ROYAL CONSPIRACY

In the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, a secret group within the military is plotting to oust the Royal Family. Their next move: kidnapping the playboy prince from a desert warfare training session outside Las Vegas. But Sin City already has its share of trouble, with authorities investigating the disappearance of two park rangers and coping with threats made by an anti-Muslim rancher who has a highly efficient militia of his own.

It falls to Mack Bolan to keep the prince safe at all costs. But someone in the heir’s inner circle is a traitor, and the agents working the park ranger case are bound by official procedure. When it comes to stopping the fall of a kingdom and preventing a bloodbath on US soil, the Executioner makes his own rules.

A burst of rounds drilled the earth, inches from his feet

“Jack, I need a pickup. Now!”

Bolan pivoted to his right as he sensed the ATV almost on top of him. At the same time he lashed out with his gun hand. The Beretta smashed into the rider’s face, knocking him off the vehicle. The ATV continued for several feet before coming to a stop.

The Executioner raced to the vehicle, swung his leg over the seat, holstered his gun and hit the accelerator. The fence loomed a long fifty yards away. More rounds zipped by. The soldier’s only saving grace was that the uneven terrain made it difficult for his pursuers to acquire a decent sight.

Suddenly Bolan spotted headlights barreling down the highway. Moments later, the front of an Escalade smashed into the fence with a resounding crunch. The driver’s window rolled down and an M-16/M-203 poked through the opening.

Jack Grimaldi had arrived.

Desert Falcons

Don Pendleton

With reasonable men, I will reason; with humane men I will plead; but to tyrants I will give no quarter, nor waste arguments where they will certainly be lost.

—William Lloyd Garrison, 1805–1879

No quarter given. Ever. We must fight back with all our might until the terror threat is contained. Our very freedom is at stake. I will not stand down.

—Mack Bolan

CONTENTS

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Epilogue

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

The Bouncy-Berry Club, Manama, Bahrain

Mahfuj bin Mustapha Rahman watched as the oscillating lights on the ceiling spun, casting variations of color over the gyrating bodies in the center of the room. The flickering beams made his eyes jump, which was disturbing, considering the nature of his mission. What was even more disturbing was the ongoing scene underneath the glow of those blinking, colored bulbs.

Women, albeit Europeans and Westerners, twisted themselves in obscene positions as they flaunted their bodies like the infidel whores they were. At least Rahman hoped the women were infidels. To think of the possibility of a Muslim woman behaving in this manner made the scene even more distasteful. But they were still in a Muslim country, although Bahrain was hardly known for its devout fundamentalism. It was bad enough that Muslim men sneaked to this insignificant island, changed into Western garb, and danced with equally careless abandon. Again, they were mostly Europeans along with a smattering of Americans. U.S. sailors, from the looks of them, bouncing up and down, ogling the females, but Mahfuj was certain that some of them were Saudis. He was certain of one, in particular.

It disgusted him beyond revulsion, and he wished more than anything that he could step out of this den of iniquity and into the cool night air. But his mission would not allow it, so he filed away the unpleasantness along with all the other sacrifices he had made in the name of God on this jihad, and steeled himself for what he knew was coming. So what if they were all behaving like animals, with the liquor flowing freely from the bar behind them. He had to remain strong. His task demanded it. But what made it more difficult, what disturbed him even more were the stroboscopic glimpses of Prince Amir bin Abdul Sattam Saud, the tall, handsome, well-built man in the tan shirt and blue pants, rotating his hips opposite the infidel whore, the man whose safety Mahfuj had been commanded to ensure.

To think that a member of the house of Saud, the Royal Family, the leaders of his country behaving in such a manner as to disgrace himself…

The prince had changed out of his traditional thobe and ghutra as soon as his private jet had landed in Bahrain. He’d told his bodyguards to change into Western-style clothing, as well. Many Saudis did that on their trips to Bahrain, to “relax,” which was nothing more than a euphemism for their apostate behavior, away from the watchful eyes of the secret police.

Nevertheless, Mahfuj had complied, taking care to wear a loose-fitting shirt due to the bulge created by his sidearm, a Beretta 92 F, so it would not be noticeable strapped in the holster on his belt. The clothes felt foreign to him even though he’d worn them numerous times on these excursions with the prince. They were less confining than his uniform, and this was one time he couldn’t afford to let anything interfere with the success of the first phase of the operation.

Mahfuj felt the cell phone in his pants pocket vibrate with an incoming message. He had switched to the silent mode the moment they walked into the place. The blaring music from huge speakers eliminated any chance that he would be able to hear the ring tone, and he couldn’t afford to miss the call from his brother Mamum. Taking the phone from his pocket, Mahfuj pressed the button so he could view the text message.

* * *

The moment has arrived, God willing.

It was time for the four desert falcons to begin their great jihad.

Mustapha, their father, was the first falcon. Mahfuj, his first born, was the second. Mamum, his younger brother by one year, was the third, and the youngest brother, Masoud, was the fourth. Each had his individual strengths. Mahfuj had always been the strongest, Mamum the most patient, and Masoud the most adaptable. That was why he had been chosen for the foreign assignment. Masoud could blend into any background, like a true Bedouin.

Mahfuj replaced the phone in his pocket and moved toward the door, imbuing his movements with as much nonchalance as he could. The dance floor of the nightclub occupied the center of the room, with tables surrounding it and the long, wooden bar running along the rear wall. The entrance had been curtained off by an enclosed corridor, perhaps three meters long, preventing people entering from seeing inside the club. At the doors, a big, muscular security guard stood poised to check and monitor all who sought to enter. Mahfuj glanced at the man, who nodded and smiled, his teeth glowing white among the dark hairs of his beard.

As Mahfuj positioned himself by the interior corner, next to the draped shroud of the canopy obscuring the corridor, he thought of the dream his father had repeatedly told them when they were young boys. How the vision of four falcons sweeping down from the heavens had awakened him, only to allow him a fleeting glimpse of four actual birds of prey diving down upon a cluster unsuspecting rodents. Their father said he knew the dream had been a sign from God.

“At that moment I knew, as I watched the birds’ sharp talons sinking into the rodents’ flesh, that I would have three sons,” his father had said. “We would be four desert falcons, who would be true Bedouins, true to our traditions, true to the will of God, who would guide us.”

Mahfuj’s cell phone vibrated again. He moved closer to the door and then paused to glance back at the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. The prince swung his arms in front of him, looking like a man battling some invisible demon.

At the far end of the corridor the door opened and Mahfuj positioned himself just on the other side of the canopy, out of sight to anyone who entered. Despite the music, he could hear the quick angry shout of the security guard, followed by the piercing pop of a gunshot. Mahfuj’s cell phone vibrated again in his pocket, but he did not acknowledge or look at it. Instead he quickly surveyed the dance floor to fix the prince’s position. He was on the far right side, still swinging his arms in front of him, dancing with some European whore whose large breasts bounced obscenely under a thin layer of cloth.

Mahfuj waited a few seconds more, not daring to glance around the corner of the canopy. The flashes from the oscillating lights and the vibrations of the blaring music swept over him like a desert sandstorm, but he steeled himself and remained ready. The man on the other side of the cloth barrier stepped forward, the barrel of his AK-47 rifle preceding him only by inches. Mahfuj reached out and seized the shiny barrel with his right hand just as the man yelled, “Allahu Akbar!”

The barrel jerked in Mahfuj’s hand. The heat seared his flesh, but his hand was thickly callused, his grip strong, enhanced by the daily exercises he performed immediately after morning prayers. A stream of fire shot outward and Mahfuj was pelted by a stream of hot, ejected shell casings. Still, he held fast to the barrel, allowing the rounds to penetrate the left side of the dance floor. Intermittent screams punctuated the loud music as the dancers twisted and fell under the rain of bullets.

It was essential that his heroism be enhanced by the requisite spilling of blood, like the traditional sacrificing of a lamb. Mahfuj pivoted and cocked his left arm, then whipped the toughened edge of his straightened hand against the assassin’s throat, at the juncture of his neck and body. The soft tissue gave way, and Mahfuj felt the popping yield of connecting tissue telling him that he’d succeeded in crushing the man’s windpipe. After a few seconds more, the rifle ceased its roar of death, and Mahfuj ripped it from the dying man’s hands.

