Dying Art. Don Pendleton

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.”

       Chapter Three

      Fort Hood, Texas

      As the C-130 transport touched down with a hard bounce on the military landing strip, Grimaldi shook his head.

      “You get a load of that landing?” Grimaldi asked Bolan. “If I was flying this bird, I could’ve set it down so easy you’d a thought we were landing on a sofa cushion.”

      Bolan said nothing as they coasted to a stop. He took out his cell phone and called Brognola.

      “We just touched down. Any updates?”

      “Same as when you left. Consuelo Diaz is still missing, but I got word that the Bureau’s sending two agents to the scene.”

      “That was quick,” Bolan said.

      “Yeah, they are moving kind of fast on this one, but that’s understandable since federal agents were murdered. Barbara arranged for your plane to be all set up at the airfield. Should be gassed up and ready to go.” The big Fed referred to Barbara Price, mission controller at Stony Man Farm.

      “Jack’ll be glad to hear that.” Bolan shot his old friend a look and gave him a thumbs-up. “He’s a little envious of the pilot on this one.”

      Grimaldi snorted.

      “You’ll fly into Cancun Airport, and two people from the consular agency will meet you right outside customs,” Brognola said. “Bearing gifts.”

      “Also good news,” Bolan said.

      “Good luck, but watch yourselves down there,” Brognola said. “And I don’t need to remind you...once you leave the resort you’ll be in hostile territory.”

      “We’ll be on our best behavior. As far as I’m concerned, this is more of a fact-finding mission at this point.”

      “Yeah,” Brognola said. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

      After grabbing their duffel bags and getting off the military transport plane, Bolan saw an olive-drab staff car approaching. It stopped about forty feet from the C-130. Two uniformed soldiers—one male, and one female—got out and walked toward them. Bolan checked the ranks of each. The female was a Spec4, the male a second lieutenant.

      Bolan nodded to them and held out his hand.

      “Mr. Cooper, I presume?” the lieutenant asked, referring to Bolan’s alias for the mission, Matt Cooper. The black stitching above his left pocket spelled out MASTERS. The woman’s name was DURELL.

      “That’s right,” Bolan said, shaking hands.

      The female soldier regarded them curiously.

      Bolan was offering his hand to her when Grimaldi beat him to it.

      “Hey, Specialist,” he said. “Unfortunately, we’re in a bit of a rush to grab our plane.” He pumped her hand and then mimicked what was intended to look like a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m the pilot, and as I said, we’re in a bit of a hurry, so why don’t you give me your number and I’ll give you a buzz on the flip side?”

      The lieutenant cleared his throat loudly.

      “Is our plane ready, Lieutenant?” Bolan asked.

      The man stared at Grimaldi a second longer. “Hop in the vehicle, gentlemen, and we’ll take you to it.”

      The female soldier glanced at Grimaldi before turning and going to the driver’s door.

      The lieutenant got in the front passenger seat. The trunk lid popped open, and Bolan and Grimaldi stowed their bags inside, leaving it open as they took their time arranging things to allow for some private conversation.

      “When are we going to pick up our hardware?” Grimaldi asked.

      “Once we land in Cancun, someone from the consular agency will meet us. Hal and Barb arranged for a diplomatic pouch to be sent there.”

      Bolan slammed the trunk and strode to the right side of the car. Grimaldi went to the left. As they took off for the private airstrip, where Price had arranged for a fueled Learjet to be standing by, Bolan considered placing a call to Jésus Martinez. Without knowing what the Mexican marine might be engaged in at the moment, however, he decided to wait.

      The drive took less than twenty minutes. At the airstrip, Bolan and Grimaldi retrieved their bags from the trunk, and Masters got out to shake hands with them. Durell remained in the vehicle.

      As they walked through the office toward