Dying Art

“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.