In one smooth motion, he flipped the weapon in such a manner as to bring his hands into a firing position, and sent a 3-round burst into the crumbling figure next to him. As the man dropped to the floor, Mahfuj brought the weapon to his shoulder just as a second man, holding a rifle and three grenades, pushed his way into the door of the club. Mahfuj shot the man in the chest, allowing the rounds to stitch upward to the would-be killer’s head. This second man fell.

There would be one more. Mahfuj sidestepped and waited in place, not wanting to advance and thus expose himself in the confines of the corridor. It was, as his military tactics training had taught him, a kill zone. Instead, he forced himself to take a long, deep breath. The acrid smoke from the spent cartridges hung in the air, searing his lungs, burning his eyes; his injured right hand stung with the pain of a thousand needles, but still he did not lower the rifle or relax his guard.

His patience was rewarded seconds later when the third would-be assassin pushed through the door, wild-eyed and holding his AK-47 at port arms.

Foolish move, Mahfuj thought as he leaned around the draping shroud and squeezed off another 3-round burst. The third man dropped to the floor.

Mahfuj stepped forward, kicking the weapons away from the fallen men, pausing to put a round in the back of each of their heads, and then waiting when he got to the door. He glanced through the Plexiglas window and caught a glimpse of the dark van in which the killers had arrived. He kicked open the door, thrust the barrel of the rifle outward and fired off the remaining rounds in the magazine. He was careful to control his aim as the van sped off down the brightly lit street.

He watched it go, still holding the AK-47 in the ready position, its bolt now locked back, indicating an expended magazine.

The taillights of the van receded into the darkness, obscured by the bright dots of the ubiquitous street and building lights. As his hearing slowly returned, Mahfuj thought he could hear the sound of distant police sirens. He let the door swing closed and strode back into the club, holding the rifle in one hand now, so that it looked less threatening. As he rounded the corner, his eyes swept over the dance floor once again. People were huddled in corners and along the bar. Several bodies lay on the floor, some writhing with death throes, others eerily still. Mahfuj kept scanning their faces until he located Prince Amir, crouching in a corner. He strode over to him.

“Your Highness,” Mahfuj said, “are you all right?”

The prince’s face was awash with the varying colors under the flashing lights. He nodded. The three other members of the prince’s bodyguard contingent ran over and flanked them.

“Thanks be to God.” Mahfuj extended his hand toward the noble. “Come, my prince. We must leave immediately for a place of safety.”

The prince accepted the extended hand and rose on shaky legs. “Mahfuj, you saved my life.”

Mahfuj dropped the AK-47 on the floor and led the prince toward the rear exit, directing one of the other bodyguards to get their vehicle. “It was nothing, Your Majesty.”

The prince’s face jerked into a weak smile as his eyes showed both gratitude and admiration.

And it was nothing, Mahfuj thought as he pushed through the people who were slowly rising. After all, stopping a trio of killers was not that hard when you knew how many there would be, what door they’d be using, how they’d be armed, and exactly when they were coming.

* * *

Royal Palace, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

ALHAMDULILLAH, THE MESSAGE SAID. Praise be to God.

Mustapha bin Ahmad Rahman smiled as he read the text on his cell phone, then erased the word. It had come from his eldest son, Mahfuj. Mustapha had overseen the training of his three sons well, and his first born was the strongest and most capable. Yet each of them fit into his overall plan like the fingers of a glove. God willing, all would proceed now that the time had finally come to set things into motion. He glanced at the clock. It was close to midnight, and the elderly king would surely be sleeping. Mustapha knew he would have to wait until the proper notifications came through official channels that the attempt on the life of the king’s favorite great grandson, Prince Amir, had been thwarted by his loyal bodyguards, most specifically, Muhfuj.

Mustapha picked up the watch he had disassembled and began working on repairing its intricacies. It had been his hobby since learning the craft from his own grandfather as a small boy. The old man had loved tinkering as a watchmaker, but he was also a secret revolutionary. When his fingers had been blown off building a bomb, he trained Mustapha to take over as the watchmaker. Working with these tiny, intricate, precise parts was his solace of late, a way to relax, like a slow journey through the desert on the back of a camel.

Mustapha was the son of the son of one of the lesser princes fathered by a less-favored son with one of his lesser wives, so his status as a member of the royal family was ensured by his bloodline. Thus, the success of his career as an officer in the military, replete with accomplishments, was a foregone conclusion. Promotions came to him, and soon he’d found himself in the enviable position of full colonel. However, just as the status of his bloodline assured his success, the less than favorable status of his father’s father within the house of Saud also relegated him to an inconvenient obscurity. Mustapha worked hard, learning all that he could about the Koran, history and military tactics, which would enable him to become a great leader one day. But eventually the true nature of his position became clear to him. While it ensured comfort and success, he would never attain the coveted favorite, heir-apparent status for which he felt he was destined. He was the offspring of a lesser royal; he was a man who would never be king.

Yet the desire to lead, to achieve greatness burned within Mustapha like a hard, gem-like flame. It fueled his ambition and slowly, cautiously had allowed him to secretly build a base of support among both the enlisted and officer ranks of the military. His physical prowess and other qualities made him a natural leader. Others, even those above him in rank, looked up to him. That he should lead was always obvious, and now, soon, the entire country would see this, would feel the same, but not in a nation vainly named after one family, the House of Saud. No, Saudi Arabia would become simply Arabia. And he would be President Mustapha bin Ahmad Rahman.

He would not make the same mistakes as his predecessors had in 1969 when the air force officers, emboldened by Khaddafi’s success in Libya, let hubris and indiscretion overshadow their better judgment. If someone planned to kill the king, he had to be certain the blow was not only fatal, but not anticipated. Word of their plan came to the attention of the United States, and the subsequent intervention of the Americans, who warned King Faisal of the military’s plan, had been its ultimate undoing.

This time, however, it would be different. This coup would not be spoiled by indiscreet words or intercepted messages. This time there would be no discovery or intervention by the Americans. No, this desert falcon was wise and learned from the mistakes of others.

Yes, he was the man who would never be king, but he would be president.

It was the will of God, he thought. I will succeed.

Mustapha used the narrow tweezers to clip the last piston into place, then rotated the timepiece and watched as the tiny gears of the Rolex began clicking with a quintessential precision. He replaced its back and set it aside as he removed the second, seemingly identical watch from a pocket in his thobe. This one was the same only in superficial appearance. It was not even a true Rolex. Rather, this ersatz version had been given to them by the Russian. It contained the tiny, special tablets designed to induce a fatal cardiac arrhythmia, one of which Mustapha had used to eliminate his predecessor, the minister of defense, leaving the door open for his quick appointment to that esteemed position. It had been the first overt move of his highly complex plan. As a rule, Mustapha knew that it was better to keep a plan simple to ensure success, but when a person wished to eliminate a king, and change a country, an enhanced degree of complexity was requisite. This plan had to be worthy of toppling a king.

It bore a strange similarity to working on a highly sophisticated timepiece: many small intricate parts, all working in conjunction, producing the necessary movements to move the hands of time.

There was a knock on his door, and he quickly pocketed the ersatz Rolex. As he rose, the door opened, and the face of Hamid, the ultra-loyal assistant of the deputy prime minister and the king’s bodyguard, appeared in the crack.

“Forgive me, sir, but I saw that your light was on,” Hamid said.

Mustapha already knew what this intrusion was about but feigned a benevolent ignorance. He smiled. “Yes, I was up late working on the king’s watch.”

Hamid’s eyes shot to the Rolex. “You have finished it? It is his favorite.”

“Not quite yet,” Mustapha said. “It is a very complicated timepiece. Many intricate parts that must all function in unison.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Is there something you need?”

Hamid nodded and clasped his hands in front of him. “There has been an attempt on the life of Prince Amir.”

Mustapha jumped to his feet, continuing his sham. “What? Is he all right?”

Hamid nodded vigorously. “The prince said I was to summon you first, before we awakened the king.”

“Of course. We must do so immediately. I will accompany you both.”

Hamid straightened his body to its full height. “He also wished me to tell you that your son was the one who saved the prince. He is a hero.”

Mustapha nodded. “Thank God. It is well that I named him so aptly—Muhfuj, the protector.”

He barely was able to conceal his glee. It was all unfolding as he’d planned.

CHAPTER TWO

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Mack Bolan jabbed twice and then sent a whistling right cross into the heavy bag with a resounding thump. Jack Grimaldi, who was holding the bag against his body, was propelled back a foot and groaned.

“Man, I bet they felt that one all the way back in South Bend, Indiana,” he said.

