Desert Falcons

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Not for the moment.”

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

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_51877957-f4a9-5d49-9e10-03b9ad09155c)

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?”