Dying Art
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
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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.