Bolan chuckled and delivered another rapid series of punches, concluding with a left hook that jolted Grimaldi off balance once again.

“That’s it,” the Stony Man pilot said, stepping back and letting the bag swing freely. “Round’s over.”

Bolan glanced at the timer mounted on the wall and shook his head, continuing to punch. “Not for another minute.”

“It’s over for me.” Grimaldi shook his head and wiped his face with his towel. “Besides, it feels like it’s raining in here.”

They were in the gym at Stony Man Farm. Bolan was sweating profusely due not only to the intensity of his workout, but also the vinyl suit he was wearing. He sent another combination into the bag, sending a spray of perspiration with each blow.

The timer finally rang. Bolan stopped punching and reached for his towel. He wiped the sweat off his face and neck, and when the timer sounded again, indicating his minute’s rest was over, he tossed the towel down and moved to the bag again.

Grimaldi sat on a nearby medicine ball, leaning over with his arms resting on his knees.

“Hey, you have to slow down,” he said. “You’re making me tired just watching you.”

Bolan stepped closer to the inside and began working left and right uppercuts. He caught a flash of movement by the door and whirled.

Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller, entered the gym and smiled.

“So there you two are.” She was dressed in a red sweater and blue jeans that accentuated her curves. Her hand swept her honey-blond hair away from her face as she smiled. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Bolan took a moment to appreciate her beauty and then went back to punching again.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Grimaldi said. “Now you can hold the bag.”

“I would,” she said, “but I forgot my raincoat. You’re leaving more water on the floor than an autumn thunderstorm.”

Bolan delivered a double left hook, low and high.

“Besides,” Price said, “Hal’s been trying to get hold of you. You haven’t been answering your phones.”

Grimaldi slapped his sides, then held up his hands. “Not too many pockets in this outfit.”

Bolan stopped. “Why? What’s up?”

“I’d better let him tell you that. He’s in the War Room.”

Grimaldi jumped to his feet. “Well, I guess that settles it. Workout’s over. Let’s hit the showers.”

* * *

THIRTY MINUTES LATER Bolan and Grimaldi were seated at a conference table across from Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm. The big Fed picked up a remote and pressed some buttons that turned on a large flat-screen monitor.

“Nice of you two to drop by,” Brognola said. “I’ve been trying to track you down for over an hour. I should’ve known you’d either be in the gym or on the range.”

“That isn’t my fault,” Grimaldi said. “Superman here had to get his workout in as soon as we got back.”

Brognola got up and poured a cup of coffee from a coffeemaker behind his desk. He took a sip, frowned and shook his head.

“Looks like Aaron made the coffee. As good as ever?” Grimaldi asked.

“It’ll put hair on your chest and part it down the middle,” Brognola stated. “I had to brief him on a matter. He just left.”

Aaron, “the Bear” Kurtzman was renowned for his terrible coffee and his unparalleled computer expertise.

“What’s so urgent?” Bolan asked.

Brognola brought the mug to his lips again, started to take another sip, then apparently thought better of it. He set the mug on his desk and pressed another button on the remote. The big screen jumped forward to a frozen-frame depiction of two groups of people facing off on a two-lane asphalt road bisecting a bleak, desert-like landscape. The earth looked brownish-tan and was punctuated with dots of grass, mesquite and mountains in the background. Most of the figures were in tan uniforms, apparently law enforcement of some kind, and at least four of them held back snarling leashed German shepherd dogs. A few extended their arms with various weapons that ranged from handguns to stun guns. Several more of the uniformed men held shotguns.

They faced another group of armed men who stood on the opposite side of the road. They were dressed in desert camouflage BDUs, their black caps low on their foreheads, and carried what appeared to be AR-15 rifles. A gaggle of civilians, both men and women, were interspersed in between the respective uniformed groups. On the right edge of the frozen image a large, dark area partially blocked out the rest of the view.

“You probably saw this on the news last week,” Brognola said. “It was out in Nevada.”

“Well, we’ve been a little busy lately,” Bolan said. “Remember?”

Brognola nodded and pressed the remote again. The frozen scene jumped to life as the sound of loud voices and barking dogs emanated from the television’s speakers. The group of officers moved forward, behind the lurching dogs. One of them apparently sprayed some sort of aerosol irritant toward the agitated civilians. A few of them retreated, coughing and wheezing. The black-hatted camouflaged figures didn’t move and kept their rifles at port arms. The darkened section at the right side of the screen jolted forward, and it became apparent that it was actually the rear flank of a horse. The man atop the steed was brandishing an upside-down American flag on a six-foot pole. The horse trotted forward. Both the uniformed officers and the civilians backed up to opposite sides of the road as the animal began snorting. A reporter appeared on the left side of the screen holding a microphone. His anxious expression gave way to a nervous smile as he began to speak in a tremulous voice.

“This ongoing dispute between rancher Rand Autry and the federal authorities has been escalating to a critical confrontation for weeks now over a dispute about open range grazing and water rights and the government’s claim that Mr. Autry has repeatedly refused to pay taxes for these activities. In response to a cease-and-desist order along with the forced confiscation of a portion of Mr. Autry’s cattle, an armed group calling themselves the People’s New Minutemen Militia have announced their support for Mr. Autry and have assembled at the entrance to his property in what they have termed an affront to the pursuit of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Federal authorities—”

Brognola punched the remote and froze the video again. He turned to Bolan and Grimaldi.

“Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” Grimaldi said. “That’s a catchy phrase. I wonder where they got that one?”

“Don’t let the rhetoric fool you,” Brognola said as he held up his hand, forming a small space between his index finger and thumb. “They were this close to a full-scale confrontation. That’s Rand Autry riding the horse with the flag in distress.”

“Who were the uniforms?” Grimaldi asked. “State police?”

Brognola shook his head. “Bureau of Land Management park rangers.”

“Interesting,” Bolan said. “But hardly something we would get involved in, right?”

Brognola took another sip of coffee and grinned. “It gets better.” He pressed the remote and fast-forwarded the video, stopping on a picture of Autry holding the flag on the horse as the animal reared on its hind legs. The picture dissolved, and a new image appeared of the same man, clad in a Stetson hat and a bright, Western-style shirt, standing in front of a lectern with a panoramic painting of picturesque mountains and flowing rivers on a huge panel behind him. The words Land of the Free were stenciled in black letters over the mountains. He appeared to be addressing an audience in a medium-sized auditorium.

“We are all gathered here at Camp Freedom today to celebrate our freedom and our way of life,” Autry said, “and to address the most critical and dangerous threat to our existence since the Communists. I’m talking about our current administration in Washington and the secret deals they’re making to circumvent the American way of life. They’re defiling the very law of the land, denying the very things that made this country great.”

The audience applauded.

Autry bowed his head slightly in appreciation and acknowledgment. “As we speak, they’ve been playing both ends against the middle, coddling the Jews in Israel, while making deals with the Muslims, all to support the welfare state our great country has become supporting urban blacks who’ve made our city streets free-fire zones. Our cities have regressed a hundred years, back to the times when we worried about the marauding Indian tribes. And it’s not enough that the federal government is flaunting these things in front of our faces every day on the five o’clock news, but they continue to tax the common folk, the people who built this great country, to pay for it all. As far as the government’s concerned, ‘we the people’ doesn’t apply if you’re a white American, despite the fact that the blacks, Indians and Latinos are all supported by our tax dollars that the government continues to take and take and take.”

As Autry held up his fist, Brognola froze the image once again.

“Thanks,” Bolan said. “A little of that guy goes a long way.”

“He’s a real equal-opportunity bigot, all right,” Grimaldi added. “Is there any ethnic group he hasn’t managed to insult?”

Brognola chuckled.

“He mentioned Camp Freedom,” Bolan stated. “What’s that?”

“His rather sizable ranch just outside of Las Vegas,” Brognola said. “In recent years it’s been transformed into a veritable fortress, with Autry and his son as the commandants.”

“I think we saw his better image in the first recording,” Grimaldi said. “The horse’s ass. But at least he didn’t say anything derogatory about the Italians.”

“Give him time,” Brognola replied. “He’s managed to offend just about everybody.”

“As much as I dislike loud-mouthed bigots,” Bolan said, “what does this have to do with us?”

