Mike Maden - Drone Threat

“Damn it!” Early said. “How about a little warning next time?” He wiped away the gore splashed onto his camo shirt.

Everybody’s ears rang from the stinging pistol retort.

Tariq spat on the corpse as he holstered his pistol. “We cross the border into Kurdistan, be in my village before sunrise if we leave now.”

“The Aussie was right,” Rowley said. “Majid will hunt us down when he finds out we’re still alive.”

“He won’t,” Pearce said.

“How do you know?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“How?”

Early loaded a wad of chaw in his lip. “Don’t wet yourself, Rowley. He’ll take care of it.”

Tariq grinned ear to ear. “And if Majid does find out? Let the bastard come to my village. We will welcome him. Ha!” He spat in the dust.

“He won’t,” Pearce said. “Let’s saddle up and roll.”

Congressman Chandler opened his secured server. His contact in Baghdad confirmed that Pearce and the others had finally reported back in, a week late. The debrief indicated that the four Americans had followed a lead that took them to Kirkuk. The contact further indicated that Pearce and Early were being reassigned to JSOC for special security work in Baghdad’s Green Zone. Chandler was grateful that Pearce and his friends were finally out of the way.

Chandler took a sip of heavily creamed and sugared coffee and scrolled through his classified news feeds. He came across a CIA report. He set his cup down. Chandler couldn’t believe his eyes. The CIA report indicated that at least forty members of General Majid’s command had been butchered in fierce fighting in the district over the last few weeks, including, apparently, the twenty-four Shia recruits he’d helped swear in. “Too bad,” he whispered to himself, clucking his tongue. He took another sip of coffee and read further. He nearly spit it out of his nose.

Majid was dead. Killed by a bomb in his palace. His private office incinerated. No evidence left behind.

Chandler swore under his breath as he pulled open a desk drawer and lifted out his private secured laptop. His door knocked. “Just a moment, please.”

The door pushed open. His secretary poked her head in. “Sir? The Sisters of Perpetual Help are here for your nine o’clock.”

“Not now!”

The secretary saw the crazed look in her boss’s eyes. She blanched. “Yes, sir.” She closed the door in a hurry.

Chandler typed in the password. Majid’s Cayman Island bank account screen pulled up.

Zero.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Chandler thought. All that money, gone. Only he and Majid had the password for the account. Whoever took it must have tortured the general for it.

Just what a terrorist would do.

Pearce heard voices in the distance.

The ache in his shoulders was finally pulling his mind out of the dark abyss of the tranquilizer and into the dim fog of semiconsciousness. He was suddenly self-aware. Aware enough to know that his eyes felt taped shut, but they weren’t. He struggled to pry them open, finally managing to lift the half-ton weights holding down his eyelids. A hazy film blurred his vision. He blinked a few more times. Clearer now.

Pearce focused on his lap. He was sitting. Bound to a chair. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit. He was screwed.

Pain shot through his neck and shoulders and his skull throbbed with a pounding headache. The room was nearly dark except for a bright flickering light outside his peripheral vision, coming from the same direction as the voices.

He squirmed and stretched as best he could, trying to work out the kinks in his aching back, but he couldn’t move much. His arms were cuffed behind him. The thick plastic strips cut deeply into his wrists. He tried to twist them but they wouldn’t budge. He began opening and closing his tingling hands, partly to keep the blood flowing. His ankles were cuffed tightly to the legs of the chair as well.

Christ , Pearce thought, where am I?

The voices came from the wide-screen television on the wall in front of him. Arabic. He caught most of it, but the images told the story: ISIS fighters, flags, guns, Raqqa. Then more reporting about impending American airstrikes and stock video images of infrared targets, reticles, smart bombs, exploding buildings. “B-52 bombers are already in the air from bases in the United States,” a reporter said, then cut away to a Saudi official. “Yes, thousands of civilians will die, but that is the fault of Daesh , and Daesh will finally be destroyed.”

Pearce’s heart sank. How long had he been out?

He wiggled his fingers and thumbs as much as he could. In his mind he wondered if Ian knew where he was.

He glanced over at the plate-glass window. Outside he saw lush green grass in gently rolling mounds lit by buzzing sodium lamps. Long, arcing plumes of water swept back and forth over the turf bounded by palm trees. “A damn golf course,” he muttered to himself. “Ian, you’re a Scot, and you don’t even play golf.”

What was going on? Where was he? If he didn’t know any better, he would have guessed by the expensive furnishings he was in a five-star hotel or condo on a golf course in Vegas or West Palm. If they were going to torture him, why would they do it here? If they weren’t going to work him over, what did they want with him?

His nose twitched. An acrid smell. Urine. His own. He looked down. He could feel his cold crotch. He rocked in the chair. Heard the adult diaper crinkle beneath his jumpsuit. He tried to swallow but his throat ached. He was parched. Probably dehydrated from the booze. Stupid.

The door pushed open.

A barrel-chested monster in desert camo and a bushy beard burst into the room. His dark eyes first scowled at Pearce, then scanned the room swiftly. He left as quickly as he arrived, slamming the door shut behind him.

Was that the goon who would torture him? Cut off his head? Pearce’s mind was still clouded. Nothing was making sense.

The door swung open again. The fanatical goon stormed over to Pearce. Ran his thick hands over the PlastiCuffs to make sure they were secure. He turned around and nodded toward the door.

Al-Saud stepped in. He wasn’t dressed like a Westerner now. He wore flowing robes and a white keffiyeh, the traditional headdress of Saudi men. He dismissed the uniformed killer with a wave of his hand. The man sneered at Pearce one last time and left the room, gently shutting the door behind him.

Al-Saud stepped closer to Pearce, leaned down. A smile creased his face. “How are you feeling, Mr. Pearce?”

“Sitting in my dirty diaper, strapped to a chair?” Pearce’s voice croaked. “How do you think I feel?”

“I apologize for the inconveniences. My security team insisted upon it. You have a formidable reputation.”

“I’m a harmless little fuzzball. You can release me. No worries, I promise.”

Al-Saud stood erect. His smile widened. “I think not.” Al-Saud stepped over to an ornately carved dining table and pulled out a chair identical to the one Pearce was strapped to. He placed the chair next to Pearce, then sat in it.

“Why am I here?” Pearce asked.

“That’s an excellent question. Why do you think you’re here?”

“First of all, where is ‘here’?”

“One of my properties adjacent to the country club my family owns.”

“In the States?”

“Just outside of Riyadh, actually. Do you play golf?”

“I have a Mizuno five-iron I’d like to rack across your skull.”

Al-Saud darkened. “I can see the murder in your kafir eyes. Tell me, how many men have you killed? I mean, personally. In combat. Not from one of your remote drone strikes.”