Mike Maden - Drone Threat

“If you really feel that strongly about it, having virtually unlimited access to the Oval Office might give you the chance to make your case.”

Pearce pointed a fork at her. “Why do I get the feeling you’re gaming me?”

“I’m not. But I want you to remember that not only can you do good for the country as Lane’s advisor, but you can also keep bad policies from happening. I trust you more than anyone else I know to do the right thing. Even Lane. Believe me, that office changes you, and this town is full of people whose only job is to turn his head around.”

“You really want me to do this? Or are you just trying to get me out of your apartment?”

“I think your doing this is what’s best for the nation, and for you.”

“Even though I’m a broken man?”

“Because you’re broken. And you have your counselor to help you.”

Pearce forked the last piece of steak into his mouth and chewed.

“You are still seeing your counselor, aren’t you?”

Pearce chewed some more. Swallowed. “Wasn’t helping.”

“Maybe we can find you another one.”

“I’m dealing with it, in my own way.” Pearce’s jaw set.

“Okay.” Myers knew when to back off, too.

“And I’m not doing the drugs anymore. It messes with my head.”

“I understand.”

She poured herself another glass of wine. “You all set for tomorrow?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Was Vicki Grafton helpful?”

“She was trying to get my mind right.”

“And how did that work out for her?”

“Give her an E for effort.”

“Keep your eyes on her.”

“That won’t take much effort.” Pearce winked.

Myers punched him playfully. “Yeah, I get it. She’s gorgeous. But Grafton’s playing a bigger game than just trying to get a mention on Page Six . She was trouble when she was just a Senate staffer. I don’t like her being that close to Lane.”

“Chandler’s got her on a pretty tight leash.”

“I’d be willing to bet it was the other way around. Either way, watch your six, buster.”

Pearce laughed. “You’ve read too many Tom Clancy novels.”

“Not possible. You feel ready for tomorrow?”

“I think what you’re really asking me is if I still plan to attend the Senate hearing tomorrow.”

“The former CIA analyst doesn’t miss a trick.”

“I can read you pretty well, Madam President.”

“Seriously, do you feel prepared?”

“That’s like asking me if I’m ready to get shot.”

“Are you ready to get shot?”

“Depends on where they aim.”

“You remember that old saw about flies and vinegar?”

“I won’t bullshit them, but I won’t go out of my way to piss them off, either. Lane knows that.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me there with you?”

“No, Mom. I can cross the street by myself. But thanks.” He stood with his empty plate and kissed her on the head. He didn’t really give a shit what the senators might think of him. He just didn’t want to embarrass her or hurt Lane in any way. But then again, they both knew he was damaged goods.

They just didn’t realize how damaged he really was.

Pearce smelled the tobacco stink on Tanaka’s breath. The man’s bulging eyes were just inches away, mouth twisted in a rictus of hate, arms trembling with exertion.

The dim blue LED barely lit the black void they fought in. Tanaka’s fingers dug deeper into Pearce’s throat. He panicked, but not from the fight. The closed space was a coffin with the lid nailed shut. He couldn’t breathe.

Pearce gripped Tanaka’s fingers and twisted with all of his strength, but they were steel bands, unyielding. Pearce was bigger and stronger but Tanaka’s hate was stronger still. He felt the man’s murderous rage coursing through his quaking hands, cutting off the last air in Pearce’s throat.

Now he really couldn’t breathe. The oxygen was gone. His lungs burned. Pearce’s strength gave way. He strained every muscle to break Tanaka’s iron grip. Useless.

Pearce’s heart thundered in his ears. Pain exploded inside his skull. The light snapped out.

Pearce shuddered. Tried to scream.

Nothing.

Pearce’s eyes snapped open. It was dark but not completely, thanks to the blue glow of the digital clock.

3:17 a.m.

His heart raced. He breathed deeply to push away the panic. He rolled his head to the side. Myers was still asleep. Thank God. Sometimes his nightmares woke her and she could never go back to sleep.

He lay as still as he could, waiting for his heart rate to drop. Reminded himself it was just a dream. The same dream that came to him night after night. There were others, too, but this one was the worst.

He shouldn’t have killed Tanaka the way he did. His anger always got the best of him. He fought angry. Always had. Since he was a kid. And all the way through the cage fighting in college. And in the war. Especially the war. Didn’t know any other way. He could turn the rage on like a fire hose. Instincts cut in, fear melted away. Early called him the Zen master in battle. Pearce always appeared calm, cool, emotionless. There was machinelike efficiency in his target selection and dispatch. But that was on the outside.

He quit the war, but the fury remained, a smoldering ember deep inside. The slightest breath, and it became a roaring fire.

Tanaka lit the flame when he killed Pearce’s old friend Yamada. In his mind’s eye he saw Yamada’s butchered corpse again, and just like that, the rage welled up like a flash fever.

3:18 a.m.

Pearce tamped the fury back down. Willed his friend’s corpse away. He took a deep breath. Told himself again that he shouldn’t have killed Tanaka the way he did.

Shouldn’t have buried Tanaka alive.

It was the worst death he could imagine, but Tanaka deserved it for the crime he had committed. But then again, who was he to end a life? And who was he that he could end Tanaka’s life in such a terrible way?

Pearce sighed. Myers stirred. He froze. Waited for her breathing to slow again. Lying here wouldn’t do any good. The dream had dumped adrenaline into his bloodstream like the crack of a large-caliber bullet zipping over his head.

He carefully worked his way out from beneath the sheets and gently lifted himself out of bed. Might as well get prepped for a damned long day. He glanced over at Myers’s nightstand. Her bionic pancreas was on the wireless charging pad. The levels looked good.

Pearce went into the walk-in closet to grab his robe. Technically, they still weren’t living together, but she’d bought him a few more things since he was there a lot of the time anyway.

Yeah, she was old-fashioned, for sure.

Pearce stood barefoot in the kitchen as he watched the last of the boiling water disappear in the pour-over filter. It took longer to make coffee this way but it tasted better. He was getting tired of everything he put into his mouth first having to run through plastic tubes. Steel and glass were better. The aroma of the rich, dark roast reminded him of cramming for his comps at Stanford, and of nights hovering over a smoking fire in the stone-cold mountains of Afghanistan. He’d been drinking green tea for years for health reasons, but lately his mouth was watering for coffee again, black and strong. He was wide awake but he knew he’d need the caffeine kick before going back over the mountain of pdfs Grafton had loaded into his secured e-mail folder. No point in showing up to the Spanish Inquisition unprepared. If they were going to burn him at the stake, let it be for telling the truth, not for being stupid.

At least the end of the day would be pleasurable. A drive in the Maryland countryside would be a nice diversion. It would be an important meeting with an old friend developing a new anti-drone system that could prove to be very interesting. But he didn’t dare get his hopes up. Building drones turned out to be a whole lot easier than knocking them down.