Brognola swiveled his chair back to the conference table and placed his crossed forearms on its top. “Autry’s got serious money problems. Although he’s purported to have sizable assets, he owes the government a lot, to the tune of fifteen million. He’s desperate. The word is that there’s been some suspicious goings-on in southern Nevada, including dealings with the Mexican cartels and a possible arms deal. The People’s New Minutemen Militia, which you got a glimpse of in that news piece, is rumored to be interested in purchasing some pretty serious weaponry at Autry’s behest. Russian organized crime is purportedly involved.”

“It sounds more like a job for ATF than us,” Bolan replied. “This guy may be a loudmouth and a public nuisance, but he’s hardly a blip on our radar, is he?”

Brognola shook his head slowly. “There’s a bit more than just that going on. Ever hear of Prince Amir bin Abdul Sattam Saud?”

“Prince Amir?” Bolan asked. “As in one of the lesser-knowns in the Royal Family of Saudi Arabia?”

Brognola nodded. “One and the same. While he’s one of many royal heirs to the throne, it’s rumored he’s the king’s favorite grandson. He’s got the reputation of being something of a playboy.”

“Man, I bet women flock to him,” Grimaldi said.

“In droves, apparently,” Brognola said. “While there’s certainly no shortage of heir-apparents, Prince Amir is thought to be a real-deal contender. Like I said, he’s the king’s favorite grandson.

“There was an attempt on the prince’s life last night in Bahrain. It was foiled by his bodyguards.”

“Who tried to kill him?” Bolan asked.

“As far as we know,” Brognola said, “and the Saudis and Bahrainis are playing this close to their vests, the assassins were Shi’ite Saudis from the Eastern Province.”

“Sunnis and Shi’ites,” Grimaldi said. “They’ve been going at it just about forever.”

“There’s no moderation when it comes to their disputes,” Brognola stated.

“Moderation,” Grimaldi said. “No such word in their dictionary.”

“Have either of you ever hear of Colonel Herbert Francis Coltrain?”

“The publisher of Mercenary One magazine?” Grimaldi said. “Yeah, I met him a couple years ago at the Shot Show in Vegas. That guy’s been almost as many hot places as we have.”

“Well, he founded the Desert Warfare Training Academy some ten years ago. It’s a rather prestigious school. They trained a lot of the Private Military Organizations we were using over in Iraq and Afghanistan. His instructors were all ex-military, a lot of them special-ops vets.”

“The operative word being ‘were’?” Bolan asked.

Brognola nodded. “Colonel Coltrain sold the school about a year or so ago to some foreign company. They made a few changes, including personnel, but it’s still considered one of the preeminent nonmilitary training academies around.”

“All that’s interesting,” Bolan said. “But how does that factor into our current situation?”

Brognola sighed. “The prince is scheduled to attend the desert warfare tactics school out in Nevada this coming week. With all of the anti-Muslim stuff this guy Autry’s been spewing, and the rumors of his militia boys trying to gear up for something big, the President’s a little worried that things could go to hell in a handbasket in a hurry.”

“I can’t say as I can blame him,” Bolan said. “What does he want us to do?”

“Go out there and keep an eye on things. The prince will have some Secret Service guys watching over him, but with this Bureau of Land Management dispute with Autry heating up and all over the news, the potential is there for a real conflagration. You two are both signed up for the desert warfare course, by the way.”

“Back to school?” Grimaldi asked. “Wasn’t that an old Rodney Dangerfield movie?”

“One of my all-time favorites,” Brognola said. He took a quick sip of coffee, then emitted another dissatisfied-sounding grunt. “The Feds are also out and about in the area checking out the rumors of some possible student radicals, too. The NSA has intercepted a bunch of anti-American internet garbage being spewed by some radical cleric out of Yemen named Ibrahim al Shabahb. He may be trying to recruit some impressionable lone wolves here in the States to stir up some trouble.”

“You have any more information on that?” Bolan asked.

Brognola handed each of them a briefing folder. “There are some Homeland Security reports in there. They give it a medium to high confidence level.”

“Please, tell me we’re not going commercial,” Grimaldi said. “You know how I hate it when somebody else is flying the plane.”

“They’re fueling up the Learjet as we speak,” Brognola said. “How the hell else would you guys be able to take all your special equipment?”

“Yeah, it might be a little tricky getting it through TSA,” Grimaldi said with a grin and a wink.

Brognola smiled. “Any questions?”

Bolan shook his head as he got to his feet.

“Your plane will be ready to roll in two hours.”

CHAPTER THREE

Camp Freedom, Nevada

It was early evening but prematurely dark as the headlights of the Jeep bounced over the rough gravel back road. Fedor Androkovich checked the security strap on the low-slung, tactical holster securing his 9 mm SIG Sauer P223 semi-auto pistol as he braced himself in the passenger seat of the vehicle. He thought about the complexity of the plan. There was a lot that could go wrong, which bothered him. Still, he was used to carrying out complicated endeavors. He had been raised on them practically since birth.

His entire youth had been spent under the tutelage of the KGB, and later in its successors, the FSB and the SVR, in a special school that trained him and others to be sleeper agents in the United States. But after twenty years it had grown both tiresome and tedious, like his current, deep cover assignment, which was why he’d begun laying the secret groundwork to walk away from it all. When the Arabs had covertly approached him, the decision had been easy, almost preordained.

As much as he disliked going by his American alias, Frank Andrews, he had to admit the name had served him well. And soon, he would be rich. He could choose another name in a short time. Any one he wanted. Perhaps he would go with one with a little more European flair. He was tired of masquerading as an American.

“There they are,” Red Stevens said. His real name was actually Rudolph Strogoff, and he, too, was a product of the highly secret American Assimilation School in Gdansk, only a generation later. As a result, his American accent was as flawless as Androkovich’s. His auburn hair had earned him the appropriate nickname, “Red.” He was fifteen years younger than Fedor, and consequently less experienced at staying deep within their established cover here in the United States. But just the same, during the past year Strogoff had all but vanished, and the advantage was obvious. He had become Red, but he followed Androkovich’s directions without question.

“Do you see them?” Strogoff asked, pointing to two sets of headlights parked about a hundred yards away on the highway.

“I hope their lights didn’t attract too much attention,” his partner replied. “Stop here and I’ll get the gate.”

Androkovich jumped out of the Jeep and jogged toward the seven-foot-high chain-link fence that surrounded the perimeter of Camp Freedom and secured the access to the compound via this back road. He unlocked the gate and swung it open, pausing to peer around at the desert terrain. A hot wind blew across the plains, capturing wisps of sand and adding a hint of grit to the air. Nothing seemed to be moving, but the Russian brought the night-vision goggles up to his eyes and did another quick scan. Nothing stirred except for an occasional tumbleweed. The timing couldn’t be better. All he had to worry about now was the possibility of some random patrol or the possibility of an over-inquisitive reporter or motorist happening upon them.

Thus, it was best to proceed with all due speed. He turned and motioned for Strogoff to pull forward on to the highway. Androkovich hopped into the open Jeep as it was going by him. They bounced over the juncture between the macadamized road and the asphalt and sped toward the two parked vehicles farther down. As they drove past the two cars, Androkovich perused them. The first was a dark limousine, the second the ambulance that they had purchased from a surplus municipality sale in neighboring Arizona. It was perfect for their purposes.

A limo in the desert, Androkovich thought. Leave it to the Arabs to be stupid as well as ostentatious. He wondered if their Bedouin ancestors were turning over in their sandy graves.

“Pull behind them and wait,” he said.

Strogoff slowed down again and then swung the Jeep in a wide circle, dipping on to the shoulder and coming to a stop behind the ambulance.

“Wait here,” Androkovich said as he got out. “I’ll go talk to them.”

His companion nodded, his black baseball cap riding low on his forehead.

Androkovich crossed in front of the Jeep and walked on the right side of the ambulance. He glanced inside as he passed, seeing the waspish face of George Duncan behind the wheel. He nodded as he passed, and Duncan responded with a halfhearted salute. The Russian kept walking and heard the sound of the locks being popped as he got close to the rear door of the limo. He reached for the handle and pulled the door open.

“Good evening,” he said as he slid inside.

Two men, both Saudis, stared at him. Androkovich knew the younger of the two well: Masoud, the youngest son of Mustapha Rahman. Masoud was slender and looked quite dapper in his cream-colored suit. His hair was stylishly cut and the hair on his face was trimmed to a neat mustache and goatee.

“You have seen the vehicle,” Masoud said. “Is it what you wanted?”

“It is,” the Russian replied. “You purchased it in Arizona, as I instructed?”

“Yes.”

