And we’re going to make sure we get us a big piece of it that nobody, especially Uncle Sam, can touch.”

      About two years later Goddard was blown apart by an IED just outside the Green Zone, and Tragg went immediately to the man’s hooch and took his laptop and any other financial record keeping he could find. Seven months later he was running the show, and if those other PMO pussies hadn’t blown the whistle on how Granite Security extorted money from wealthy Iraqi citizens, he’d probably still be in Baghdad.

      Well, maybe not, since things went to hell in a handbasket after they pulled out most of the troops. Being in the midst of a shooting civil war without the big muscle backup of troops and Black Hawk gunships was something that didn’t appeal to Tragg. No, working for these new bosses was a lot easier, not to mention more lucrative. And all he had to do was keep things straight, keep playing one against the other.

      Finally, Bruns handed the phone back to Tragg and heaved a sigh.

      “Why the hell didn’t you stall?” Bruns said. “Tell that Turkish son of a bitch I would have doubled my offer?”

      “I tried,” Tragg said. “Apparently, the other bidder came in with a much higher bid.”

      “How much? How much did he pay?”

      The little man reminded Tragg of a human groundhog. His body was short and squat, his hair obviously dyed jet black in a failed effort to preserve the illusion of eternal youthfulness. A fine network of wrinkles arched outward over his high cheekbones.

      “Hakeem didn’t say.”

      “Hakeem.” Bruns frowned. “That’s not what I pay you for. I pay you to get results.”

      Playing the tough guy, or at least pretending to be tough, seemed to be in Bruns’s DNA. Tragg resisted the temptation to grab the man by the throat and teach him some respect. But that would have to wait until this deal was done. There was still a role to play, and Tragg continued with his award-winning performance. The plan must go on.

      “Sorry, sir. By the time I got back in the room the Turk had already accepted the other buyer’s offer. He must have been using us as a ploy to raise the price.”

      “That’s what I don’t understand. If that was the intention, why not convert it into a bidding war? He certainly could have upped his take.”

      Tragg shook his head. “I wish I knew, but you know how quirky those Turks are. They defy logic sometimes.”

      “Bastard. I hate dealing with him, but what choice do I have?” His mouth worked, like he was chewing something. “You don’t know how much this other party paid?”

      “No, sir. Hakeem just said that guy made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

      “Couldn’t refuse.” Bruns snorted. “Who the hell is he? The goddamn Godfather?”

      Close, Tragg thought. He felt like