Desert Falcons. Don Pendleton

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.”

CHAPTER SIX

      Fedor Androkovich watched as the contingent of law enforcement agents began to disperse. The news cameras were still on the scene, and they would be moving closer to the gate as soon as the police dispersed, trying for an interview and using their zoom lenses to take long-range shots of the compound. Luckily, they’d stashed the ambulance in one of the barns Autry used as a storage facility. Androkovich doubted the old fool would discover it there, and the younger Autry was too preoccupied with drinking and his other activities to have much curiosity or ambition. Nevertheless, the Russian decided that he’d post a guard just to be sure. They still had to finish the painting.

      “I didn’t think they’d trace those two missing agents so quickly,” Rudolph Strogoff said in Russian. “Do you think we buried the bodies deep enough?”

      His partner turned toward him and frowned. “How many times have I told you to speak only in English when we’re on a mission?”

      Strogoff flushed. “Sorry.”

      He was back to using his Southern-style drawl. Good. It was imperative that they stayed totally in character during an assignment, and particularly this assignment. With what the Saudi conspirators were paying him, Androkovich knew this would be his last one, too. In another week or so, he would be living it up on the Riviera with a beautiful woman on each arm.

      “How did they know to come here to question Autry about those rangers?” Strogoff asked.

      His partner shrugged. “They were grasping at straws. If they had any solid evidence, other than their suspicions, they would have acted.”

      He was still scanning the departing law enforcement officers. Two, in particular, piqued his interest. They weren’t the ones who had been involved in the minor fracas. These two had arrived after the others, but were singled out by the female FBI agent. She’d given the bigger one something. A note or card. Both men had the look of total professionals. He noticed that they wore their sidearms strapped to their belts, with extra magazine pouches on the opposite side for quick reloading during a firefight. The larger of the two looked to be in excellent physical condition and moved with the grace of a jungle cat. He also had some sort of folding knife clipped to the lower pocket of his trousers—another