Mike Maden - Drone Command

Vice Chairman Feng checked his Patek Philippe watch. It was nearly time to begin Pearce’s interrogation. He’d discovered through the years that simply leaving a man alone with his worst fears was sometimes enough to break him. He doubted the former CIA special operations group officer would cave so easily, but an active imagination coupled with a sleepless night without food and water would at least soften him up. His ultimate goal wasn’t to just extract information from him, but to turn the big American into a useful thrall. Feng’s government was making great advances in drone technology, but someone with Pearce’s practical knowledge could help greatly in furthering their tactical and strategic deployment.

A panicked knock rattled Feng’s door.

“Enter!”

A young army lieutenant dashed into the room, one of several trusted aides and the newest. The handsome young officer was the son of a key Politburo ally and a vigorous paramour. If the boy’s father ever discovered his son’s behavior, he would be disowned, which only bound him more tightly to Feng.

“Sir, there’s an urgent message for you on your private phone.” He thrust the smartphone into Feng’s hand. The threatening text message was terse and included both a private URL and a password.

“Who else has seen this?”

“No one! I swear.”

Feng’s searching eyes examined Lieutenant Chin’s strong but anxious face. “Good. See that it stays that way.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

The vice chairman dismissed him with a wave of his hand. After the door shut, he removed a private laptop with special security features designed by his own cyberwarfare specialists to thwart any attempts to monitor his online activity. He hoped it worked as well as promised.

Feng tapped in the URL and password, and within moments a live video feed appeared on his screen. A masked figure clad in black appeared. Feng was more curious than angry. The threat was insulting enough. But the fact that this man felt he had to hide himself — gloves, mask, sleeves — was proof that he was afraid of Feng’s power. That meant he was smart — or at least wisely cautious.

“Who are you?” Feng demanded.

“My name doesn’t matter,” the voice said. The tone was eerily ethereal and low, masked by an electronic filter. “You have Troy Pearce in your custody. I want him released immediately.”

Feng knew he was dealing with a professional. Possibly even a national-security operative. The masked bandit was smart enough to realize the vice chairman was deploying voice-detection software to try to identify him after the video call.

Feng smiled. “So afraid of me that you can’t even use your real voice? That won’t help you. My security services are probably already racing to your location—”

“For your sake, I hope not. They would only find a list of the names of the sons of Party officials you’ve seduced over the years, including Lieutenant Chin.”

Feng’s jaw clenched. Who is this bastard? How could he have possibly known about his most recent acquisition?

“Have I struck a nerve, Feng Yongbo?”

“You’re wasting my time,” Feng said. “You obviously have a few resources at your disposal, so you know it’s the families of these young men who will be compromised and shamed by these false accusations, not me.”

“I assure you that I have more than a few resources at my disposal. All I want from you is for Troy Pearce to be released immediately.”

Feng chuckled. “You Americans. So arrogant. So demanding. Perhaps I’ll release Pearce to you. Perhaps I’ll mail him to you in a bag chopped up like a chicken prepared for the wok. What do you say to that?”

The masked figure on his screen held up a razor-sharp KA-BAR combat knife. “Strange that you should mention chopped up.”

The figure waved the ominous blade, motioning for the camera to follow. Feng began to despair. The walls were bare and the rooms empty. Every precaution had been taken to not reveal the least possible detail about the hidden location. Furniture, calendars, photos, newspapers, wallpaper prints, and even room dimensions or window types could provide enough clues to locate them. Definitely trained professionals.

The camera followed the shadowy figure into a room.

Feng gasped.

His naked son was hanging upside down from a rope attached to a heavy wooden beam in the ceiling.

“Jianli?” Feng said, leaping to his feet.

The figure touched the tip of the blade against the boy’s smooth flesh and flicked it just enough to spin him gently and also nick the skin. A tiny drop of blood welled up just above the navel.

Feng’s lined face tightened with anger. “You’re a fool to touch my son like that.”

“So I have your attention?” The electronic voice reverberated over Feng’s laptop speaker.

The vice chairman calmed himself down. The American wouldn’t dare harm his son. “You’re risking all-out war. Many sons will die because of your crimes, including you.”

“I’m risking nothing. I’m not an American. I work for cash. You release Pearce; I release the boy; I get paid. It’s a simple business transaction.”

“Release the boy now and I’ll triple your price,” the elder Feng promised. “Fail to release him, and I swear I’ll find you and skin you alive.”

The figure rotated Feng Jianli’s body so that his broad chest faced the camera. “Poor choice of words.” The masked figure lightly dragged the knife blade across young Feng’s skin. A razor-thin line of pink flesh opened up and blood seeped out, quickly creeping toward his bruised face.

The vice chairman smiled. “Blood doesn’t scare me. Perhaps I’ll drain Pearce of his when we’re finished. I know I’ll be bathing in yours soon enough.”

Feng leaned forward in his chair, his face pressed close to the camera. “Of course, a woman knows all about blood, doesn’t she?”

Tamar’s spine tingled. How did he know her gender? She’d read up on the vice chairman. His ruthless climb to the top of the Party hierarchy was well documented, but she hadn’t anticipated a cold-blooded sociopath with near psychic abilities.

She took a deep breath. It didn’t really matter. She owed Troy Pearce everything. He was the only man she trusted as much as she had her beloved Udi, who had been brutally murdered a few years before in an operation to stop the Iranian Quds Force in Mexico.

When Margaret Myers called her in panicked desperation about Troy’s kidnapping, Tamar was only too glad to help in any way she could. So was Mossad, Israel’s feared security service. Pearce had been a great friend to her and Udi over the years, as well as to Israel, providing valuable assistance when called upon. Pearce’s CIA service in Iraq had earned him serious street cred within Israel’s intelligence and counterterror community. They were all glad to throw in to help out an old friend who never asked for favors, especially when the request came from the former president of the United States, another staunch ally of the Jewish people. Tamar welcomed the chance to pay back a few of her debts to Troy. Tonight’s gambit was a high-risk ploy and neither she nor Mossad were confident it would work with the elder Feng, but they all agreed it was worth the gamble because Pearce’s life hung in the balance.

“Nice try, Feng. Let’s see how cool you are after your baby boy here is bled out like a pig.”