Androkovich nodded. He waited a few seconds, not wanting to seem too presumptuous so as to upset the Arab, then asked, “Did you initiate the transfer of my money?”

The Arab nodded. “Of course. It was done earlier today, as you instructed.”

The Russian smiled. “And as soon as I have verified the deposit, I will proceed with the next phase.” He let his smile fade for the moment. “And I assume you brought my expense money tonight?”

Masoud snapped his fingers, and his associate removed a leather bag from the floor area and set it on the seat between them. The associate began unzipping it, but Masoud placed his hand on top of the other man’s. His dark eyes stared at Androkovich.

“Do you have the…how do you say it?”

“The English term is scapegoats. And, yes, they have been recruited, as your father instructed.”

“Your English is excellent, for a Russian,” Masoud said. “They are Saudi Shi’ites?”

“Yes. Also as your father instructed.”

Masoud lifted his hand, and the other man finished unzipping the case. Androkovich could see the bundles of currency. “As you requested, in various denominations of U.S. currency.” His lips curled back over his teeth in a mirthless grin. “You may count it if you wish.”

The Russian shook his head as he closed the case. “There is no need. Our relationship has been built on trust, has it not?”

Masoud uttered a short, harsh-sounding laugh. “Trust. Do you know that two of my father’s uncles were killed fighting the Russians with the Mujahideen in Afghanistan many years ago?”

“And now their sons fight the Americans.”

Masoud was about to speak when the driver lowered the shield behind the front seat and said something in Arabic.

“What did he say?” Androkovich asked.

The other man’s eyes flashed. “A vehicle is approaching from the rear.”

Androkovich took a small, handheld radio from his pistol belt and brought it to his lips. “Do you see a car approaching?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “From our rear.” A few seconds went by, then, “It looks like it’s pulling up behind me. Red police light on the dashboard.”

“Police.” Masoud leaned forward and grasped the Russian’s forearm. “We must not be discovered. This transaction must not be traced to us.”

Androkovich glared into the Arab’s dark eyes until the man removed his hand. “It will not be.” He slid toward the door. “Stay here until I return.”

He jerked the door handle and moved out of the limo with a smooth, fluid grace. He stepped quickly across the dusty shoulder of the road and into the darkened area approximately three yards to the side. The car behind the Jeep appeared to be a black vehicle with no overt police insignias. The passenger door opened and a man in a light-colored uniform got out holding a flashlight. Its bright light shone over the Jeep and then the ambulance. The fingers of Androkovich’s right hand closed over the handle of his pistol, drawing it slowly out of the tactical holster. His other hand withdrew the cylindrical sound suppressor from the pouch on his belt. He matched up the threads and screwed it in place on the end of the barrel as he listened.

“Federal agents,” the man on the driver’s side said in a loud voice.

Feds…FBI? But they didn’t wear uniforms or make traffic stops. Most likely these two were BLM bird dogs assigned to patrol the perimeter of the disputed territory, which most likely meant they weren’t in radio contact with any of the police dispatch centers.

The guy stood on the passenger side of the Jeep, shining the beam of his flashlight over Strogoff.

“What’s the problem, Officer?” Strogoff asked, his voice sounding like a typical American motorist.

“What are you doing out here?” the policeman asked.

“Just meeting some friends. Did I do something wrong?”

“Let me see some identification.”

“Don’t think I have any with me,” Strogoff said, sounding gregarious. “Wallet’s back at the ranch. We usually don’t drive this vehicle on the road. Just came to see if these folks needed help, is all.”

“You’re from Camp Freedom, aren’t you?” the man on the passenger side asked. “What are you doing out here this time of night?”

That was the wrong question, Androkovich thought as he ignored the three glowing tritium dots of the sights and switched instead to the laser light snapped on the laser sight. The circular bulk of the suppressor that rose over the end of the barrel rendered the standard night sights of the SIG Sauer useless. He centered the red dot on the back of the closer man’s neck. Of course, any question at this point was the wrong one. And the last, as well.

He squeezed the trigger and felt the reduced recoil of the round, and its accompanying ripping sound.

The man on the passenger side of the Jeep emitted a husking groan as his upper body jerked momentarily before he slumped forward.

“Jeff?” the officer on the other side said. “What’s wrong?”

Strogoff reached out the window and pushed the other officer, causing the man to take two wobbly steps backward as he began reaching for his weapon. Androkovich moved to the side, his SIG Sauer still held in the firing position. The small, circular red dot danced on the man’s face.

The Russian squeezed the trigger a millisecond later, the subdued crack of the round piercing the stillness of the desert night once again. The officer crumpled to the road.

Strogoff jumped out of the Jeep and straddled the man, while his companion ran to the unmarked squad car, finding it empty. A radio was mounted under the dashboard, but it was silent. Had they called in their location? Perhaps not. A mobile data computer sat on a metal shelf. He checked the screen and saw some sort of format for obtaining data, but the cursor blinked over an empty space. He wondered again if they had been in communication with their support base. Better to move quickly. The car and the bodies would have to be disposed of with cautious but immediate expedience. He glanced to his right and saw Strogoff going through the dead man’s pockets.

“See if they have handheld radios,” Androkovich called. His ears were buzzing slightly from the subdued reverberation of the rounds going off, but he knew this would subside shortly. He retraced his steps to the place from which he’d fired, shone his flashlight on the ground and looked for the expended shell casings. He found one, but the second one eluded him in the dust and darkness, despite the flashlight. The clock was ticking, and he felt like abandoning his search, thinking perhaps that the desert sand would sweep over the casing. But he also knew the devil, as they said, was in the details. Now was not the time to be careless. Shining the light again, sweeping it over the ground, he located and retrieved the second shell casing.

He went to the other dead man and began going through his pockets. The policeman had a Glock 19 in a nylon holster and two extra magazines. A cell phone was clipped to his belt. Androkovich immediately removed it, took out the battery and placed the items in his pants pocket. He found the dead man’s ID case and flipped it open. A Bureau of Land Management Park Ranger ID card was under a clear plastic flap opposite a small, gold-colored badge. He pocketed that also.

From the other side of the Jeep, Strogoff stood and said, “This guy’s a BLM park ranger. No radio that I can find.”

“Get his cell phone and deactivate it,” his companion said, rising. “Take their weapons and wallets and load them into the trunk of their car.”

Strogoff nodded and picked up the supine figure.

Androkovich considered their options. “We’ll leave them somewhere in the desert. They won’t be found for a few days, at least.”

Strogoff cocked his head toward the other vehicles. “And them?”

“I’ll get our money from the Arab. Duncan can take the ambulance to the barn. I’ll drive their car. You follow me in the Jeep.”

His partner nodded and began dragging the dead man back toward the unmarked squad car.

Androkovich strode to the side of the ambulance. Duncan had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, and his face was covered with sweat.

“Did you kill them?” he asked.

“I had no choice.”

“Shit, I hope it doesn’t bring more heat down on us.”

“I don’t pay you to think. Just follow orders. Take this vehicle to the farthest barn on the compound and lock it up. Then you’re done for this evening.”

Duncan nodded and shifted the ambulance into Drive. Androkovich watched him ride out and around the limo toward the back road entrance and turn on to it. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Strogoff dragging the second dead BLM ranger toward the vehicle. He exhaled slowly as he walked toward the limousine.

The complicated plan had just become a little bit more complicated.

CHAPTER FOUR

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

Mustapha Rahman sat on the soft cushions on the floor of his well-appointed apartment and watched as his second son, Mamum, poured some of the sweet mint tea into a cup for their three guests.

Mamum, the trustworthy. It had been he who had driven the three Shi’ites to Bahrain to conduct the attack on the nightclub, which had allowed Mahfuj, the protector, to perform the heroic rescue. That act had, in turn, ensured the trust and confidence of both the prince and the king.

Mustapha’s three guests were all high-ranking military men, and each had committed himself to the plan. Mustapha had no doubt as to their loyalty. With the assassination attempt the previous night, and the first part of the plan successfully initiated, they were well beyond the point of no return.

It was like a Bedouin pilgrim crossing the desert on his holy hajj, Mustapha thought. To stop at any point in the seemingly endless sands was to embrace death.

Colonel Tariq Matayyib, the weakest link in the chain, Mustapha knew, was perspiring heavily. He accepted the tea from Mamum and sipped at it.

Mustapha reached out and laid a hand on Matayyib’s thigh in reassurance.

“Do not worry, my brother,” Mustapha said. “All is well. It will work as I have foretold.”

