Mike Maden - Drone Command

“He used to say he was the luckiest guy in the world. The only problem was that it was all bad luck.”

Will grinned. “He was a funny guy.”

“So how’d you handle it? I mean, the war and all.”

“One day at a time.” Will lit another cigarette. “Don’t be too hard on him. He lost a lot back in the jungle. We all did.”

“Seems to me he brought it all home with him. Drove my mom away, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. I met her once. A beautiful gal. Your dad was crazy about her.”

“He was just fucking crazy. She couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Wars don’t just hurt the men who fight them. I’m sorry you and your mom were collateral damage. You had a sister, too, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I did.” Troy’s face darkened.

Will clapped a hand across Troy’s broad back. Nothing to say.

Troy came back to the present, took another swig of soda.

“So what are your plans now?” Will asked.

Troy drained his glass. The ice crashed against his mouth. He wiped his face with his sleeve. “Work, I guess.”

“What about college?”

“Me? Nah. I dropped out of high school my senior year. Never graduated.”

“I know. I saw your school records.”

Troy frowned. “How?”

Will smiled. “I used to be a spook, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right.”

“You’re a smart kid. You should be in school.”

“I’m not going back to high school. Forget that.”

“No. I’m talking about university. A real one. Ever thought about Stanford?”

“Are you kidding me? I couldn’t get into there. I don’t have the grades, and I don’t have the cash.”

“What if I could get you in?”

“How? Unless the CIA runs the admissions office.”

“Not exactly.”

Will pulled out his wallet. Handed Troy a business card. “I’m a research fellow at Hoover. I’ve got a little pull with the dean of admissions. Your SAT scores are strong enough to get you in with the right academic reference.”

“What reference?”

“Me.”

“Even if I could get in, I couldn’t pay for it.”

“I can get that covered, too.”

“I’m not a charity case.”

“I didn’t say you were. But Stanford’s loaded. They put scholarship money aside for students like you. And I’ve got a friend who lives in Palo Alto. Paraplegic. Needs someone to cut the grass, wash the car, that sort of thing. Has a garage apartment and three squares a day he’d swap out for the labor.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No drugs, no booze. Keep your nose clean and your grades up, or at least passing.”

“Why me?”

“Why do you think?”

Troy looked at the card again. DR. WILLIAM ELLIOTT, NATIONAL SECURITY RESEARCH FELLOW, THE HOOVER INSTITUTION, STANFORD UNIVERSITY.

“What if I fuck it up?”

“The only way you can fuck it up is if you don’t try.”

“I dunno. It’s been a long time since I was in a classroom, and I wasn’t very good at it.”

“It’s not like high school. You’ll be around the brightest students in the country, learning from some of the best faculty in the world. I’ll get you set up with any tutors you might need, but I doubt you’ll need them.”

Troy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Will slid out of the booth and stood up, opening his wallet.

“Think about it. You’ve got my card. Even if you decide against it, you can call me any time for any reason. I owe your dad at least that.” He dropped forty dollars onto the thirteen-dollar check.

“Thanks for dinner, Dr. Elliott.” Troy stood and stretched. “And for everything else.”

“Just Will.” He held out his hand.

Troy took it. A good grip.

“Take care of yourself, sport. And think about what I said.”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

He did.

Bright light exploded in Pearce’s eyes beneath the hood. An illusion. The second strike against his face in as many seconds. The hand was soft, but heavy, like a dead fish. It belonged to the shouting woman hitting him. He couldn’t see her but he sure as hell could smell her.

WHACK!

Another blow, more lights. He assumed the flashing lights meant his retinas were detaching.

“C’mon, lady. That all you got?” Pearce shouted, almost grateful for the beating. He needed the distraction. He was half out of his mind with claustrophobia beneath the hood.

Someone snatched it off. Pearce blinked. Wanted to cry out of sheer joy. He hadn’t seen real light since he’d been cuffed and tossed into the back of that truck. His eyes adjusted as he squinted. A big Mongolian goon stood off to the side, the hood in his hands, a pistol on his hip. Feng stood back, smiling, smoking a cigarette. The woman looked familiar. She had been at the test facility. Wasn’t wearing a lab coat now. A lady’s peasant coat, like Feng’s, but not tailored. She looked like Chairman Mao with small breasts, only uglier. Now she stood just a foot away from him, leaning over, red faced, squawking in Mandarin.

“Zhao! Zhao!”

“Sorry lady, me no hablo Esperanto.”

Another slap of her hand.

Pearce shook it off. Swore he felt his brain knocking around in his throbbing skull. He already had a headache from dehydration and lack of sleep. The pounding from the angry lady was only making it worse.

“What’s her problem?” Pearce asked.

Feng blew out a long, thoughtful cloud of smoke as he twisted the cigarette in his fingers. “She hates you.” He took another drag.

“If she only knew me. Then she’d really hate me.”

WHACK!

“Guo? Zhao!” the woman shouted.

“Shit! Lady, seriously?”

She raised her hand again. Pearce stiffened for the blow. Feng spoke a single word. Her hand stopped in midair. She muttered curses under her breath.

“So what does she want from me?”

“She wants to know if you knew two men named Guo and Zhao.”

Pearce had to decide what cards to play. He knew he was seriously hosed and it worried him. He tried to calculate the speed of the truck and the time he spent riding in the back of it from the moment they tossed him into it, but for all he knew, they could have been driving in slow circles around the base. The only thing he knew for sure was that once they arrived wherever they were they descended forty-two steel steps that clanged beneath his boots. The descent spiraled in a long, slow circle, and the air was cooler. But that was about it.

In Iraq he’d been in some bad places in the hands of some real shitbirds, but what kept his spirits up back then was knowing that even badder friends with evil intent always came to rescue him. Pearce knew nobody was looking for him now, at least not on the ground.

He could try talking his way out of this thing but that was a long shot at best. He didn’t have any leverage, and the only Mandarin he knew were the menu items at the Chinese buffet near his condo in Coronado.

The only real question in Pearce’s mind was: How much damage was going to be inflicted, and could he keep his wits about him in order to keep from revealing Myers’s real mission? No telling, especially if they resorted to chemical interrogation or something even less civilized. His only hope was that they would knock him unconscious or, better yet, beat him to death before he accidentally spilled the beans.

Pearce shrugged his aching shoulders. His hands were still cuffed behind his back. The only time he hadn’t been cuffed in the last few hours was in order to relieve himself, but that had been a while ago.