Don Pendleton - Desert Falcons

“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?”

“No, but we just—”

“Then this conversation is over,” Eileen said, cutting her off. “My father knows nothing about this matter and has nothing more to say.”

Bolan detected an edge of trepidation in her tone. A second later he knew why.

“The government sends a Jewess out here to do their bidding, huh?” Autry’s voice had lowered to a growl. “Figures. You damn Jews run everything.”

Agent Dylan looked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Daddy,” Eileen started to say, but there was no shutting up the old man now.

“Thought they’d send some jezebel to try to trick me,” he said, shaking the flag. “But this is still a free country, under attack by a corrupt federal government that’s in bed with those bastards in the Middle East. I’m standing up for free Americans everywhere—”

“Daddy, please,” Eileen shouted. “Turn around and go back to the house.”

“Aww, let him talk,” Shane said. “All he’s doing is telling the truth.”

Eileen whirled toward the law-enforcement contingent, her extended index finger shaking like a pistol to emphasize her words. “Sheriff Dundee, I’m advising you in front of these reporters and witnesses that we know nothing about this alleged disappearance of any BLM rangers. We are refusing you access to our land without the proper authorization in the form of a valid warrant, and if you wish to speak to us, obtain a subpoena.” She turned and grabbed the bridle of her father’s horse and began walking back toward the big gate with a forceful stride.

One of the uniformed BLM rangers started to move forward, but the well-built guy who had accompanied Autry and his horse to the forefront raised an open palm.

“You heard the lady,” he said. “We have nothing to say.”

Shane, who was standing off to the side smirking, laughed and said, “You tell him, Frank.” With that, he, too began walking back toward the gate.

The BLM ranger balled up his fists and took another step forward, but Dundee grabbed him.

“Let’s not make the situation any worse,” the sheriff said.

The militiaman, Frank, began to walk backward, keeping his eyes on the crowd of police before him. His head turned slightly, and he issued a command for the rest the militiamen to “stand down and return to base.”

“That guy’s had some extensive training,” Bolan said.

“He’s got the moves, that’s for sure,” Grimaldi agreed. “Looks like somebody to step aside from, all right.”

Bolan wondered what the guy’s story was.

He and Grimaldi started to turn to go back to their Escalade when he heard Special Agent 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.”