Desert Falcons. Don Pendleton
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ROYAL CONSPIRACY
In the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, a secret group within the military is plotting to oust the Royal Family. Their next move: kidnapping the playboy prince from a desert warfare training session outside Las Vegas. But Sin City already has its share of trouble, with authorities investigating the disappearance of two park rangers and coping with threats made by an anti-Muslim rancher who has a highly efficient militia of his own.
It falls to Mack Bolan to keep the prince safe at all costs. But someone in the heir’s inner circle is a traitor, and the agents working the park ranger case are bound by official procedure. When it comes to stopping the fall of a kingdom and preventing a bloodbath on US soil, the Executioner makes his own rules.
A burst of rounds drilled the earth, inches from his feet
“Jack, I need a pickup. Now!”
Bolan pivoted to his right as he sensed the ATV almost on top of him. At the same time he lashed out with his gun hand. The Beretta smashed into the rider’s face, knocking him off the vehicle. The ATV continued for several feet before coming to a stop.
The Executioner raced to the vehicle, swung his leg over the seat, holstered his gun and hit the accelerator. The fence loomed a long fifty yards away. More rounds zipped by. The soldier’s only saving grace was that the uneven terrain made it difficult for his pursuers to acquire a decent sight.
Suddenly Bolan spotted headlights barreling down the highway. Moments later, the front of an Escalade smashed into the fence with a resounding crunch. The driver’s window rolled down and an M-16/M-203 poked through the opening.
Jack Grimaldi had arrived.
Desert Falcons
Don Pendleton
With reasonable men, I will reason; with humane men I will plead; but to tyrants I will give no quarter, nor waste arguments where they will certainly be lost.
—William Lloyd Garrison, 1805–1879
No quarter given. Ever. We must fight back with all our might until the terror threat is contained. Our very freedom is at stake. I will not stand down.
—Mack Bolan
CONTENTS
The Bouncy-Berry Club, Manama, Bahrain
Mahfuj bin Mustapha Rahman watched as the oscillating lights on the ceiling spun, casting variations of color over the gyrating bodies in the center of the room. The flickering beams made his eyes jump, which was disturbing, considering the nature of his mission. What was even more disturbing was the ongoing scene underneath the glow of those blinking, colored bulbs.
Women, albeit Europeans and Westerners, twisted themselves in obscene positions as they flaunted their bodies like the infidel whores they were. At least Rahman hoped the women were infidels. To think of the possibility of a Muslim woman behaving in this manner made the scene even more distasteful. But they were still in a Muslim country, although Bahrain was hardly known for its devout fundamentalism. It was bad enough that Muslim men sneaked to this insignificant island, changed into Western garb, and danced with equally careless abandon. Again, they were mostly Europeans along with a smattering of Americans. U.S. sailors, from the looks of them, bouncing up and down, ogling the females, but Mahfuj was certain that some of them were Saudis. He was certain of one, in particular.
It disgusted him beyond revulsion, and he wished more than anything that he could step out of this den of iniquity and into the cool night air. But his mission would not allow it, so he filed away the unpleasantness along with all the other sacrifices he had made in the name of God on 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