Dying Art. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
As the helicopter began to lift off, a few rounds skidded off the outer shell. Bolan fired a burst from the M60, and then heard Grimaldi’s voice come over his in-ear receiver.
“Those guys still want to dance? I got something for them.”
He used the mounted M240 machine guns to strafe the resort side of the beach again, and as they ascended Bolan could see the men below scattering like shell-shocked ants.
Bolan snapped the safety on the M60 and swung it back behind against the wall of the cabin. He pulled the door closed and turned to check on everyone. With the high-pitched roar from the rotors spinning at max speed, conversation was next to impossible. He flashed a thumbs-up to Martinez, who had rolled his mask up on his head. Sergio still lay on the floor, immobile, but quivering. Martinez gave a thumbs-up back. The Executioner went to the cockpit and sat in the copilot’s seat.
Grimaldi pointed to the headset, which Bolan then slipped on.
“We’ll be touching down on the Mexican side in fifteen,” Grimaldi said. “To make our deposit.”
Bolan acknowledged him.
Despite a few minor bumps, the op had gone pretty well. Still, they had to drop off Martinez, his marines and Diaz, before flying to US soil and delivering Sergio to the waiting DEA agents. Since this mission technically did not exist, Bolan assumed this second drop-off would be accomplished with minimal conversation and complications. Everything wrapped up nicely and tied off with a pretty bow.
Still, he worried about the young woman.
Should Sergio figure out that it was she who set him up, her life wouldn’t be worth a handful of pesos. There was no way to keep Sergio from his lawyers, and therefore the eventual communication with his father, Don Fernando, was inevitable. But Martinez had assured Bolan that the marines would protect her.
“That is all we have been doing lately,” Martinez told him. “Protecting reporters, informers and their families.”
This time they had their work cut out, Bolan thought.
La Fortaleza Diabla
Baja California, Mexico
Don Fernando de la Vega sat calmly behind his large teakwood desk smoking one of his Havanas and contemplating the recent turn of events. His rise to power as leader of Los Bajos Diablos had not happened overnight, and he prided himself on possessing an abundance of virtues, not the least of which was patience. He gazed about the empty room, plush in its opulence. Mayan statues decorated the walls, as well as paintings by some of Mexico’s greatest artists, alongside the works of Rembrandt, Van Gogh and Gauguin.
He drew on the cigar and savored the smoke in his mouth. It suddenly turned bitter tasting as he heard a knock on the door and his thoughts returned to Sergio.
“Enter,” he said.
The door opened and Gordo, his immense and extremely loyal bodyguard, entered along with Lupe Garcia, another of his lieutenants.
Don Fernando blew out a cloudy breath. Garcia stood at attention, Gordo looking down at him with the