Desert Falcons (Superbolan, Band 174) - Softcover

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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 Saud, the tall, handsome, well-built man in the tan shirt and blue pants, rotating his hips opposite the infidel whore, the man whose safety Mahfuj had been commanded to ensure.

To think that a member of the house of Saud, the Royal Family, the leaders of his country behaving in such a manner as to disgrace himself…

The prince had changed out of his traditional thobe and ghutra as soon as his private jet had landed in Bahrain. He'd told his bodyguards to change into Western-style clothing, as well. Many Saudis did that on their trips to Bahrain, to "relax," which was nothing more than a euphemism for their apostate behavior, away from the watchful eyes of the secret police.

Nevertheless, Mahfuj had complied, taking care to wear a loose-fitting shirt due to the bulge created by his sidearm, a Beretta 92 F, so it would not be noticeable strapped in the holster on his belt. The clothes felt foreign to him even though he'd worn them numerous times on these excursions with the prince. They were less confining than his uniform, and this was one time he couldn't afford to let anything interfere with the success of the first phase of the operation.

Mahfuj felt the cell phone in his pants pocket vibrate with an incoming message. He had switched to the silent mode the moment they walked into the place. The blaring music from huge speakers eliminated any chance that he would be able to hear the ring tone, and he couldn't afford to miss the call from his brother Mamum. Taking the phone from his pocket, Mahfuj pressed the button so he could view the text message.

The moment has arrived, God willing.

It was time for the four desert falcons to begin their great jihad.

Mustapha, their father, was the first falcon. Mahfuj, his first born, was the second. Mamum, his younger brother by one year, was the third, and the youngest brother, Masoud, was the fourth. Each had his individual strengths. Mahfuj had always been the strongest, Mamum the most patient, and Masoud the most adaptable. That was why he had been chosen for the foreign assignment. Masoud could blend into any background, like a true Bedouin.

Mahfuj replaced the phone in his pocket and moved toward the door, imbuing his movements with as much nonchalance as he could. The dance floor of the nightclub occupied the center of the room, with tables surrounding it and the long, wooden bar running along the rear wall. The entrance had been curtained off by an enclosed corridor, perhaps three meters long, preventing people entering from seeing inside the club. At the doors, a big, muscular security guard stood poised to check and monitor all who sought to enter. Mahfuj glanced at the man, who nodded and smiled, his teeth glowing white among the dark hairs of his beard.

As Mahfuj positioned himself by the interior corner, next to the draped shroud of the canopy obscuring the corridor, he thought of the dream his father had repeatedly told them when they were young boys. How the vision of four falcons sweeping down from the heavens had awakened him, only to allow him a fleeting glimpse of four actual birds of prey diving down upon a cluster unsuspecting rodents. Their father said he knew the dream had been a sign from God.

"At that moment I knew, as I watched the birds' sharp talons sinking into the rodents' flesh, that I would have three sons," his father had said. "We would be four desert falcons, who would be true Bedouins, true to our traditions, true to the will of God, who would guide us."

Mahfuj's cell phone vibrated again. He moved closer to the door and then paused to glance back at the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. The prince swung his arms in front of him, looking like a man battling some invisible demon.

At the far end of the corridor the door opened and Mahfuj positioned himself just on the other side of the canopy, out of sight to anyone who entered. Despite the music, he could hear the quick angry shout of the security guard, followed by the piercing pop of a gunshot. Mahfuj's cell phone vibrated again in his pocket, but he did not acknowledge or look at it. Instead he quickly surveyed the dance floor to fix the prince's position. He was on the far right side, still swinging his arms in front of him, dancing with some European whore whose large breasts bounced obscenely under a thin layer of cloth.

Mahfuj waited a few seconds more, not daring to glance around the corner of the canopy. The flashes from the oscillating lights and the vibrations of the blaring music swept over him like a desert sandstorm, but he steeled himself and remained ready. The man on the other side of the cloth barrier stepped forward, the barrel of his AK-47 rifle preceding him only by inches. Mahfuj reached out and seized the shiny barrel with his right hand just as the man yelled, "Allahu AkbarV

The barrel jerked in Mahfuj's hand. The heat seared his flesh, but his hand was thickly callused, his grip strong, enhanced by the daily exercises he performed immediately after morning prayers. A stream of fire shot outward and Mahfuj was pelted by a stream of hot, ejected shell casings. Still, he held fast to the barrel, allowing the rounds to penetrate the left side of the dance floor. Intermittent screams punctuated the loud music as the dancers twisted and fell under the rain of bullets.

It was essential that his heroism be enhanced by the requisite spilling of blood, like the traditional sacrificing of a lamb. Mahfuj pivoted and cocked his left arm, then whipped the toughened edge of his straightened hand against the assassin's throat, at the juncture of his neck and body. The soft tissue gave way, and Mahfuj felt the popping yield of connecting tissue telling him that he'd succeeded in crushing the man's windpipe. After a few seconds more, the rifle ceased its roar of death, and Mahfuj ripped it from the dying man's hands.

In one smooth motion, he flipped the weapon in...