Read Online Hunt the Falcon by Don Mann, Ralph Pezzullo - Free Book Online Page A

(over six million square feet), and handled approximately forty-eight million passengers a year.
    â€œI feel like I’ve arrived on a friendlier planet,” Akil said as beautiful hostesses dressed in purple checked to make sure they had filled out the appropriate forms and were standing in the correct line.
    After they passed through customs, the SEALs-turned-businessmen arrived in the baggage claim area, where they saw a medium-height white guy with a middleweight’s muscular body and a thick mop of black hair standing next to a nice-looking dark-skinned man holding a sign that read “Sonnex Petroleum.”
    Akil nodded toward the sign and whispered, “Look, boss.”
    â€œI see it.”
    Sonnex Petroleum was the name of the shell company the six SEALs were allegedly working for. They were traveling as oil company executives and engineers. Crocker’s alias was Tom Mansfield, VP of exploration and research. What he really knew about oil exploration could fit on the head of a pin.
    The taller of the two men introduced himself with a strong, confident handshake as Emile Anderson. Black Cell couldn’t do what it did without the help and support of local agents.
    â€œWelcome,” he said to Crocker, full of nervous energy. “We’re on kind of a tight schedule, so as soon as you get your bags, we’ll take off into town to try to beat the traffic. Lieutenant Colonel Petsut of the Royal Thai Police is meeting you for dinner.”
    â€œThe sooner we get started, the better,” Crocker replied, looking down at his watch, which had adjusted automatically to the local time zone, 1652 hours.
    He stood at Baggage Claim Station 3, surveying the international crowd—a polyglot of Asian, East Asian, European, young and old, dressed in business clothes and casual. The diversity reminded him of the movie Blade Runner, but here everything was clean, orderly, and efficient.
    Including Anderson, who handed him a large manila envelope and said, “I’ve already prechecked you into your rooms. Your electronic room keys are in there, along with seven hundred bucks’ worth of baht to get you started. My friend Daw here will be your driver.”
    â€œHey, Daw. Nice to meet you, and much appreciated.”
    The short man with the round pockmarked face smiled back with a serene look in his eyes.
    â€œAnything you need, you tell Daw or you call me on this,” Anderson continued, handing Crocker a shiny new Samsung cell phone. “Both our numbers have been programmed into it, along with an emergency contact at the Station. Only use that in case of an emergency. Try to call one of us first. We’ll be at your disposal twenty-four/seven. You need anything, and I mean anything, call.”
    â€œThanks. What’s the exchange rate?” Crocker asked.
    â€œA hundred baht is worth about three dollars and twenty-six cents.”
    Large photos of a smiling King Bhumibol Adulyadej and Prime Minister Yingluck Shinawatra and her husband hung on the walls. The local people seemed amiable and gentle.
    Within minutes the SEALs had packed their bags into the back of two Lexus SUVs and were racing down a modern, eight-lane expressway. Crocker sat in the passenger seat next to Anderson, who was driving 160 kilometers an hour, or approximately one hundred miles per hour.
    â€œNo speed limit?” Crocker asked.
    â€œNone that’s enforced,” Anderson replied with a grin that made his smashed-in nose stand out. “The freeways are F1 speed all the way.”
    As he drove, he explained that Lieutenant Colonel Petsut of the RTP was a proud man who generally frowned on letting foreigners operate on his turf but was making an exception in this case because of the severity of what had happened, the international implications, and the deaths of American diplomats.
    â€œBut he’s only going to give you a small window to work in,” Emile Anderson said. “So