Mike Maden - Drone

“Go ahead. But you might find out you have a ticking time bomb in here.” César poked his son’s forehead. “Knowing that could drive you crazy.”

“Maybe there’s a treatment. Pills or something.”

A knock on the door.

“Come,” César ordered.

Ali entered the room. He carried a large manila envelope, unmarked.

“What do you want, Arab?” César asked. He didn’t invite Ali to sit down.

“He’s Persian, Father. Not Arab.”

“He’s not my son. He’s not my blood. What do I care what he is?”

“I am your loyal servant, Señor Castillo, prepared to sacrifice myself in your service.”

“Will your death bring me back my boy, Arab?”

“No, but he will greet you in heaven with kisses when he sees you have avenged his murder.”

“What are you talking about, Ali? Aquiles died from an aneurysm,” Ulises asked.

“Don’t you think it strange that a man in Aquiles’s supreme physical condition would die from something like that? He was young. You have no family history of such things. He didn’t use meth or cocaine. So how can it be possible?”

“The coroner said that it is not unheard of for a young person like him to die of an aneurysm,” Ulises said.

“It is not unheard of for someone to be struck by a meteor, either. But it is extremely unlikely,” Ali said.

“What’s your point?” César barked.

“Myers’s son is killed. The Marinas launch an assault to capture your sons. The assault fails. Two weeks later, your son dies. Not by a bullet, not by a bomb. But he dies in a very bloody and violent way.”

“Poison?” Ulises asked.

“None was detected in the autopsy,” Ali said. “Though perhaps the toxin was bioengineered to escape the blood panels. The CIA is constantly developing such weapons. But I do not believe it was poison.”

“The Americans?” César’s face flushed with rage. “You said the Americans would never link my sons to the El Paso massacre!”

Ali sensed the crazed drunk would lunge at him at any moment. He could easily reach for the pistol in his holster and kill the older man along with his idiot son, but then his mission would fail. He needed the Castillos to live a while longer, even if it meant his own death.

“I was wrong, jefe . Forgive me,” Ali said. He lowered his eyes as an act of contrition, fully expecting to be killed.

César’s fists clenched and he began to rise, but Ulises stopped him. “It’s not his fault, Father. Aquiles and I ran the operation. Ali had nothing to do with it. We still need him, especially if the Americans are after us now.”

César glowered at Ali for another moment, then his face resumed its normal color. He finally sat back down and nodded at Ali, the closest he could get to an apology. “Why are you sure it’s the Americans?”

Ali opened the envelope. Removed a red lanyard with a plastic badge attached. Handed it to César.

“This arrived today.”

“Who sent it?” César demanded.

“No return address or name. No note,” Ali said. “But there can be no question.”

César glanced at the plastic badge. It was labeled FRIDA KAHLO ARTS ACADEMY, and had the name and face of Ryan Martinez. A bullet hole puckered the badge, and dried blood smeared the photo.

“An eye for an eye, jefe ,” Ali said.

“Why not kill him?” César asked, pointing at Ulises.

“Myers is offering you a deal. A son for a son. She thinks you are stupid enough to take it,” Ali said.

César’s face darkened with thought. “One dead son is enough, isn’t it?”

“One dead son is too many, jefe .” Ali sighed. “And it might be a deal worth taking, if that’s all there was to it…”

“What else is there, Arab?”

Ali pointed at Ulises. “She has twisted your son into a collar around your neck. By leaving him alive, she keeps you chained to a post, like a dog, snarling and snapping, but hurting no one. Anyone can walk by. And if the dog charges?” Ali yanked violently on his own shirt collar. “The dog gets pulled down.”

Ulises’s face reddened. A vein bulged in his forehead.

Ali’s words had landed perfectly. He fought the urge to smile. By sending her son’s identity badge to César, Myers had given Ali the perfect tool to leverage the drug lord into action.

Ulises leaped to his feet. “We’ll kill some more yanqui bastards. Ali, let’s put together a strike team. We’ll hit San Diego, maybe L.A.—”

“With what? Bombs? Rockets? Machine guns? Don’t be stupid. The Americans have more of those than there are stars in the sky,” César snapped.

“But you can’t let the Americans get away with killing Aquiles,” Ulises said.

“Your son is right. The other cartels will see your inaction as a sign of weakness. It puts you and your son in even greater danger.” Ali was worried now. He needed César to retaliate against the Americans immediately.

“And so what do you propose?” César asked.

Ali smiled. “You do not know the Americans like I do. They are cowards. They hide behind their machines and their body armor. If they take a few casualties, they quit and go home. You have nothing to fear by striking out at them, and much to fear from your enemies if you do not.”

César crossed to the bar and refilled his glass, lost in thought. Ulises and Ali followed him with their eyes as he returned, but he didn’t sit down.

“I agree with you, Ali. We must strike back, but in a way that the Americans can’t respond to.” César took a sip of rum. “How?”

The men racked their brains in silence for a few moments.

“By attacking them with a weapon they don’t have,” Ulises finally said.

“Asymmetrical warfare. Excellent,” Ali said.

“Does such a weapon exist?” César asked.

“Yes, in abundance,” Ulises said. He explained his idea. It was simple, doable, and lethal.

César liked it, but wasn’t certain. “What do you think, Ali? You’re the expert.”

Ali hesitated. He wanted a more direct course of action, but he didn’t dare offend the younger Castillo. Besides, it would definitely work and it might finally provoke the Americans into an all-out assault.

“It is a brilliant suggestion, jefe .”

Ulises beamed with pride. So did his father.

So far, so good, Ali thought.

“But I suggest one additional course of action we should take first. It will likely yield nothing, but it costs nothing, and perhaps it will be a diversion for the Americans while Ulises executes his plan.”

“What needs to be done?” César asked.

Los Pinos, Mexico D.F.

Hernán Barraza paced the floor of his private office, a cell phone glued to his ear. César Castillo was on the other line. It was past midnight. The line was secure because it was Castillo’s own private cell network.

“What do you expect the president to do? Invade the United States?” Hernán sweated. Castillo had never called him directly before. It was a complete breach of their security arrangement, and now he was making insane demands.

“The gringos killed my son on Mexican soil and the Mexican government has no interest in this matter?” Castillo roared on the other end of the line.

“Forgive me for saying so, but as an attorney, I don’t believe you have enough proof that the Americans killed your son.”

“I’ve explained to you the proof! But that’s not the point, is it? Tell me, Barraza, what if you did have your lawyer’s proof? Would your brother the president have the huevos to do anything about it?”

Hernán paused. There was no good answer. An attack on the United States was out of the question. Surely Castillo understood that. But doing nothing was out of the question as well. Hernán understood that perfectly. In his gut, he believed the Americans probably were behind it. “Do you have any suggestions, César?”