Desert Falcons. Don Pendleton

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