Matayyib nodded, accompanied by a very nervous smile. “I have placed my faith and my life in your hands, but still I see the knife being drawn across my throat in my dreams, should we fail.”

Mustapha squeezed Matayyib’s leg again in reassurance. “I have just received a message from my youngest son, Masoud. All is going according to plan.”

This was not entirely true. Masoud had risked using his satellite phone to inform Mustapha about the near catastrophe of the previous evening. It was already morning here in Arabia.

Yes, Arabia, Mustapha thought. He would no longer use the name of the house of traitors to designate his country, the only one in the modern world named after a specific family. As if it were their personal possession.

He glanced at the chess board that the other two colonels had set up. The pieces were configured piecemeal around the board, without any clear strategy or plan of action on the part of either player. Thinking two or three moves ahead was something Mustapha prided himself in being able to do. Even as a boy he’d had the knack for strategy and planning. Perhaps it was a result of his grandfather’s careful instruction in the art of repairing the timepieces. It had taught Mustapha the intricacies of the most complicated series of motions, all seemingly working independent of each other, but collectively accomplishing one purpose.

He leaned over and moved the black queen belonging to Colonel Arak Hafeez, thus placing the white king of Colonel Kalif Samad in check.

The eyes of Hafeez widened. “You have virtually won the game for me with one move.”

He grinned and pointed at Samad. “You will be checkmated in two more moves.”

“Did you have so little faith that I could not?” Mustapha said.

Hafeez smiled. “Never for a moment.”

Mustapha turned back to Matayyib. “Do you not see? It is a sign from God. All is well.”

Matayyib nodded, but his face was still wet, and the perspiration had begun to seep through his tan uniform shirt despite the air conditioning.

“Why do you worry?” Mustapha asked.

“My father…” Matayyib lowered his head. “He told me of the scene of long ago. He was only a boy then, but he saw them lined up in the public square. Their heads rolled on the stones, and he swore he saw the lips of one of them moving in prayer, begging for forgiveness.”

Mustapha frowned. He, too, had heard the tales of the failed coup d’état of 1966. A group of air force officers had planned to wrest power from the decadent king, but the Americans had discovered their intentions and warned then-King Faisal. The monarch had immediately arrested them and, after rebuking their treachery, subsequently had all of them beheaded in the city square. Not a pleasant thought, but Mustapha knew this time his plan would succeed. The Americans would not be able to warn the king this time. He shook his head vehemently. This time we shall strike with the swiftness of a falcon…four desert falcons.

“Must I again tell you of my dream?” His voice was loud, steady, unwavering. “My dream of the four falcons? I was told by a holy man that it was a sign, a prophecy from God.”

Matayyib compressed his lips.

“Remember,” Mustapha said, increasing his grip on the other man’s thigh to convey the rectitude of his pronouncement, “that the prophet himself, blessed be his name, was guided by his dreams.”

Matayyib’s face looked distorted now and Mustapha realized he’d been exerting too much pressure in his fervor. He released the other man’s thigh. “You need to spend more time playing football.”

Matayyib’s expression showed relief now, but his body emanated the smell of encroaching fear.

But perhaps a little fear was good at this point.

“My son Mahfuj is now the most trusted bodyguard of Prince Amir,” Mustapha said. He reached down and moved the rook to block the retreat of the white king. “It has been insisted upon that Mahfuj, who saved the prince’s life, be placed in charge of the bodyguard contingent.” He reached over to make the final move to checkmate the white king. Everything was falling into place in life, just as on the chessboard. “Now, quit worrying and drink your sweet tea. But first, say it.”

Matayyib’s dark eyes flashed for an instant, as if he were confused…or doubtful.

“Say it, my brother,” Mustapha said, knowing he had the full attention of all of them. “Show me you are committed to our plan. Show me your confidence in our course of action.”

“Praise be to God,” Matayyib said. “We shall succeed.”

Yes, indeed, Mustapha thought. He turned and looked at each of them, holding his gaze steady as he searched their eyes.

“Yes, we shall,” he said. “Soon, you will each be generals.”

The three of them exchanged glances as smiles crept over their faces.

And I, Mustapha thought, shall be the supreme leader of a new Arabia.

* * *

Las Vegas, Nevada

“THERE SHE IS,” Grimaldi said, pointing through the windshield of their black, Cadillac Escalade as Bolan drove northbound on Las Vegas Boulevard from the car rental place. “My favorite sign.”

Bolan glanced back at the huge Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada sign that was set in the middle of the grassy area that separated the north- and southbound lanes of the boulevard. Groups of people were lining up to get photographed by the sign, which was shaped similarly to a giant cocktail glass.

They’d touched down at McCarran Airport an hour ago, and with the three hours they’d picked up flying west, it was not yet noon. After arranging to secure their Learjet in one of the private hangars, they secured their rental car.

Each man had a suitcase and a black nylon duffel bag that contained their traveling arsenals and equipment: body armor, night-vision goggles, gas masks, flash-bang and CS grenades, knives, pistols, two M-4 rifles, two MP-5 submachine guns, numerous magazines and a copious amount of ammunition. Flying commercial, as Grimaldi had pointed out, would have been more than just a little problematic.

“Well, how about we swing by the Peppermill and get a couple of steaks?” Grimaldi patted his stomach. “I’m starving, and remember, I did all the flying to get us here in a timely fashion.”

“I’ll buy you a sandwich and an energy drink instead. I want to drop this stuff off and do a recon. Let’s go.”

* * *

AARON “THE BEAR” KURTZMAN had reserved a condominium for them just southeast of the Strip. It was close enough to the entertainment action, yet far enough away to allow for quick departures to the outlying areas, including the site of the desert warfare training seminar. The condo was also equipped with two rather large safes that enabled them to secure their weapons. As soon as they arrived, they carried their duffels into the bedroom and Bolan removed his Beretta 93-R from the bag along with two extra magazines.

“Planning on going to war early?” Grimaldi asked. “I thought that damn class wasn’t supposed to start until tomorrow.”

“It’s better to be prepared,” Bolan replied.

“You got that right,” Grimaldi said, taking out his SIG Sauer P 223 and one extra mag and setting them on the bed. “But did anybody ever tell you you’re the world’s oldest Boy Scout?”

“Just you,” Bolan said. “Nobody else who did is around to talk about it.”

Grimaldi raised his hands, palms outward. “No offense, partner.”

Bolan slipped the end of his belt through the loops of his pancake holster and snapped the Beretta into place. The holster had a special safety guard that gripped the trigger guard to prevent the weapon from falling out of or being ripped from its holster.

He inserted the two magazines into the holder on the left, front side of his belt. He was almost ready to roll. The only thing left to do was to remove his large, folding Espada knife from the duffel bag and clip it inside the right pocket on the leg of his black cargo pants. He then stowed the two duffel bags with their remaining weaponry in the safe and donned a windbreaker to cover his weapons.

“Almost ready?” he asked.

Grimaldi was putting his arms through the loops of a shoulder holster rig. He turned and scrutinized his reflection in the mirror over the dresser. “Almost.”

Bolan took out his cell phone. “I’m going to check in with Hal.”

Brognola answered on the first ring. “I was hoping you’d call. How are the accommodations?”

“First-rate,” Bolan said, putting the phone on speaker so Grimaldi could monitor the situation. “Tell the Bear he did a great job setting us up.”

“He’ll be glad to hear that. Kind of makes up for all the times we send you to those rat holes all over the place.” Brognola cleared his throat. “Bad enough I gotta send you to that damn desert warfare training seminar. Hell, you and Jack could probably teach the instructors how to do it.”

“You can always pick up something,” Bolan said. “Nobody knows it all.”

Brognola laughed. “Yeah, you can take the soldier out of the jungle, but not the jungle out of the man.”

“Anything new?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah. The FBI agents are on their way to the area. It seems two BLM park rangers disappeared last night. They didn’t report in at the conclusion of their shift.”

Bolan considered that. “Where did they disappear?”

“They were assigned to prowl around the disputed area of Autry’s place. Camp Freedom.”

“Did they report anything suspicious?”

“Just that they noticed some vehicular traffic on the main highway by the back entrance and were going to investigate. Apparently there’s a private road that runs from the main compound area. It’s gated, and there were no signs of entry there, forced or otherwise.”

“Did they call in any license plates on the vehicles?”

