Desert Falcons. Don Pendleton

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      Androkovich nodded. He waited a few seconds, not wanting to seem too presumptuous so as to upset the Arab, then asked, “Did you initiate the transfer of my money?”

      The Arab nodded. “Of course. It was done earlier today, as you instructed.”

      The Russian smiled. “And as soon as I have verified the deposit, I will proceed with the next phase.” He let his smile fade for the moment. “And I assume you brought my expense money tonight?”

      Masoud snapped his fingers, and his associate removed a leather bag from the floor area and set it on the seat between them. The associate began unzipping it, but Masoud placed his hand on top of the other man’s. His dark eyes stared at Androkovich.

      “Do you have the…how do you say it?”

      “The English term is scapegoats. And, yes, they have been recruited, as your father instructed.”

      “Your English is excellent, for a Russian,” Masoud said. “They are Saudi Shi’ites?”

      “Yes. Also as your father instructed.”

      Masoud lifted his hand, and the other man finished unzipping the case. Androkovich could see the bundles of currency. “As you requested, in various denominations of U.S. currency.” His lips curled back over his teeth in a mirthless grin. “You may count it if you wish.”

      The Russian shook his head as he closed the case. “There is no need. Our relationship has been built on trust, has it not?”

      Masoud uttered a short, harsh-sounding laugh. “Trust. Do you know that two of my father’s uncles were killed fighting the Russians with the Mujahideen in Afghanistan many years ago?”

      “And now their sons fight the Americans.”

      Masoud was about to speak when the driver lowered the shield behind the front seat and said something in Arabic.

      “What did he say?” Androkovich asked.

      The other man’s eyes flashed. “A vehicle is approaching from the rear.”

      Androkovich took a small, handheld radio from his pistol belt and brought it to his lips. “Do you see a car approaching?”

      “Yes,” came the reply. “From our rear.” A few seconds went by, then, “It looks like it’s pulling up behind me. Red police light on the dashboard.”

      “Police.” Masoud leaned forward and grasped the Russian’s forearm. “We must not be discovered. This transaction must not be traced to us.”

      Androkovich glared into the Arab’s dark eyes until the man removed his hand. “It will not be.” He slid toward the door. “Stay here until I return.”

      He jerked the door handle and moved out of the limo with a smooth, fluid grace. He stepped quickly across the dusty shoulder of the road and into the darkened area approximately three yards to the side. The car behind the Jeep appeared to be a black vehicle with no overt police insignias. The passenger door opened and a man in a light-colored uniform got out holding a flashlight. Its bright light shone over the Jeep and then the ambulance. The fingers of Androkovich’s right hand closed over the handle of his pistol, drawing it slowly out of the tactical holster. His other hand withdrew the cylindrical sound suppressor from the pouch on his belt. He matched up the threads and screwed it in place on the end of the barrel as he listened.

      “Federal agents,” the man on the driver’s side said in a loud voice.

      Feds…FBI? But they didn’t wear uniforms or make traffic stops. Most likely these two were BLM bird dogs assigned to patrol the perimeter of the disputed territory, which most likely meant they weren’t in radio contact with any of the police dispatch centers.

      The guy stood on the passenger side of the Jeep, shining the beam of his flashlight over Strogoff.

      “What’s the problem, Officer?” Strogoff asked, his voice sounding like a typical American motorist.

      “What are you doing out here?” the policeman asked.

      “Just meeting some friends. Did I do something wrong?”

      “Let me see some identification.”

      “Don’t think I have any with me,” Strogoff said, sounding gregarious. “Wallet’s back at the ranch. We usually don’t drive this vehicle on the road. Just came to see if these folks needed help, is all.”

      “You’re from Camp Freedom, aren’t you?” the man on the passenger side asked. “What are you doing out here this time of night?”

      That was the wrong question, Androkovich thought as he ignored the three glowing tritium dots of the sights and switched instead to the laser light snapped on the laser sight. The circular bulk of the suppressor that rose over the end of the barrel rendered the standard night sights of the SIG Sauer useless. He centered the red dot on the back of the closer man’s neck. Of course, any question at this point was the wrong one. And the last, as well.

      He squeezed the trigger and felt the reduced recoil of the round, and its accompanying ripping sound.

      The man on the passenger side of the Jeep emitted a husking groan as his upper body jerked momentarily before he slumped forward.

      “Jeff?” the officer on the other side said. “What’s wrong?”

      Strogoff reached out the window and pushed the other officer, causing the man to take two wobbly steps backward as he began reaching for his weapon. Androkovich moved to the side, his SIG Sauer still held in the firing position. The small, circular red dot danced on the man’s face.

      The Russian squeezed the trigger a millisecond later, the subdued crack of the round piercing the stillness of the desert night once again. The officer crumpled to the road.

      Strogoff jumped out of the Jeep and straddled the man, while his companion ran to the unmarked squad car, finding it empty. A radio was mounted under the dashboard, but it was silent. Had they called in their location? Perhaps not. A mobile data computer sat on a metal shelf. He checked the screen and saw some sort of format for obtaining data, but the cursor blinked over an empty space. He wondered again if they had been in communication with their support base. Better to move quickly. The car and the bodies would have to be disposed of with cautious but immediate expedience. He glanced to his right and saw Strogoff going through the dead man’s pockets.

      “See if they have handheld radios,” Androkovich called. His ears were buzzing slightly from the subdued reverberation of the rounds going off, but he knew this would subside shortly. He retraced his steps to the place from which he’d fired, shone his flashlight on the ground and looked for the expended shell casings. He found one, but the second one eluded him in the dust and darkness, despite the flashlight. The clock was ticking, and he felt like abandoning his search, thinking perhaps that the desert sand would sweep over the casing. But he also knew the devil, as they said, was in the details. Now was not the time to be careless. Shining the light again, sweeping it over the ground, he located and retrieved the second shell casing.

      He went to the other dead man and began going through his pockets. The policeman had a Glock 19 in a nylon holster and two extra magazines. A cell phone was СКАЧАТЬ