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Mustapha jumped to his feet, continuing his sham. “What? Is he all right?”
Hamid nodded vigorously. “The prince said I was to summon you first, before we awakened the king.”
“Of course. We must do so immediately. I will accompany you both.”
Hamid straightened his body to its full height. “He also wished me to tell you that your son was the one who saved the prince. He is a hero.”
Mustapha nodded. “Thank God. It is well that I named him so aptly—Muhfuj, the protector.”
He barely was able to conceal his glee. It was all unfolding as he’d planned.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2c7d45db-5598-50b7-a5e6-3aae5791e47b)
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Mack Bolan jabbed twice and then sent a whistling right cross into the heavy bag with a resounding thump. Jack Grimaldi, who was holding the bag against his body, was propelled back a foot and groaned.
“Man, I bet they felt that one all the way back in South Bend, Indiana,” he said.
Bolan chuckled and delivered another rapid series of punches, concluding with a left hook that jolted Grimaldi off balance once again.
“That’s it,” the Stony Man pilot said, stepping back and letting the bag swing freely. “Round’s over.”
Bolan glanced at the timer mounted on the wall and shook his head, continuing to punch. “Not for another minute.”
“It’s over for me.” Grimaldi shook his head and wiped his face with his towel. “Besides, it feels like it’s raining in here.”
They were in the gym at Stony Man Farm. Bolan was sweating profusely due not only to the intensity of his workout, but also the vinyl suit he was wearing. He sent another combination into the bag, sending a spray of perspiration with each blow.
The timer finally rang. Bolan stopped punching and reached for his towel. He wiped the sweat off his face and neck, and when the timer sounded again, indicating his minute’s rest was over, he tossed the towel down and moved to the bag again.
Grimaldi sat on a nearby medicine ball, leaning over with his arms resting on his knees.
“Hey, you have to slow down,” he said. “You’re making me tired just watching you.”
Bolan stepped closer to the inside and began working left and right uppercuts. He caught a flash of movement by the door and whirled.
Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller, entered the gym and smiled.
“So there you two are.” She was dressed in a red sweater and blue jeans that accentuated her curves. Her hand swept her honey-blond hair away from her face as she smiled. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Bolan took a moment to appreciate her beauty and then went back to punching again.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Grimaldi said. “Now you can hold the bag.”
“I would,” she said, “but I forgot my raincoat. You’re leaving more water on the floor than an autumn thunderstorm.”
Bolan delivered a double left hook, low and high.
“Besides,” Price said, “Hal’s been trying to get hold of you. You haven’t been answering your phones.”
Grimaldi slapped his sides, then held up his hands. “Not too many pockets in this outfit.”
Bolan stopped. “Why? What’s up?”
“I’d better let him tell you that. He’s in the War Room.”
Grimaldi jumped to his feet. “Well, I guess that settles it. Workout’s over. Let’s hit the showers.”
* * *
THIRTY MINUTES LATER Bolan and Grimaldi were seated at a conference table across from Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm. The big Fed picked up a remote and pressed some buttons that turned on a large flat-screen monitor.
“Nice of you two to drop by,” Brognola said. “I’ve been trying to track you down for over an hour. I should’ve known you’d either be in the gym or on the range.”
“That isn’t my fault,” Grimaldi said. “Superman here had to get his workout in as soon as we got back.”
Brognola got up and poured a cup of coffee from a coffeemaker behind his desk. He took a sip, frowned and shook his head.
“Looks like Aaron made the coffee. As good as ever?” Grimaldi asked.
“It’ll put hair on your chest and part it down the middle,” Brognola stated. “I had to brief him on a matter. He just left.”
Aaron, “the Bear” Kurtzman was renowned for his terrible coffee and his unparalleled computer expertise.
“What’s so urgent?” Bolan asked.
Brognola brought the mug to his lips again, started to take another sip, then apparently thought better of it. He set the mug on his desk and pressed another button on the remote. The big screen jumped forward to a frozen-frame depiction of two groups of people facing off on a two-lane asphalt road bisecting a bleak, desert-like landscape. The earth looked brownish-tan and was punctuated with dots of grass, mesquite and mountains in the background. Most of the figures were in tan uniforms, apparently law enforcement of some kind, and at least four of them held back snarling leashed German shepherd dogs. A few extended their arms with various weapons that ranged from handguns to stun guns. Several more of the uniformed men held shotguns.
They faced another group of armed men who stood on the opposite side of the road. They were dressed in desert camouflage BDUs, their black caps low on their foreheads, and carried what appeared to be AR-15 rifles. A gaggle of civilians, both men and women, were interspersed in between the respective uniformed groups. On the right edge of the frozen image a large, dark area partially blocked out the rest of the view.
“You probably saw this on the news last week,” Brognola said. “It was out in Nevada.”
“Well, we’ve been a little busy lately,” Bolan said. “Remember?”