“Negative,” Brognola said. “They aren’t monitored by any dispatching base, although they do have the capacity to get on local law enforcement radio bands to call for help if they need it. They maintain a mobile data terminal computer log of their activities, but there were no entries or transmissions after the one about them noticing the vehicular traffic.”

“What about GPS locators?”

“Struck out again. There is a GPS transponder in the vehicle, but it stopped transmitting about an hour after their last report. And it was miles away from Camp Freedom, according to its last recorded location.”

“Did you find out anything more about Rand Autry or that militia group we saw on the news?”

“Like I said, the FBI’s got some agents en route to investigate the disappearance. They probably plan to interview Autry as a matter of routine investigation. Not that they have anything solid to connect him to it.

“As for the People’s New Minutemen Militia, they’ve been active for the past year or so, but we don’t know much about them. They don’t seem to be affiliated with any criminal organization, and the report that they’re trying to buy more arms is unsubstantiated at this time. For now, they’re just a paramilitary group that sprung up about the same time as this thing with Autry started. They appear to be little more than a group of security guards for this Camp Freedom place of his. I’ll send you some aerial surveillance photos. The place is pretty big and looks well-fortified.”

“If he’s got all that property,” Bolan asked, “why is he in dispute with the BLM?”

“Autry’s been letting his cattle graze on what he claims is open range, per some proclamation from 1857. All his neighboring ranchers have been paying grazing and water rights to let their cattle use land in the same area. Since Autry refuses to recognize the federal government’s authority, he hasn’t. He owes a couple of million in back taxes. Now, the government is knocking on his door intending to collect.”

“This sounds like something to be decided in the courts.”

“It was. Autry lost the first round, but he’s appealing. In the meantime he’s recruited this small, private army to protect him, and they’re well-armed and apparently intend to stay that way. That’s where the possibility of the illegal arms deal enters into things. Add that to Autry’s recent televised outbursts calling for action against the Muslims, who he’s blaming for being in cahoots with the government, and you can see why the President is a bit worried there might be trouble with one of the royal heirs being in the area.”

“I think it’s time Jack and I got a look at this Camp Freedom,” Bolan said. “In the meantime, email us those surveillance pictures.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Not for the moment.”

“Okay. Keep me posted about Prince Amir,” Brognola said, then hung up.

CHAPTER FIVE

Bolan surveyed the scene on the desert highway as they approached in the Escalade. Several police barricades had been placed across the road. About fifty yards farther down, a large group of people was milling about on the road. At the barricades, a pair of uniformed state troopers waved at the line of cars to turn and go in the other direction.

“Looks like we’re arriving late for the party,” Grimaldi said from the driver’s seat. “So much for your recon.”

“We can still find out some things,” Bolan replied.

“Okie-doke,” Grimaldi said, pulling forward as the car in front of them made a U-turn. The trooper, who looked hot and exasperated, waved emphatically for them to turn as well, but Grimaldi slowly crept forward and lowered his window.

“Turn it around, bud,” the trooper said. “Road’s closed.”

Bolan held up his Department of Justice credentials that identified him as Agent Matt Cooper. The trooper strode to the window and scrutinized them. Grimaldi quickly got out his ID and held it up, as well.

“DOJ?” the trooper said. “Just what I need, another couple of Feds.” He stepped back and waved them through, calling to his partner to move the barricade.

Grimaldi nodded a “thanks,” drove around the barricade and scanned the crowd ahead. Several news vans, antennas erect, were parked on the side of the road. A gaggle of news reporters, some with microphones, stood in front of the camcorders as two groups of people seemed to be engaged in a face-off of some sort. One side appeared to be police, the other some sort of uniformed men wearing camouflaged BDUs, black baseball caps, and bloused pants over desert warfare boots.

Most likely the militia Brognola mentioned, Bolan thought as Grimaldi pulled the Escalade on to the shoulder of the road, shut off the engine and grabbed his ball cap. Bolan did the same. The hats, along with their sunglasses, afforded them a modicum of anonymity as they ran the gauntlet of news cameras.

Grimaldi tapped the brim of his cap, which was black with white letters spelling out Las Vegas. “Maybe I’ll wear this at that damn desert warfare class. What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Bolan said as they passed by the reporters and showed their IDs to another police officer manning the inner perimeter. “Those white letters make a nice target.”

As they got closer, Bolan saw that both groups were armed, but the militia members seemed to have an edge since they held what appeared to be AR-15s with 30-round magazines at port arms. They seemed to be well-disciplined and were lined up across a paved road that had a gate and a seven-foot-high chain-link fence running perpendicular along an expansive perimeter. A large metal sign was posted over the gate, reading Camp Freedom. Below it, lesser signs proclaimed various warnings: Private Property—No Trespassing, Violators Will Be Dealt With Accordingly.

“Looks like the mark of a man who values his privacy,” Grimaldi said.

Bolan said nothing. He was too busy assessing the various shades of tan uniforms on what appeared to be the cop side: more state troopers, what appeared to be county sheriff officers, and several he didn’t recognize until he and Grimaldi got close enough to see the patches on the men’s sleeves: BLM—Bureau of Land Management. A big, barrel-chested man in a county sheriff’s uniform stood at the front along with two people in blue polo shirts and dark slacks. One of these was an attractive woman with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Hey, check out the babe,” Grimaldi said. “She’s hot.”

“She’s also FBI,” Bolan said, discerning the yellow lettering stenciled on the upper left side of her shirt.

Across from them, two of the militia men stood at rigid attention, saying nothing. In front of these a rather obese, middle-aged man in cowboy garb and a similarly dressed woman gesticulated emphatically. Bolan recognized both of them from the file Brognola had given him: Shane and Eileen, the two children of Randall “Rand” Autry, the owner and master of Camp Freedom. Bolan also knew that while Shane was purported to be more or less a gofer for his autocratic father, Eileen had graduated from Harvard Law School. She was a rather attractive woman with blond hair and a nice figure that filled out her Western shirt and blue jeans. She wore a buckskin vest, and her pants were tucked into highly polished, decorative cowboy boots. Her brother, Bolan knew, was eight years older, placing him in his early forties. His Stetson hat was set low on his forehead, riding over a pair of eyes set deep into a face that looked like an inflated balloon. An expansive gut pulled the bottom of his red shirt tightly over the top of a pair of blue jeans, held in place by a fancy leather belt with a decorative silver buckle.

“Ms. Autry,” the female FBI agent said, “all we’re asking is a chance to speak with your father regarding this incident. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”

“My father will make a statement when he’s good and ready,” Eileen said, her voice calm but defiant. “And not before.”

“When will that be?”

“When he gets here,” Shane said. “Now, get your unlawful assembly off our property.”

“This is public road,” one of the uniformed BLM rangers said. “And two of our personnel disappeared in this area. We have a right to be here.”

Shane’s face took on a belligerent expression. “You want to talk about rights? What about our rights as citizens? What about you jack-booted government thugs harassing us without authority? What about—”

The uniformed BLM ranger jumped forward, but the big man in the tan uniform raised a massive arm to hold him back. He silenced the man with a mean look.

“Thank you, Sheriff Dundee,” Eileen said, “You saved my brother from an unwarranted assault and saved this government thug and his department from a horrendous lawsuit.” She smiled and pointed toward the news crews. “Let’s not forget that this entire incident is being recorded.”

Dundee nodded and held up his hand. “I’m not in any position to forget anything, ma’am. And, please, excuse the exuberance of my fellow law-enforcement officer here, but understandably, he is a bit concerned, as we all are, about those two missing park rangers.”

“Park rangers,” Shane said in a disgusted tone. “Ain’t no parks around here for them to patrol.” He spit on the ground between him and the law-enforcement personnel.

“Shane,” Dundee said, “I’ve known you for a long time, but if you do that again I’ll take you in.”

“Oh, that’ll look good in front of all these cameras, won’t it?” Shane did a little dance. “Come on, big man. Don’t talk about it, do it.” He threw his arm back toward the line of stoic militiamen. “I’d like to see you try it.”

Eileen turned and put her hand on her brother’s shoulder. The situation looked about ready to explode. Bolan stepped closer, but stayed about fifteen feet away from the principal players sizing each one up.

As they stood nose to nose in momentary silence, a rhythmic, clopping sound became noticeable. Bolan looked for the source of it and saw a man wearing a white Stetson hat rapidly approaching on a white horse alongside the paved road inside the gates. He held an American flag on a pole that was hooked into his left stirrup. The flag was upside-down.

“Looks like Rand Autry’s here,” Bolan said.

