our buddy Sergio!”
An unlit cigar dangled from Brognola’s mouth as he emitted a series of nearly inaudible grunts. Grimaldi grabbed the remote off the table before he sat down and played with the buttons. The volume came on and Brognola shot him a dirty look. The pilot muted the sound, pressed a few more buttons, and enabled the caption function.
Bolan watched with interest as the white-on-black letters began appearing in a box at the lower right section of the screen.
...And security was extremely heavy this morning as reputed drug kingpin Sergio de la Vega was brought before a federal magistrate in downtown Chicago.
Sergio, in an orange jumpsuit, stood in front of a judge.
“Hey, I like his wardrobe,” Grimaldi said with a chuckle. “Looks like a leftover from Orange Is the New Black, doesn’t it?”
Brognola, who was continuing to speak quietly, snapped his fingers at Grimaldi, who stopped talking.
This was the first appearance de la Vega has made since his initial arraignment two months ago when he was mysteriously taken into custody at a remote location in Southern California by DEA agents.
“Ha,” Grimaldi muttered. “All those DEA guys did was score a touchdown with the ball we handed them at the goal line.”
De la Vega, who was accompanied by his lawyers, was once again remanded to custody without a bond being set due to his international ties and infamous reputation regarding the Bajos Diablos drug cartel. It was decided that the case will be held at the Dirksen Federal Building in Chicago, since the US Attorney’s Office filed an indictment at that location. De la Vega’s lawyers reiterated their claim that their client was illegally abducted from Mexico by clandestine government operatives working in conjunction with the Mexican authorities, and was therefore being detained unlawfully, having been denied the right of extradition.
“Extradition.” Grimaldi snorted. “Yeah, right. So his old man could’ve had time to bribe one of those crooked judges down there?”
The picture shifted to a clip featuring the US president shaking hands with the president of Mexico as the white-on-black letters kept scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
The presidents will both be in Nogales for the upcoming Unity Day meeting. When asked to comment on the lawyer’s charges during the White House press briefing, the assistant press secretary quoted the president as having said, “We will go to any length, cross any border, do whatever is necessary, to bring to justice the wrongdoers who continue to poison the youth of our country with the scourge of drugs.”
Brognola ended his call, then said, “That was interesting.” He leaned back in his chair and twirled the cigar. “Hard to hear with all the conversing going on, but interesting.”
“You wanted to see us, so I assume the call is about a mission?”
“Yeah, but first off, the Man wants you both to know that he’s very pleased with how smoothly the mission to bring in Sergio de la Vega went.”
“Well,” Grimaldi said, “I guess that’s a compliment.”
Brognola held out his hand for the remote. The Stony Man pilot slid it across the table to him. After he pressed a few buttons, a breaking news story came on the big screen. The sound was still off, but the caption feature flashed a report of several murders at the newly opened plush San Martin Resort near Cancun, Mexico.
Two of the victims are purported to have been Americans. Authorities declined comment at this time, and this report could neither be confirmed nor denied.
The screen froze and Brognola turned to them. “It’s confirmed. Two dead Americans.”
“Tourists?” Bolan asked.
Brognola shook his head. “US Customs and Border Protection agents.”
“CBP?” Grimaldi frowned. “Were they working a case down there?”
“They were,” Brognola said. “Something about looking into the black-market dealings concerning some stolen artifacts from the Middle East. Most specifically, Iraq.”
“It’s common knowledge that a lot of precious pieces were looted from the National Museum in Baghdad after the US invasion,” Bolan said.
“And a lot of it’s starting to surface now that the situation’s cooled off a bit,” Brognola added.
“Hey, I love art as much as the next guy,” Grimaldi said. “But what’s that got to do with us?”
“A lot of that stolen stuff ended up in the hands of terrorists,” Bolan said. “Now, as they continue to lose territory, they need to find new ways to finance their operations.”
“Right.” Brognola shifted back in his chair. “And this one had two interesting wrinkles.” He placed the still unlit cigar between his lips and affected a wry grin as he held up his right index finger. “One, the third person killed along with the Customs and Border Protection agents was a Mexican journalist. Rolando Diaz. Does the name sound familiar?”
Grimaldi shook his head. “Should it?”
“Diaz,” Bolan said. “The woman who helped us grab Sergio de la Vega was named Diaz. And I believe Jésus told me that her father was a journalist.”
“One and the same,” the big Fed told him. “Two Mexican marines were killed as well, although that hasn’t been divulged to the media yet.”
“Jésus mentioned that their latest assignments included guarding some journalists,” Bolan said. “Which was why he felt confident that he could adequately safeguard the woman, Consuelo.”
Brognola leaned forward, placing his forearms on the conference table. “She’s also missing. Apparently she was with her father when all this went down. Something else that wasn’t released to the press. Our buddy Jésus sent word via back channels to the American Embassy in Mexico City that she took off with her father’s laptop. They’re looking for her now. And that’s not all. It seems there was one other little fact that they’d been sitting on down there. They found a handwritten note at the crime scene.”
“What did it say?” Bolan asked.
“Vengeance,” Brognola said. “And the funny thing is, it was written in Arabic.”
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