Brognola nodded and pressed the remote again. The frozen scene jumped to life as the sound of loud voices and barking dogs emanated from the television’s speakers. The group of officers moved forward, behind the lurching dogs. One of them apparently sprayed some sort of aerosol irritant toward the agitated civilians. A few of them retreated, coughing and wheezing. The black-hatted camouflaged figures didn’t move and kept their rifles at port arms. The darkened section at the right side of the screen jolted forward, and it became apparent that it was actually the rear flank of a horse. The man atop the steed was brandishing an upside-down American flag on a six-foot pole. The horse trotted forward. Both the uniformed officers and the civilians backed up to opposite sides of the road as the animal began snorting. A reporter appeared on the left side of the screen holding a microphone. His anxious expression gave way to a nervous smile as he began to speak in a tremulous voice.
“This ongoing dispute between rancher Rand Autry and the federal authorities has been escalating to a critical confrontation for weeks now over a dispute about open range grazing and water rights and the government’s claim that Mr. Autry has repeatedly refused to pay taxes for these activities. In response to a cease-and-desist order along with the forced confiscation of a portion of Mr. Autry’s cattle, an armed group calling themselves the People’s New Minutemen Militia have announced their support for Mr. Autry and have assembled at the entrance to his property in what they have termed an affront to the pursuit of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Federal authorities—”
Brognola punched the remote and froze the video again. He turned to Bolan and Grimaldi.
“Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” Grimaldi said. “That’s a catchy phrase. I wonder where they got that one?”
“Don’t let the rhetoric fool you,” Brognola said as he held up his hand, forming a small space between his index finger and thumb. “They were this close to a full-scale confrontation. That’s Rand Autry riding the horse with the flag in distress.”
“Who were the uniforms?” Grimaldi asked. “State police?”
Brognola shook his head. “Bureau of Land Management park rangers.”
“Interesting,” Bolan said. “But hardly something we would get involved in, right?”
Brognola took another sip of coffee and grinned. “It gets better.” He pressed the remote and fast-forwarded the video, stopping on a picture of Autry holding the flag on the horse as the animal reared on its hind legs. The picture dissolved, and a new image appeared of the same man, clad in a Stetson hat and a bright, Western-style shirt, standing in front of a lectern with a panoramic painting of picturesque mountains and flowing rivers on a huge panel behind him. The words Land of the Free were stenciled in black letters over the mountains. He appeared to be addressing an audience in a medium-sized auditorium.
“We are all gathered here at Camp Freedom today to celebrate our freedom and our way of life,” Autry said, “and to address the most critical and dangerous threat to our existence since the Communists. I’m talking about our current administration in Washington and the secret deals they’re making to circumvent the American way of life. They’re defiling the very law of the land, denying the very things that made this country great.”
The audience applauded.
Autry bowed his head slightly in appreciation and acknowledgment. “As we speak, they’ve been playing both ends against the middle, coddling the Jews in Israel, while making deals with the Muslims, all to support the welfare state our great country has become supporting urban blacks who’ve made our city streets free-fire zones. Our cities have regressed a hundred years, back to the times when we worried about the marauding Indian tribes. And it’s not enough that the federal government is flaunting these things in front of our faces every day on the five o’clock news, but they continue to tax the common folk, the people who built this great country, to pay for it all. As far as the government’s concerned, ‘we the people’ doesn’t apply if you’re a white American, despite the fact that the blacks, Indians and Latinos are all supported by our tax dollars that the government continues to take and take and take.”
As Autry held up his fist, Brognola froze the image once again.
“Thanks,” Bolan said. “A little of that guy goes a long way.”
“He’s a real equal-opportunity bigot, all right,” Grimaldi added. “Is there any ethnic group he hasn’t managed to insult?”
Brognola chuckled.
“He mentioned Camp Freedom,” Bolan stated. “What’s that?”
“His rather sizable ranch just outside of Las Vegas,” Brognola said. “In recent years it’s been transformed into a veritable fortress, with Autry and his son as the commandants.”
“I think we saw his better image in the first recording,” Grimaldi said. “The horse’s ass. But at least he didn’t say anything derogatory about the Italians.”
“Give him time,” Brognola replied. “He’s managed to offend just about everybody.”
“As much as I dislike loud-mouthed bigots,” Bolan said, “what does this have to do with us?”
Brognola swiveled his chair back to the conference table and placed his crossed forearms on its top. “Autry’s got serious money problems. Although he’s purported to have sizable assets, he owes the government a lot, to the tune of fifteen million. He’s desperate. The word is that there’s been some suspicious goings-on in southern Nevada, including dealings with the Mexican cartels and a possible arms deal. The People’s New Minutemen Militia, which you got a glimpse of in that news piece, is rumored to be interested in purchasing some pretty serious weaponry at Autry’s behest. Russian organized crime is purportedly involved.”