Grimaldi nodded. “Damn, just like John Wayne in one of those old Westerns.”

“Shane,” Rand Autry said loudly as he pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse to a stop. He then urged the animal cautiously forward. Several of the militiamen broke ranks to allow him passage. One of them, obviously the leader, was a big, broad-shouldered guy with light-colored eyes. He issued a command to the militiaman next to him to take over as he accompanied the elder Autry to the front of the standoff. This second militiaman had reddish hair and a wiry build. Although he looked formidable, he appeared a few years younger than the big guy and nowhere near as powerful.

Bolan took note of the big guy’s massive forearms as he shouldered his AR-15 and strode beside the horse. The man also wore what appeared to be a 9 mm SIG Sauer P 223 pistol in a low-slung tactical holster. Everything about him exuded military bearing and discipline. Bolan wondered what this guy’s game was.

Rand Autry looked less impressive the closer he got. Under the brim of his hat his tanned face looked lined with creases, and his movements were stiff, as if he was fighting off pain with each one. Still, his physique, though a bit bulky and padded with age, gave off an aura of authority. His hands were large and powerful-looking.

“Dundee,” he said from his saddle, “as a duly elected public official of the sheriff’s department, you are the only member of this lynch mob that I regard with any official law enforcement capacity.”

The big sheriff, obviously uncomfortable being forced to look up at Autry, nodded. “Why don’t you dismount so we can talk about this, Rand?”

Autry smirked and shook the upside-down flag. “I can hear you fine from up here. Now, what the hell do you want?”

Dundee took a deep breath and was about to speak when the FBI agent spoke first.

“Mr. Autry, I’m Special Agent Dylan, FBI. We’d like to speak with you.”

Autry transferred his gaze to her. “FBI? About what?”

“Two Bureau of Land Management Park Rangers disappeared in this vicinity last night,” she said. “May we come in and talk with you?”

Autry’s large head tilted to the side. “Dylan? That a Jew name?”

The woman flushed, then nodded. “Sir, we do need to speak with you concerning this incident.”

Eileen stepped forward. “Do you have a warrant to search our premises?”

“No, but we just—”

“Then this conversation is over,” Eileen said, cutting her off. “My father knows nothing about this matter and has nothing more to say.”

Bolan detected an edge of trepidation in her tone. A second later he knew why.

“The government sends a Jewess out here to do their bidding, huh?” Autry’s voice had lowered to a growl. “Figures. You damn Jews run everything.”

Agent Dylan looked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Daddy,” Eileen started to say, but there was no shutting up the old man now.

“Thought they’d send some jezebel to try to trick me,” he said, shaking the flag. “But this is still a free country, under attack by a corrupt federal government that’s in bed with those bastards in the Middle East. I’m standing up for free Americans everywhere—”

“Daddy, please,” Eileen shouted. “Turn around and go back to the house.”

“Aww, let him talk,” Shane said. “All he’s doing is telling the truth.”

Eileen whirled toward the law-enforcement contingent, her extended index finger shaking like a pistol to emphasize her words. “Sheriff Dundee, I’m advising you in front of these reporters and witnesses that we know nothing about this alleged disappearance of any BLM rangers. We are refusing you access to our land without the proper authorization in the form of a valid warrant, and if you wish to speak to us, obtain a subpoena.” She turned and grabbed the bridle of her father’s horse and began walking back toward the big gate with a forceful stride.

One of the uniformed BLM rangers started to move forward, but the well-built guy who had accompanied Autry and his horse to the forefront raised an open palm.

“You heard the lady,” he said. “We have nothing to say.”

Shane, who was standing off to the side smirking, laughed and said, “You tell him, Frank.” With that, he, too began walking back toward the gate.

The BLM ranger balled up his fists and took another step forward, but Dundee grabbed him.

“Let’s not make the situation any worse,” the sheriff said.

The militiaman, Frank, began to walk backward, keeping his eyes on the crowd of police before him. His head turned slightly, and he issued a command for the rest the militiamen to “stand down and return to base.”

“That guy’s had some extensive training,” Bolan said.

“He’s got the moves, that’s for sure,” Grimaldi agreed. “Looks like somebody to step aside from, all right.”

Bolan wondered what the guy’s story was.

He and Grimaldi started to turn to go back to their Escalade when he heard Special Agent Dylan call, “One moment, please, gentlemen.”

Bolan turned. She was rather pretty, with dark eyes and an olive complexion. He estimated her to be about five-seven, 125 pounds, and in excellent shape.

“I’m Special Agent Gila Dylan,” she stated. “FBI.”

“We know,” Grimaldi said, flashing a wide grin. “We heard you introduce yourself.”

She swiveled her gaze toward him and let the faint trace of a smile grace her lips. “Who are you guys? I don’t remember seeing you before.”

“That’s because we just got here,” Grimaldi said quickly. “Believe me, we’re very memorable.”

Bolan held up his DOJ identification while she scrutinized it. After a few seconds, Grimaldi held his up, as well. “I didn’t get notified that someone else from Justice was involved in this investigation.”

“You know our motto,” Grimaldi replied. “Justice never sleeps.”

“Actually,” Bolan said, “we’re here on another matter and just stopped by to lend our support.”

The second FBI agent stepped forward with an extended palm.

“Special Agent Lon Banks,” he said. He looked to be right out of the academy and a few years younger than his distaff partner. They shook.

The barrel-chested sheriff stepped up and offered his hand, too. “I’m Sheriff Wayne Dundee. This has already turned into a multiagency investigation. Glad to have you aboard.”

“Exactly what is the nature of your investigation?” Dylan asked.

“Classified,” Grimaldi said.

“I’m going to have to call my supervisor about this.”

“Let me give you a number that’ll verify us,” Bolan said, taking out his pad and pen. “In the meantime, why don’t we get out of the sun and away from these reporters?”

She looked around and nodded. “Good point.”

They began walking back toward their vehicles.

“Any idea where those two rangers disappeared?” Bolan asked.

She shook her head. “Their last known location was on the highway near the back forty of Camp Freedom.” Dylan smirked. “What an oxymoron.”

“That guy’s a moron, all right,” Grimaldi said. “Oxy or otherwise.”

His quip got a tweak of a smile out of her, but her expression turned serious again. “We were hoping to get permission to check his ranch, or should I say his fortified compound? Fat chance he’d cooperate. The man obviously has some hidden agenda, but what?”

“Do you know anything about those militiamen he’s got backing him up?” Bolan asked.

“Not as much as we’d like to,” she said. They were still in the inner perimeter and about twenty yards from the gaggle of reporters and news cameras. “So, I’ve told you my story. Now, what’s yours?”

After quickly assessing that they were still far enough away from any probing boom mikes, Bolan raised his hand in front of his lips and said quietly, “We’re here attending a desert warfare training seminar.”

The crease between Dylan’s eyebrows deepened again as she canted her head to look at him. “Oh?”

“Washington has some safety concerns about another of the seminar attendees.”

“The Saudi prince?” Dylan whispered.

Bolan nodded.

“I read an informational Bureau memo that he’d be attending,” she said. “But I thought the Secret Service had a contingent accompanying him for protection.”

“They do,” Bolan said. “We’re augmenting them.”

“Hedging our bets, so to speak,” Grimaldi added.

She considered that and nodded. “I can understand that. The Secret Service is already complaining about the last time he was in Vegas. Their code name for him is Royal Dissidence.

“Let’s keep in touch,” she added. “We should get together and compare notes ASAP.” She gave Bolan one of her business cards. “Call me later and we’ll set up a meet.”

“Hey,” Grimaldi said, “can I get one of those, too?”

Turning toward him, she smiled demurely. “Sorry. I just brought one.” She and her partner brushed by them going toward their government sedan.

Bolan watched her go, then glanced back over his shoulder at the gate to Camp Freedom. The militiamen were filing back inside the compound with military precision, following Autry on his large white horse toward a group of buildings approximately a hundred yards from the gate. Two men stood by the gate, watching the law enforcement retreat. One of them was the big guy who’d accompanied Autry to the front of the confrontation. The other was the younger version with the red hair.

There was something about that big guy that bothered Bolan, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Had they crossed paths before? Maybe it was more the type than the actual individual.

Whatever or whoever he was, Bolan thought, he looked like he knew his stuff.

“You know,” Grimaldi said, slapping Bolan on the shoulder, “I think Agent Dylan digs me.”

Bolan held up her card as he headed for the Escalade. “Obviously.”

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