Dying Art. Don Pendleton

      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