“It sounds more like a job for ATF than us,” Bolan replied. “This guy may be a loudmouth and a public nuisance, but he’s hardly a blip on our radar, is he?”
Brognola shook his head slowly. “There’s a bit more than just that going on. Ever hear of Prince Amir bin Abdul Sattam Saud?”
“Prince Amir?” Bolan asked. “As in one of the lesser-knowns in the Royal Family of Saudi Arabia?”
Brognola nodded. “One and the same. While he’s one of many royal heirs to the throne, it’s rumored he’s the king’s favorite grandson. He’s got the reputation of being something of a playboy.”
“Man, I bet women flock to him,” Grimaldi said.
“In droves, apparently,” Brognola said. “While there’s certainly no shortage of heir-apparents, Prince Amir is thought to be a real-deal contender. Like I said, he’s the king’s favorite grandson.
“There was an attempt on the prince’s life last night in Bahrain. It was foiled by his bodyguards.”
“Who tried to kill him?” Bolan asked.
“As far as we know,” Brognola said, “and the Saudis and Bahrainis are playing this close to their vests, the assassins were Shi’ite Saudis from the Eastern Province.”
“Sunnis and Shi’ites,” Grimaldi said. “They’ve been going at it just about forever.”
“There’s no moderation when it comes to their disputes,” Brognola stated.
“Moderation,” Grimaldi said. “No such word in their dictionary.”
“Have either of you ever hear of Colonel Herbert Francis Coltrain?”
“The publisher of Mercenary One magazine?” Grimaldi said. “Yeah, I met him a couple years ago at the Shot Show in Vegas. That guy’s been almost as many hot places as we have.”
“Well, he founded the Desert Warfare Training Academy some ten years ago. It’s a rather prestigious school. They trained a lot of the Private Military Organizations we were using over in Iraq and Afghanistan. His instructors were all ex-military, a lot of them special-ops vets.”
“The operative word being ‘were’?” Bolan asked.
Brognola nodded. “Colonel Coltrain sold the school about a year or so ago to some foreign company. They made a few changes, including personnel, but it’s still considered one of the preeminent nonmilitary training academies around.”
“All that’s interesting,” Bolan said. “But how does that factor into our current situation?”
Brognola sighed. “The prince is scheduled to attend the desert warfare tactics school out in Nevada this coming week. With all of the anti-Muslim stuff this guy Autry’s been spewing, and the rumors of his militia boys trying to gear up for something big, the President’s a little worried that things could go to hell in a handbasket in a hurry.”
“I can’t say as I can blame him,” Bolan said. “What does he want us to do?”
“Go out there and keep an eye on things. The prince will have some Secret Service guys watching over him, but with this Bureau of Land Management dispute with Autry heating up and all over the news, the potential is there for a real conflagration. You two are both signed up for the desert warfare course, by the way.”
“Back to school?” Grimaldi asked. “Wasn’t that an old Rodney Dangerfield movie?”
“One of my all-time favorites,” Brognola said. He took a quick sip of coffee, then emitted another dissatisfied-sounding grunt. “The Feds are also out and about in the area checking out the rumors of some possible student radicals, too. The NSA has intercepted a bunch of anti-American internet garbage being spewed by some radical cleric out of Yemen named Ibrahim al Shabahb. He may be trying to recruit some impressionable lone wolves here in the States to stir up some trouble.”
“You have any more information on that?” Bolan asked.
Brognola handed each of them a briefing folder. “There are some Homeland Security reports in there. They give it a medium to high confidence level.”
“Please, tell me we’re not going commercial,” Grimaldi said. “You know how I hate it when somebody else is flying the plane.”
“They’re fueling up the Learjet as we speak,” Brognola said. “How the hell else would you guys be able to take all your special equipment?”
“Yeah, it might be a little tricky getting it through TSA,” Grimaldi said with a grin and a wink.
Brognola smiled. “Any questions?”
Bolan shook his head as he got to his feet.
“Your plane will be ready to roll in two hours.”
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_80349c07-4127-5b94-8c2f-e96538bfaf07)
Camp Freedom, Nevada
It was early evening but prematurely dark as the headlights of the Jeep bounced over the rough gravel back road. Fedor Androkovich checked the security strap on the low-slung, tactical holster securing his 9 mm SIG Sauer P223 semi-auto pistol as he braced himself in the passenger seat of the vehicle. He thought about the complexity of the plan. There was a lot that could go wrong, which bothered him. Still, he was used to carrying out complicated endeavors. He had been raised on them practically since birth.
His entire youth had been spent under the tutelage of the KGB, and later in its successors, the FSB and the SVR, in a special school that trained him and others to be sleeper agents in the United States. But after twenty years it had grown both tiresome and tedious, like his current, deep cover assignment, which was why he’d begun laying the secret groundwork to walk away from it all. When the Arabs had covertly approached him, the decision had been easy, almost preordained.
