Enemy Agents. Don Pendleton

from somewhere in the vast, dark desert that surrounded Apple Valley. If the driver noticed them, he gave no sign of it.

      Bolan felt wobbly on two wheels for a half mile or so, then got it back and kept up with the SUVs, not crowding them, but keeping pace. Some kinds of desert wildlife liked the blacktop after dark, claiming the day’s leftover heat, and Bolan didn’t want to hit a tortoise, maybe drop the Nightster in the middle of the highway—maybe finish what the biker-Feds had started back at Scoots.

      He also didn’t want to tailgate Halsey’s two-car motorcade in case his target had some kind of treachery in mind. It seemed unlikely, but he hadn’t stayed alive this long by taking stupid risks.

      Only the calculated kind. When there was time to calculate.

      Scoots was ten miles or so behind them when the Hummer signaled a left turn and swung onto a northbound access road. The Ford Explorer followed, Bolan bringing up the rear. Another mile and change brought them to a tin-roofed structure built from cinder blocks, painted some kind of beige that almost matched the desert soil.

      Bolan pulled in and parked beside the Hummer, switched off the Nightster and waited for Halsey to exit his vehicle. The militia chief was favoring his left leg just a little, watching while the others dragged themselves out of their seats, some grimacing with pain.

      “I didn’t get your name back there in the excitement,” Halsey said.

      “Matt Cooper.”

      Halsey’s grip on Bolan’s hand was firm, but not a bone crusher. Maybe he’d seen enough to let the schoolyard challenge slide.

      “This is our home away from home,” Halsey explained, jangling a ring of keys as he approached the building’s plain front door. “I guarantee we won’t be interrupted here by any kind of trash.”

      Inside, the place was sparsely decorated, with a table in the center of its main room, half-a-dozen metal folding chairs lined up along each side and more stacked against one wall. No signs or posters on the wall to give it any character. A line of plain black filing cabinets stood along the room’s south wall. Two other doors faced Bolan from a wall directly opposite the entrance. Both were closed, blocking his view of any other rooms beyond.

      “About that drink,” Halsey said, moving toward the filing cabinets and opening one of the drawers. “Is single malt all right?”

      “Perfect,” Bolan replied.

      Halsey produced a bottle, while another of his men ducked into one of the backrooms, returning with three glasses in each hand.

      “Matt Cooper, meet the boys you helped to rescue from humiliation. Bryan Doolan, Steve Webb, Larry Mosier, Tommy Gruber.”

      Bolan matched the names to faces and shook their hands, refraining from displays of camaraderie that might ring false. While Halsey poured the single malt, he asked, “So, did you know those clowns back there? Some kind of feud?”

      “If only life made that much sense,” Halsey replied. “You may have noticed that we’re in a world of shit these days. With crime and the economy, the War on Terror bogged down in a sandpit on the wrong side of the world, resources drying up. These are trying times.”

      “Not just a bunch of drunks?”

      “A symptom of society’s decline.”

      Bolan sipped his whiskey, found it smooth and strong.

      “You need some first aid on that cheek,” Halsey observed.

      “I’ll deal with it when I get back to the motel,” Bolan replied.

      “Where are you staying?” Mosier asked.

      “Place outside Apple Valley with a neon palm tree on the sign.”

      “The Desert Palms,” Doolan said. “Cheap, but clean.”

      “Cheap suits me well enough these days,” Bolan informed him.

      “Out on a limb here,” Halsey interjected, “but I count myself a decent judge of people. And I’d say you have a solid military background.”

      “Emphasis on back,” Bolan said.

      “Army?”

      “Special Forces. Fifteen years.”

      “You don’t move like a soldier who’s been pensioned off for disability,” Halsey said.

      “Let’s just say the brass and I agreed to disagree.”

      “On what?”

      “Whatever. It’s all ancient history.”

      “It doesn’t have to be,” Halsey suggested, cutting glances toward the other men around the table. All of them were watching Bolan closely, though Gruber had to do it through one eye, the other being swollen nearly shut.

      “Can’t say I follow you,” Bolan replied.

      “We,” Halsey said, spreading his hands to indicate the other four, “are patriots with serious concerns about the nation’s health. Make that survival. Every day, we see America diminished, basic values slipping through our fingers. Precepts of the Constitution used for toilet paper by a clique of radical extremists who’ve decided that America should be a melting pot for every cult and culture on the planet.”

      “Seems to me I’ve heard that phrase before,” Bolan said, playing hard to get. “From my history teacher in junior-high school.”

      “Right!” Halsey snapped, leaning forward on his elbows. “But the melting pot we read about in school absorbed the other creeds and cultures, turning all of them into Americans. You can’t believe that’s happening today, with street signs in a dozen languages and ballots that look like foreign VCR owners’ manuals. Not when criminals who botch looting the country get their money back with interest from the taxpayers. Not when our border’s leaking like a sieve and terrorist alerts from Washington are stuck on orange forever.”

      “Well…”

      “Look, here’s the deal,” Halsey said. “We’re a group of men who care about America. The real America. The way it used to be before too many tails started wagging the dog. We have some friends who feel the same, with numbers growing every day. I’m thinking we could use a man like you.”