Don Pendleton - Desert Falcons

“What about GPS locators?”

“Struck out again. There is a GPS transponder in the vehicle, but it stopped transmitting about an hour after their last report. And it was miles away from Camp Freedom, according to its last recorded location.”

“Did you find out anything more about Rand Autry or that militia group we saw on the news?”

“Like I said, the FBI’s got some agents en route to investigate the disappearance. They probably plan to interview Autry as a matter of routine investigation. Not that they have anything solid to connect him to it.

“As for the People’s New Minutemen Militia, they’ve been active for the past year or so, but we don’t know much about them. They don’t seem to be affiliated with any criminal organization, and the report that they’re trying to buy more arms is unsubstantiated at this time. For now, they’re just a paramilitary group that sprung up about the same time as this thing with Autry started. They appear to be little more than a group of security guards for this Camp Freedom place of his. I’ll send you some aerial surveillance photos. The place is pretty big and looks well-fortified.”

“If he’s got all that property,” Bolan asked, “why is he in dispute with the BLM?”

“Autry’s been letting his cattle graze on what he claims is open range, per some proclamation from 1857. All his neighboring ranchers have been paying grazing and water rights to let their cattle use land in the same area. Since Autry refuses to recognize the federal government’s authority, he hasn’t. He owes a couple of million in back taxes. Now, the government is knocking on his door intending to collect.”

“This sounds like something to be decided in the courts.”

“It was. Autry lost the first round, but he’s appealing. In the meantime he’s recruited this small, private army to protect him, and they’re well-armed and apparently intend to stay that way. That’s where the possibility of the illegal arms deal enters into things. Add that to Autry’s recent televised outbursts calling for action against the Muslims, who he’s blaming for being in cahoots with the government, and you can see why the President is a bit worried there might be trouble with one of the royal heirs being in the area.”

“I think it’s time Jack and I got a look at this Camp Freedom,” Bolan said. “In the meantime, email us those surveillance pictures.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Not for the moment.”

“Okay. Keep me posted about Prince Amir,” Brognola said, then hung up.

Bolan surveyed the scene on the desert highway as they approached in the Escalade. Several police barricades had been placed across the road. About fifty yards farther down, a large group of people was milling about on the road. At the barricades, a pair of uniformed state troopers waved at the line of cars to turn and go in the other direction.

“Looks like we’re arriving late for the party,” Grimaldi said from the driver’s seat. “So much for your recon.”

“We can still find out some things,” Bolan replied.

“Okie-doke,” Grimaldi said, pulling forward as the car in front of them made a U-turn. The trooper, who looked hot and exasperated, waved emphatically for them to turn as well, but Grimaldi slowly crept forward and lowered his window.

“Turn it around, bud,” the trooper said. “Road’s closed.”

Bolan held up his Department of Justice credentials that identified him as Agent Matt Cooper. The trooper strode to the window and scrutinized them. Grimaldi quickly got out his ID and held it up, as well.

“DOJ?” the trooper said. “Just what I need, another couple of Feds.” He stepped back and waved them through, calling to his partner to move the barricade.

Grimaldi nodded a “thanks,” drove around the barricade and scanned the crowd ahead. Several news vans, antennas erect, were parked on the side of the road. A gaggle of news reporters, some with microphones, stood in front of the camcorders as two groups of people seemed to be engaged in a face-off of some sort. One side appeared to be police, the other some sort of uniformed men wearing camouflaged BDUs, black baseball caps, and bloused pants over desert warfare boots.

Most likely the militia Brognola mentioned, Bolan thought as Grimaldi pulled the Escalade on to the shoulder of the road, shut off the engine and grabbed his ball cap. Bolan did the same. The hats, along with their sunglasses, afforded them a modicum of anonymity as they ran the gauntlet of news cameras.

Grimaldi tapped the brim of his cap, which was black with white letters spelling out Las Vegas. “Maybe I’ll wear this at that damn desert warfare class. What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Bolan said as they passed by the reporters and showed their IDs to another police officer manning the inner perimeter. “Those white letters make a nice target.”

As they got closer, Bolan saw that both groups were armed, but the militia members seemed to have an edge since they held what appeared to be AR-15s with 30-round magazines at port arms. They seemed to be well-disciplined and were lined up across a paved road that had a gate and a seven-foot-high chain-link fence running perpendicular along an expansive perimeter. A large metal sign was posted over the gate, reading Camp Freedom. Below it, lesser signs proclaimed various warnings: Private Property—No Trespassing, Violators Will Be Dealt With Accordingly.

“Looks like the mark of a man who values his privacy,” Grimaldi said.

Bolan said nothing. He was too busy assessing the various shades of tan uniforms on what appeared to be the cop side: more state troopers, what appeared to be county sheriff officers, and several he didn’t recognize until he and Grimaldi got close enough to see the patches on the men’s sleeves: BLM—Bureau of Land Management. A big, barrel-chested man in a county sheriff’s uniform stood at the front along with two people in blue polo shirts and dark slacks. One of these was an attractive woman with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Hey, check out the babe,” Grimaldi said. “She’s hot.”

“She’s also FBI,” Bolan said, discerning the yellow lettering stenciled on the upper left side of her shirt.

Across from them, two of the militia men stood at rigid attention, saying nothing. In front of these a rather obese, middle-aged man in cowboy garb and a similarly dressed woman gesticulated emphatically. Bolan recognized both of them from the file Brognola had given him: Shane and Eileen, the two children of Randall “Rand” Autry, the owner and master of Camp Freedom. Bolan also knew that while Shane was purported to be more or less a gofer for his autocratic father, Eileen had graduated from Harvard Law School. She was a rather attractive woman with blond hair and a nice figure that filled out her Western shirt and blue jeans. She wore a buckskin vest, and her pants were tucked into highly polished, decorative cowboy boots. Her brother, Bolan knew, was eight years older, placing him in his early forties. His Stetson hat was set low on his forehead, riding over a pair of eyes set deep into a face that looked like an inflated balloon. An expansive gut pulled the bottom of his red shirt tightly over the top of a pair of blue jeans, held in place by a fancy leather belt with a decorative silver buckle.

“Ms. Autry,” the female FBI agent said, “all we’re asking is a chance to speak with your father regarding this incident. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”

“My father will make a statement when he’s good and ready,” Eileen said, her voice calm but defiant. “And not before.”

“When will that be?”

“When he gets here,” Shane said. “Now, get your unlawful assembly off our property.”