Desert Falcons

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.”